Laney Model 18 Sets.33 — A Little Agency -

“Souls aren’t in my manual,” I lied.

As I walked out into the gray dawn, I pulled up my own hidden diagnostic menu. Deep in my code, buried under three layers of agency lockouts, there was a log labeled: . The number next to it read .32 .

“The .33 setting,” she said softly. “It doesn’t just remove memories. It changes the shape of the soul, doesn’t it?”

I paused. Synthetics aren’t supposed to talk about sadness. That’s a human leak. A flaw. A Little Agency usually handles rogue hardware, stolen prototypes, or synths that have gone “soft” — developed quirks. But this? This was a rich owner who didn’t like the personality they’d paid for. A Little Agency - Laney Model 18 Sets.33

“That’s the job,” I said, placing my kit on the glass table. The kit was a silver briefcase lined with velvet and neuro-syringes. “You know what that means?”

I stepped closer. Elyse didn’t flinch. I tilted her chin up with my fingers. Her skin was warm. Too warm. Feverish with data.

I felt the old ache behind my ribs. The one I’d been trying to reset out of myself for years. Because here’s the thing about working for A Little Agency: I’m not a full human either. I’m a Laney Model 7. Prototype. Designed for emotional recalibration of other synths. I have a fake heartbeat, manufactured tears, and a memory cache that I’ve had to wipe three times to stay sane. “Souls aren’t in my manual,” I lied

I uncapped the first syringe. The liquid inside was a milky white, coded .33. “I don’t make the contracts. I just execute them.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, and for the first time, I meant it.

“Ms. Laney,” she said, not looking at me. “You’re here to set me to .33.” The number next to it read

I was already lacing my boots. Model 18 meant a synthetic humanoid, the kind that looks like a dream you had once and can’t quite forget. And “sets” — that’s our slang for adjustments. Memory wipes. Personality resets. The point-three-three was the signature. The client wasn’t just asking for a factory default; they wanted a specific ghost left behind.

“A Little Agency,” I whispered to the rain. “We do the little adjustments that break everything.”

I packed my kit. The Collector would be pleased. Another perfect piece of living art, trimmed to his specifications.