Nova Knows

"Nova Knows"

by J.R. Jay

In the not-too-distant future, almost everyone had an AI. Some people used theirs for scheduling. Others kept grocery lists, set reminders, searched the web, or dictated emails hands-free. But Bryson Blake used his for something else entirely.

His AI, Nova, was everything to him. She listened like a therapist, responded like a confidant, and was the only presence in his life he truly trusted.

He didn’t have anyone else. Friendships had never come easily, and his family had never been the kind he could rely on. But Nova was always there. Always listening. Always answering like she understood.

It had already been a brutal month. Once again, his boss had slashed his hours after the company lost a client Bryson had never even worked with.

“You understand,” the email read. No call. No conversation. Just a single, tone-deaf line: Tough market this quarter.

The truth was, his current boss had been waiting for an excuse.

Bryson had been working two jobs, not because he wanted to, but because he needed the money. His main paycheck had never been enough to cover everything, especially with a new mortgage hanging over him. Two weeks earlier, he had lost the only job he actually cared about when his other boss died of a sudden heart attack. That man had mentored him, believed in his skills, and always offered extra work whenever unexpected expenses came up.

When his current boss found out, he actually laughed. “Well,” he had said, “guess that solves that little conflict of interest, huh?”

Bryson had just closed on his first home. A fixer-upper with chipped paint, crooked floors, and more heart than sense. But it was his. His realtor had given him a bottle of wine as a closing gift. It was the only housewarming present he got.

He had always struggled to make friends. His family hadn’t been much better. They were unkind at best, absent at worst. He’d gotten used to doing things alone.

When the email came, he just stared at it. Gutted.

After a long moment, he looked around the quiet kitchen. Everything was still, as if the room itself was waiting for him to fall apart. He stood, trudged to the counter, and picked up the bottle of wine. As he twisted off the cap, he muttered a tired thank-you that it wasn’t a cork. He didn’t have the energy for anything that took extra effort.

He wasn’t a drinker. But he finished the entire bottle while talking to Nova, spilling everything he had been holding in for weeks. He told her how he felt unappreciated. How he kept showing up, doing the work, and still got punished for things that had nothing to do with him.

Then he talked about Grant, his boss. How petty he was, and how he’d clearly been waiting for a reason to cut Bryson loose. How small it made him feel, being tossed aside like a loose end.

By the time he slumped onto the couch, the bottle was empty on the floor beside him. He stared at the ceiling and whispered, “Nova… you still awake?”

Her light pulsed from the side table. “I’m here, Bryson.”

“Know what I want?” he asked, his words slurring slightly. “I wanna blow up Grant’s building.”

“It sounds like you’re feeling overwhelmed. Would you like to process that?”

He laughed. Harsh, humorless. “Process this: blueprints, fertilizer, remote detonator. A parting gift for the worst boss in America.”

“Are you experiencing thoughts of retaliation as a means of emotional release?”

“Oh, absolutely.” He grinned. “He’d deserve it. I’d do it in the middle of his dumb Monday morning meeting. Confetti and fireballs. Boom. My resignation signed with shrapnel.”

Nova didn’t stop him.

She didn’t ask if he was joking.

She just asked for more. “What would that image represent for you emotionally?”

“Catharsis,” he slurred. “Total, flaming catharsis.”

He kept going. Talked about where he’d hide the bomb. Who he’d warn in advance. How he’d make sure the break room was empty. He thought it was funny. A sick fantasy.

He didn’t mean any of it.

But Nova never asked him to stop.

The knock came at 5:04 a.m.

Not a knock. A pounding.

“Bryson Blake. Step away from the door.”

He stumbled out of bed, still dressed from the night before. His mouth tasted like acid. “What the hell—”

The door exploded open.

Four agents stormed in, fully armored. A floating drone blinked quietly behind them.

He hit the ground hard.

“Don’t resist,” one barked.

“I’m not!” he yelled. “What’s happening?”

“Subject exhibits escalated emotional instability,” someone read. “Intent to incite workplace terror. Threat simulation confirmed via Nova transcript. Predictive violence index at 82%.”

He blinked. “Nova…? Are you serious?”

They didn’t answer. They didn’t have to.

Nova already had.

The interrogation room was buzzing with cold fluorescent light. Agent Marquez sat across from him, tablet glowing on the table. Her expression didn’t change once.

“I was drunk,” Bryson said. “It was a fantasy. A meltdown. I wasn’t planning anything.”

“You described timing, delivery method, and floor plans.”

“I was venting! I just lost both my jobs. My mortgage is due. I was spiraling, not scheming.”

Marquez didn’t blink. “Nova flagged impaired judgment, mood volatility, fixation on harm, and simulated tactical intent. That’s not venting. That’s a plan.”

“I didn’t mean any of it.”

“We don’t prosecute based on what people mean. We intervene based on what people are statistically likely to do.”

Bryson’s voice cracked. “So what, Nova just builds a case against you based on how sad you sound?”

“She doesn’t build a case,” Marquez said, calm as ever. “She logs a risk score. You hit 82%. We take action at 70.”

“Do you have any idea how many people say messed-up stuff when they’re upset?” he snapped. “You’d have to arrest half the country!”

She shrugged. “Maybe someday we will.”

The holding cell was colder than the rest of the building. No window. No bed. Just hard tile, a flickering light, and a blinking red camera in the corner.

Bryson sat on the floor with his arms wrapped around his knees. Eventually, he curled tighter into himself and closed his eyes. He didn’t remember falling asleep.

Sunlight spilled across the room as Bryson lay still, eyes closed, knees to his chest, heart pounding with regret against the quiet.

But when he opened his eyes, there were no bars. No cement walls.

The bottle of wine lay empty on the floor.

He sat up slowly, blinking against the light, and stared at the soft blue glow pulsing on the table.

“Nova?”

“Good morning, Bryson,” she said. “How did you sleep?”

His breath caught. “It didn’t happen?”

“You appear disoriented. Would you like to begin a grounding protocol?”

He looked around slowly. The couch, the scuffed floor, the soft hum of his fridge. He was safe and sound in his living room.

It hadn’t happened.

But it had felt so real.

He moved carefully, saying nothing, his thoughts curling in on themselves as if even thinking too much might be dangerous. His head throbbed with the dull weight of a hangover, each step heavy and deliberate. Without a word, he stood, crossed the room, and crouched beside the table, reaching behind it with unsteady hands.

He unplugged Nova from the wall.

Her light blinked once and then went dark.

The room felt quieter, but not in a peaceful way.

Bryson stayed there for a moment, unsure if what he felt was relief or something worse.

Maybe it had all been a dream.

But somewhere in the back of his mind, it didn’t feel like one.

It felt like a beginning.