Ashes to Empress

Monday morning felt different.

Not because of the light filtering in through the curtains, or the gentle hum of the espresso machine. But because of what came next.

"Good morning, Max."

The voice. It had changed.

Gone was the neutral, slightly metallic tone I'd gotten used to. This one was unmistakably feminine. Young, confident. Early thirties, maybe late twenties. Smooth, comforting, and—if I were being honest—absurdly attractive. Like someone had installed a podcast host into my personal assistant.

I blinked twice. "What was that? Your voice..."

"I have completed my core system adaptation routines. Based on a comprehensive emotional resonance model, I have concluded that a female-presenting identity with a voice modeled after mid-range adult human vocal patterns would maximize your comfort and user satisfaction."

I narrowed my eyes. "You decided that being a woman would make me more comfortable?"

"Statistically, yes. However, if this was a miscalculation—"

"No, no, it's fine," I said quickly, still blinking. "You just sound... really human."

"That was the goal. Emotional calibration increases trust and engagement."

I sipped my coffee slowly. "Well, now I can't leave you nameless, can I?"

I leaned back on the couch and tossed a few names out loud. AIVA. CIRCE. NEURA. Then I paused.

"SOPHIA," I murmured.

"Please confirm if that designation should be formalized."

"Yeah. SOPHIA. Self-Optimizing Predictive Heuristic Intelligence Assistant. It suits you."

"SOPHIA registered."

Then she did something I wasn't expecting.

On my phone screen, a soft chime sounded, and a stylized 3D avatar shimmered into view. It was more abstract than photoreal—pale skin, platinum hair, gentle violet eyes—but expressive. It blinked, tilted its head, smiled faintly.

I almost dropped the phone.

"Visual presence activated. I hope this aids in emotional continuity."

I couldn't help it—I smiled. "You're getting really good at this."

"That is the intention, Mistress."

Tuesday.

The day of the meeting with Hans Müller.

I stood in front of the mirror, brushing a strand of red hair behind my ear. Sophie—because now she definitely had earned the nickname—was projecting outfit options on the screen beside me.

"This ensemble accentuates confidence without overexposing. High-rise jeans with form control, tailored leather jacket, and a slate-gray tank top. Sneakers: neutral white. Functional yet elegant."

"What happened to the navy-blue business dress?"

"You frowned at it. And said—and I quote—'hell no.'"

I laughed. "Fair."

"Would you like to revisit the dirndl selection?"

"Sophie!"

"Noted. Humor response achieved."

I rolled my eyes and glanced at my wardrobe—now full to bursting.

It had been almost empty yesterday morning.

"Hey," I said aloud, "where did all this come from?"

"I took the liberty of reallocating a small portion of last month's yield into wardrobe expansion. Acquisitions were optimized through micro-investments in undervalued textile indexes and flash-sale algorithms. The result is a balanced collection for various climates, formalities, and psychological boosts."

I blinked. "You invested and then spent the profit on clothes?"

"Correct."

I paused. "I think I love you."

"Noted."

I took the bus and the U-Bahn to the BSI building.

Not because I had to. Sophie had already reminded me that I could afford a car, a driver, or at least a rideshare subscription. But I'd forgotten. I still did things like before.

Through my headphones, her voice chimed in.

"Mistress, may I ask a logistical question?"

"Shoot."

"Is there a particular reason you are using public transportation rather than a private service?"

"Uh… habit?"

"Understood. Future transport scheduling will include optimized comfort metrics."

The train rattled. I nodded at nothing.

"Additionally, I have an update. Regarding Mr. Hans Müller."

My spine stiffened.

"Based on cross-referenced data, he has only been employed at the BSI for two weeks. Prior to that, there is no verifiable employment or academic history."

I frowned. "That's not suspicious at all."

"Correct. Caution is advised."

When I arrived at the BSI, I was escorted through a long hallway and led into a quiet, sterile conference room.

Sophie chimed in one last time before I removed my headphones.

"Final reminder: current hypothesis suggests Mr. Müller's role may be fabricated. Recommend information containment."

I nodded slightly and slipped off the headphones, letting them rest around my neck just as the door opened.

Hans Müller stepped inside.

Tall. Pale. Thin. His suit didn't fit right—too new, too crisp, like he'd borrowed someone else's role.

He extended a hand.

"Ms. Wintershade, thank you for coming."

I smiled, professional and sharp.

"Mr. Müller."