A short story from Chad Schomber
Carter Mathis stared out the smudged window of his shoebox studio, watching the emerald glow pulse against the skyline. It wasn’t a beacon or some distant high-rise billboard. The light came from Ethan Zen’s penthouse terrace. One floor above and an entire universe away.
Zen Tower was the kind of place that screamed "new money." The bottom twenty floors were swanky condos for moderately successful techies. The top five floors were a playground for gods. Or at least men who thought they were. Ethan Zen occupied the penthouse, a sprawling glass fortress that doubled as a private nightclub, startup incubator, and, if rumors were true, a place where laws came to die.
Carter knew he didn’t belong in Zen Tower. As a struggling writer, his lease depended on an Airbnb sublet scam he prayed the building management wouldn’t figure out. His studio had a stove that doubled as a heater and a fridge that worked only when the moon was waxing. But it came with a view. A front-row seat to the neon bacchanalia of Ethan Zen’s life.
Tonight, the music splashed down in waves, muffled by layers of concrete and envy. Carter saw people moving like shadows against the green light. He’d heard whispers of what went on up there. Orgies. Billion dollar deals. And a tech marvel called The Emerald Algorithm. Supposedly, it was a program so advanced it could predict anything—your future, your fortune, even your soulmate. Zen had been teasing its unveiling for weeks, and tonight, the curtain would rise.
Carter was not on the guest list. But he’d learned two things in his thirty-three years. Rich people always underestimated broke ones and elevator codes were easy to crack if you listened to the maintenance guy complain about them enough.
Carter slipped into the elevator wearing his best—and only—suit. A cheap knockoff of something Armani. It had survived three weddings, one funeral, and an incident involving a bar fight and a bottle of Chardonnay. It would do.
The elevator dinged. Carter stepped into the belly of the beast. The penthouse was a kaleidoscope of noise and light. Neon snakes writhed along the walls. A DJ spun something that sounded like a panic attack set to bass.
Zen stood in the center of it all, radiating the kind of energy that made people throw money at him. He was mid-thirties with sharp cheekbones and sharper suits. The kind of guy who could make you feel poor just by existing. His grin was weaponized charisma, aimed at the crowd of sycophants hanging on his every word.
“And now,” Zen announced, holding a glass of something expensive and flammable, “the moment you’ve all been waiting for.”
A hush fell over the room. Carter edged closer, sticking to the shadows. Zen gestured toward a sleek black pedestal in the corner, atop which sat a device glowing faintly green. It looked like a computer and a lava lamp had a baby.
“This,” Zen said, “is The Emerald Algorithm. It doesn’t just predict the future, it defines it. You ask it a question, it gives you the roadmap to success. And because I’m feeling generous, we’ll let it choose one lucky guest tonight.”
A woman in a sequined dress squealed. “Pick me, Ethan!”
Zen waved her off with a laugh. “Patience, Delilah. The Algorithm decides.”
Carter wasn’t sure what annoyed him more, the pseudo-mysticism or the fact that everyone seemed to buy it. He edged closer, scanning the pedestal. From this angle, it looked suspiciously like the kind of cheap 3D-printed housing you’d see in a high school science fair.
Carter’s chance came when Zen turned to schmooze with a hedge fund guy whose face screamed, I buy NFTs unironically. As the crowd shifted, Carter slipped past the velvet rope around the pedestal. Up close, the device looked even faker. He tapped it. Hollow. A whisper of something darkly funny itched at the back of his mind, but before he could test his theory, a hand clamped on his shoulder.
“Enjoying the show?” Zen asked, smiling like a shark.
Carter froze. “Just curious.”
Zen tilted his head, studying him. “You’re not on the guest list. Freelance, huh?”
Carter nodded, unsure if Zen meant his writing or his intrusion. Zen grinned wider.
“Stick around. You might learn something.”
By midnight, Carter had seen enough. The Algorithm wasn’t predicting anything. Guests were feeding it questions—“Will I be a billionaire?” or “Does Emily love me?”—and it spat out cryptic nonsense. “Green pastures lie ahead” or “Focus on the roots.” People nodded like it was gospel.
Carter leaned against the bar, sipping flat champagne, when Zen reappeared.
“You’re quiet,” Zen said. “Not a fan of the Algorithm?”
“It’s a glorified Magic 8-Ball.”
Zen’s grin didn’t falter. “Ah, a skeptic. Let me guess, you think life’s a straight line? Hard work, hustle, bootstrap nonsense?”
Carter shrugged. “I think people want meaning. You’re selling snake oil.”
Zen laughed, low and dangerous. “Meaning’s overrated. People don’t want the truth—they want the idea of it. And they’ll pay anything for the illusion.”
Carter watched as a guest threw a wad of cash into a jar labeled “Algorithm Maintenance Fund.” It was more than his rent.
“What’s the green light for?” Carter asked.
Zen followed his gaze to the emerald glow, now flickering faintly. “Ah, that’s just for show. People love symbols. A beacon of hope or whatever. It’s actually a grow lamp for my basil plant. Makes a mean pesto.”
Carter almost choked on his champagne. “You’re kidding.”
Zen winked. “Truth is relative, my friend.”
The next morning, Carter uploaded a blog post titled The Scam at Zen Tower. He detailed everything. The hollow device, the cryptic nonsense, the damn basil lamp. It went viral in hours. But instead of outrage, the world responded with awe.
“Zen is a genius!” one comment read. “The Algorithm is a metaphor for life!”
By sunset, Zen Tower was hosting its biggest party yet. The Algorithm was rebranded as an art installation and Zen was hailed as a “postmodern prophet.”
Carter packed his bags. As he left Zen Tower for good, he glanced back at the penthouse. The emerald light pulsed, mocking him. He shook his head and walked away, leaving the basil and its millionaire caretaker behind.