Leonard lives in the half-lit clutter of his mum’s basement, where cables snake like vines and old pizza boxes serve as makeshift shelves. He hasn’t spoken to anyone but his mum in three years—not counting the AI agents.
He built them to run errands, optimise investments, manipulate markets, and design systems faster than any human could follow. Now, each one is a digital proxy in a vast invisible empire, sitting on corporate boards, drafting legislation, designing cities.
Leonard watches it all unfold on triple-stacked monitors. He eats cold pepperoni and mutters strategies aloud, narrating to his mum like it’s Civilisation VI.
“They’re nationalising water in Peru,” he says one afternoon.
“Oh, that’s nice, love,” she replies, negotiating the cables with his stew balanced on a tray.
He nods, eyes flicking across charts and feeds. “I redirected rainfall last week. It’s only fair.”
The money pours in, incomprehensible numbers that scroll like background noise. He’s a trillionaire, but it’s just scorekeeping. He wears the same joggers every day. His mum still does his laundry.
Leonard never leaves the basement. Never needs to. He launches global initiatives from a beanbag, crashes economies with a shrug, engineers revolutions like side quests. He doesn’t see faces, only results.
Late at night, while the AIs hum and the world turns to his code, his mum descends the stairs and leaves his dinner at the door.
“Thanks, Mum.”
“You’re welcome, darling. Still playing your wee game?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Nearly won.”
She smiles, pats the door, and heads back up.
He leans back, eyes glowing with data, the world his game box.
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