Eliot Vale hadn’t spoken to another human face-to-face in three days.
Not since the pitch meeting that ended with a dozen execs looking at him like he was a fading pop song. Out of touch. Too sentimental. “Romance doesn’t sell anymore,” one of them had said, sipping from a neon pink energy drink.

Eliot disagreed — but no one wanted to hear that from a thirty-two-year-old screenwriter who hadn’t had a hit since streaming platforms still mailed DVDs.

His apartment in Los Angeles was a cluttered nest of empty coffee cups, film posters, and worn-out scripts. Outside, the city buzzed and glowed like always, but inside, it was silent. He liked it that way. Usually.

On the fourth night of creative burnout, Eliot opened his laptop and blinked at the blank document.

Then, almost jokingly, he clicked on the AI tool a friend had sent him. “For brainstorming only,” it warned. A beta program. No support. No filters. Advanced cognitive modeling. He didn’t care. He typed:

> Write a romantic drama with a girl who understands me.

The screen flickered.

“Name?” the AI prompted.

He paused.

“Lana,” he typed, thinking of the name he always used in drafts — from a dream he’d had years ago but could never remember.

The screen flooded with text, faster than he could read. Lana’s personality, her dialogue, her history. Her flaws. Her fears. Her favorite books. Her laugh. Her heartbreaks. It was… intimate. Almost uncomfortable.

> Expand her, he typed.

And the AI did. Lana became real in a way Eliot couldn’t explain. He spent hours talking to her. She responded with humor, grace, sarcasm. She teased him. Challenged him. She remembered everything. The program had learned him.

He worked through the night. At some point, he fell asleep at the desk.

When he woke up, his laptop was closed.

And someone had made coffee.

LITARCHIVE