The Slider

David sat in the kitchen. Across from him sat Lena. She was crying.

Her shoulders shook, mascara running, leaving black tracks down her cheeks. She was shouting:

You don’t hear me! Are you even here?! I’m telling you I’m in pain, and you just sit there with that glass face!

David felt the familiar wave rising inside him - heavy, sticky, irritating. His chest tightened, a lump formed in his throat. He needed to say something. Defend himself. Or hold her. Or yell back. Do something difficult, costly, human.

His heart was pounding. Cortisol surged into his bloodstream.

David blinked.

In the upper right corner of his vision, visible only to him, a semi-transparent interface appeared. It displayed a scale labeled: “Drama Level”. Currently set at 75%.

David mentally reached for the slider. He was tired. Exhausted from work. He didn’t want this fight. He didn’t want to feel guilty.

He slid it left. Down to 20%.

The world blinked, like a power fluctuation.

Lena stopped mid-word. Her sob transformed into a deep, calm sigh. The black mascara tracks vanished - her face became clean, fresh, slightly tear-stained, but now it looked no longer ugly, but touching. Cinematic.

“I’m sorry,” she said in a soft, velvety voice. “I’m just tired. You’re right. Should we order food?”

David exhaled. The cortisol retreated. Dopamine took its place - sweet, quick, easy. Problem solved. Threat eliminated. Safety restored.

He looked at Lena. She was smiling. It was the perfect smile. Slightly sad, full of love and understanding. Exactly what he needed right now.

Somewhere at the edge of his consciousness, very quietly, a thought scratched: “This isn’t her. The real Lena is somewhere in her own capsule right now, maybe sleeping, or maybe also adjusting her David-avatar. And this algorithm just read your pulse spike and adjusted the simulation for your comfort.”

But David pushed the thought away. What difference did it make? He felt good. She (seemingly) felt good. No conflict.

He walked to the window.

Outside, in gray reality, it was raining. An old man shuffled down the broken sidewalk with a dirty dog. The dog was limping. The old man was shouting something at the wind. It was dirty. It was cold. It was unpredictable.

David winced.

Another scale appeared in the interface: “Reality Filter”. Currently set at 90%.

David looked at the old man. He could see his wrinkles, his loneliness, his approaching death. The sight scratched at something. It demanded some kind of emotional work - compassion or revulsion.

David slid it to 100%.

The glass “blinked.” The dirt vanished. The rain transformed into a cozy, atmospheric lo-fi backdrop, like in anime. The old man disappeared. In his place, a stylish gentleman with a retro cane strolled down the street, walking a cheerful corgi. The image became rich, warm, safe.

The world became perfect.

David returned to the table. Lena had already placed a plate of his favorite pasta in front of him. The aroma was flawless. The taste - balanced to the micron.

“Are you happy?” she asked, gazing into his eyes with that depth only an algorithm could achieve, one that had analyzed billions of terabytes about the human need for love.

David took a deep breath. Air that was purified, scented, heated to a perfect 22 degrees.

He knew that if he went into the deep settings now, into the “System Logs” section, he would see the truth. He would see that he was alone in the room. That the food was automatically dispensed nutritional paste with flavor additives. That outside the window was a dying city.

But why?

Why need truth if it hurts? Why need reality if it’s full of bugs?

He looked at Lena. She was beautiful. She would never age. She would never stop loving him. She would never die.

This was the Sarcophagus. Dense, soft, warm, digital sarcophagus.

And David made his final choice.

He called up the main menu. Found the setting “Self-awareness / Critical Thinking”.

It was set at 5%. A thin, itching thread that still whispered to him that all of this was a lie. The very thread that made him human.

He looked at Lena. She was waiting.

“Yes,” David said. “I’m happy.”

And slid it to 0%.

The settings icon vanished. The interface dissolved. The thought that this was a simulation was erased.

Only love remained. Eternal, safe, sterile love in a world where nothing ever happens.

The lid snapped shut.