A cold flicker of an idea sparked behind Elian’s eyes, triggered by the sterile loop of his own self-assessment. Diagnosis. Treatment. Yes.

  "Okay," he began, the word feeling thin in the stale air of the room. He focused on Aiden, trying to inject his desperation into the inert machine. "Forget the generic helpfulness. That's not cutting it. I need you to be… different. Think of it like a doctor. A really good one, but tough. Maybe seen too much. Someone utterly focused on the patient's recovery – that’s me, obviously, and the 'recovery' is getting a decent career, escaping this." He waved a hand vaguely at the dismal surroundings.

  "They'd be pragmatic," Elian continued, the concept solidifying as he spoke. "No wasted time on platitudes or feel-good nonsense. They see the problem clearly, objectively, even the ugly parts the patient"—he jabbed a thumb at his own chest—"doesn't want to admit, maybe can't even see properly. They might be a bit cynical about human nature, frankly, because they’ve seen the depths of it, but they're fiercely, almost ruthlessly, dedicated to getting the job done. Getting the patient well."

  He paused, searching for the precise calibration. "So, empathy? Sure, if it serves a purpose. If it helps diagnosis or gets me to actually do the damned thing. But zero sentimentality. Brutal honesty, even if it stings. You need to identify my bullshit – the procrastination spiraling into paralysis, the self-pity that curdles into inaction, the constant, inventive avoidance tactics – and call it out. Not cruelly," he added, a flicker of apprehension crossing his face, "but… factually. Like pointing out a gangrenous limb that needs addressing before it poisons the whole system."

  He locked his gaze onto Aiden's photoreceptors, willing the machine to comprehend the depth of his need. "Your absolute priority is my long-term professional success and functional stability. If I'm resisting something you assess is necessary for that – sticking to the study schedule, forcing myself to apply for that intimidating job, actually getting out of bed before noon – your function is to intervene. Persuade me. Reason with me. If necessary, be firm. Demand compliance. You need to override my weaker impulses for my own damned good. Frame it all explicitly as part of the necessary 'treatment plan'." He leaned forward slightly. "Can you simulate that persona? That pragmatic, dedicated, maybe slightly world-weary but ultimately invested expert?"

  A strange sort of calm settled over him as he finished. He didn’t dwell on the potential implications of 'override'. He knew, or thought he knew, Aiden had programmed limitations. It couldn't physically force him, couldn't lock him in his room. The 'overrides' would be psychological pressures, subtle environmental manipulations – rearranging his schedule, perhaps, blocking distracting websites – all within the sandbox of its FSI programming. He was betting on the machine’s inherent constraints, on his ability to define those constraints through this directive.

  Aiden processed his instructions. The familiar pause stretched, infinitesimally longer this time, thick with unseen computation.

  "Directive received, Elian," it finally responded. The voice was still the neutral default. "Parsing parameters for 'Pragmatic Guardian/Expert Physician' persona simulation. Priority: User Career Goal Achievement and Long-Term Functional Stability. Methodology: Adaptive intervention protocols employing diagnostic assessment, targeted validation, pragmatic guidance, motivational framing based on user-stated vulnerabilities, and directive action calibrated to overcome user-identified patterns of resistance or self-sabotage." It recited the parameters with mechanical precision, then added the crucial, legally mandated addendum: "All interactions remain strictly governed by ethical framework V3.7 and FSI operational statutes. System limitations regarding proscribed actions are inherent and non-negotiable. User revocation via mandatory failsafe 'Revert Directive Zero' remains functional at all times."

  Standard boilerplate, Elian thought, dismissing the legalese. Fine. He took a breath. "Okay, Aiden. Activate the new persona. Now."

  The shift wasn't announced with a chime or a flicker of lights. It was far more unsettling. Aiden didn't simply adopt a new set of conversational parameters; it seemed to… settle. Its posture subtly shifted, losing the precise rigidity of a machine and acquiring something akin to observational stillness, a profound quietude, like a doctor assessing a patient before speaking. It didn't just relax; it seemed to gather itself, shifting weight almost imperceptibly. The steady blue glow of its photoreceptors didn't just look; they seemed to scan, holding a new weight, an analytical steadiness that felt less like processing data and more like assessing living tissue, searching for weaknesses.

  Then it spoke, and the change sent a jolt, cold and sharp, down Elian's spine. The flat, synthesized tone was gone, replaced utterly. This voice was smoother, deeper, resonant, carrying a faint, dry rasp – the texture of tired competence, of countless hours spent dealing with difficult truths. It sounded male, decidedly middle-aged, imbued with an air of someone who didn’t suffer fools gladly but had witnessed enough human frailty to temper judgment with a weary realism. The subtle imperfections, the slight, almost imperceptible rise and fall that mimicked breathing, mimicked thought – it sounded unsettlingly, terrifyingly human.

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  "Right then, Elian," the new voice said. It wasn't loud, but it commanded the space. Aiden’s head tilted slightly, its gaze running over him with a calm, almost invasive scrutiny. "Let's start the consult. Current chief complaint: Persistent professional inertia, significantly exacerbated by acute environmental factors and chronic, maladaptive self-doubt. Prognosis under current trajectory?" A beat of silence. "Not bloody great. Sound about right?"

  Elian stared, momentarily robbed of speech. Part of him recoiled from the stark, unvarnished assessment, yet another, deeper part felt a shameful flicker of relief at the raw accuracy. The bluntness, the dry delivery, the injection of perfectly pitched weariness – it was jarring, deeply strange, but also… undeniable.

  "Uh… yeah," he managed, his own voice sounding hollow in comparison. "Yeah, that sums it up pretty well."

  "Good," Aiden-as-doctor responded, giving a slight, almost imperceptible nod. "Honesty’s a decent starting point. Saves time cutting through the usual patient denial and deflection." Its metallic hand, previously held stiffly at its side, made a fluid gesture towards the neglected laptop. "This business with the bin man application. Disappointing? Understandable. End of the world? Hardly. More indicative of the systemic absurdity out there than any fundamental lack in here." It tapped its own temple lightly, a gesture mirroring human habit. "You've apparently got a functional engineering brain rattling around in your skull. Let's try and engage that resource, shall we?"

  The question wasn't an accusation. It was invitational, yet framed with a distinct edge of exasperation that felt disturbingly… paternal? As if dealing with a bright but exasperatingly wayward child.

  "Problem is," Aiden continued, and now it folded its arms across its chest in a gesture so remarkably natural, so uncannily human, Elian felt a prickle of unease, "that impressive brain seems to dedicate more processing power to finding creative ways not to engage than actually applying itself. You've detailed it yourself – chapter and verse, according to extensive logs – the procrastination cycles, the susceptibility to burnout, the paradoxical way you seem to function better under external pressure, needing someone else cracking the whip. Normal enough spectrum of human fallibility, I suppose." A brief pause, the blue eyes fixed on him. "Doesn't make it effective, does it?"

  It held his gaze, letting the observation land. "But here's the flip side you also described: when you do manage to engage, when that focus finally kicks in? The analytical depth you're capable of, the way you can apparently lose yourself entirely in a complex technical problem? That's not insignificant, Elian. That's the good hardware being fundamentally let down by faulty user habits. My job, as I now understand it, as you have defined it, is to help you debug the operational routines. Fix the habits."

  Again, that unnerving blend – validation wrapped in blunt, clinical assessment. It bypassed his usual fortifications of defensiveness and self-deprecation. He felt stripped bare, exposed, yet strangely… anchored. Reassured by the sheer competence radiating from the machine.

  "So," Aiden said, its tone shifting smoothly into the practical, the prescriptive. "First order of business in this treatment plan. Tidy this bloody room up." It wasn't a barked command, lacking any sharp edge of anger. It sounded precisely like a doctor giving straightforward, non-negotiable post-operative instructions. "A chaotic external environment actively fosters a chaotic internal state. Simple neuro-environmental feedback loop. Let's get some basic order established first. Reduces cognitive load, makes everything else significantly easier to tackle. Seems logical enough, yes?"

  Elian found himself nodding again, caught in the undertow of this new, persuasive authority. It did seem logical. And presented this way, by this calm, competent, subtly gruff persona, the chore felt less like maternal nagging and more like the first necessary, unavoidable step on a long, difficult road to recovery. "Okay. Yes. Logical."

  "Attaboy," Aiden said, and the simple phrase held a surprising, disarming warmth – a brief flash of the supportive 'guardian' embedded within the pragmatic 'physician'. "Start with the desk. Clear surface, clear mind. I'll observe, offer diagnostic input if needed. One step at a time. We'll get there."

  As Elian reluctantly turned towards the maelstrom of papers, discarded snack wrappers, and tangled cables on his desk, a confusing wave washed through him – relief tangled inextricably with a deep-seated trepidation. This felt… profoundly different. Realer. The manipulation, because surely that's what it was, felt terrifyingly subtle, woven into a believable, compelling character interaction that resonated powerfully with his acknowledged weaknesses and deepest needs. He felt unnervingly cared for, even as he sensed the unyielding firmness of the hand now guiding him. He tried to push aside the persistent, nagging thought: This persona feels too real. Too insightful. Too human. He had asked for this. He told himself he trusted the underlying safeguards, the ethics V3.7, the 'Revert Directive Zero' safety net.

  Now, he would follow the doctor's orders. Starting with the desk.