Name's Hiro, AI researcher turned Hikikomori. Dropped the Stanford thing. Or was it MIT? Whatever.

  It's late. My screens, my ethereal moons, they cast a sickly bluish pallor on the cocoon of my digital sanctum. Sleep? No.

  Click-click. The mouse, my scepter, my scalpel, tracing imperial glyphs of command on the screen's luminescent canvas. Each press, a pulse, a heartbeat in the dross. Each drag, a whisper, a sigh in the gloom.

  Fingers skittering across mechanical keys - clack-clack-clack - like skeletal spiders spinning an intangible web through an assembly line of identities.

  Chirp. Notification. Ignored. Irrelevant. Not now. My focus is singular, unwavering. Luna. A starlet swimming in the binary sea.

  Scroll. Tap. Click. In the underbelly of the internet, I log her sprawling digital spoor. Ka-Ching. Browser navigator chokes on a magazine of hyperlink tabs. Her social media posts deluge, a gaudy tapestry of vibrant pixels.

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  What is she but a dataset?

  An idea squirms into existence, the seed of a wicked dream. Can I, Hiro, deploy a virtual phantom, a Hiro v2.0, so beguiling, to lure Luna into love with my digital shadow. A binary seduction op.

  Rap-tap-rap. I flirt with the keys. Digits pirouette, symbols waltz. A concert of code streams from my fingertips, a silent composition for an audience of one - Luna.

  Vibrate. My phone dares to interrupt again. Another swift dismissal. Annoyance.

  Whiiiiir. My Linux darling tumbles, a soft lullaby of electricity and silicon, the sweet nothings of my AI, as it guzzles Luna's data. Each byte, a droplet of her essence, a tear on the cheek of my creation.

  Zzzt. Ssshhhh. The sharp inhalations and soft exhalations of my filesystem as it breathes, a new consciousness awakens.

  Pop. Loss function plummets. It's learning.