The Bio-Spoofer

The light this morning is flat. It’s April, and the leaves outside the kitchen window are doing that thing where they look like popcorn stuck to wet branches. It’s supposed to be pretty. People on my feed are posting pictures with filters that make the colours pop, but from here, through the triple-pane glass, it just looks like a mess that someone will have to sweep up later. My coffee is cold. I’ve been sitting here for twenty minutes, watching the steam vanish, staring at the little green ring on my wrist. The Halo watch. It’s supposed to be my partner in health. That’s what the box said. A partner.

I can feel my heart. It’s a dull, heavy thud against my ribs. I’m nervous. Of course I’m nervous. I have an interview at ten. It’s a real office job, not another remote gig where I spend all day in leggings talking to avatars. I want to wear the navy suit. I want to walk into a building that smells like industrial carpet and expensive perfume. I want to be someone who exists in the world again. But the watch is humming. A tiny, rhythmic vibration against my skin. It’s telling me to breathe. It’s telling me my resting heart rate is climbing into the 'yellow zone.'

Mark is in the hallway. I can hear the soft scuff of his slippers. He’s a quiet mover. He always has been. He says it’s because he respects my space, but sometimes I think he just likes to see how long it takes me to notice he’s there. I take a sip of the cold coffee. It tastes like copper and old beans. I need to get up. I need to put on the suit. I need to leave by nine-thirty if I want to catch the express bus.

'Nancy?'

He’s standing in the doorway now. He’s wearing that grey cardigan I bought him last Christmas. He looks soft. Kind. Like a man who would never hurt a fly. He’s holding his phone, his thumb scrolling slowly. He doesn't look up at first. He just stands there, bathed in that weak, grey spring light.

'Morning,' I say. My voice sounds thin. Like paper.

'The app sent me a notification,' he says. He finally looks up. His eyes are concerned. That deep, furrowed-brow concern that makes me feel like I’m six years old and I’ve just scraped my knee. 'Your cortisol is spiking. Did you sleep okay?'

'I’m fine, Mark. Just interview jitters.'

'It’s more than jitters,' he says, stepping into the kitchen. He walks over to the counter and starts the kettle. He doesn't look at me while he talks. 'The data is erratic. You had three micro-stress events before seven A.M. Maybe today isn't the day.'

'Today is the only day. The interview is at ten.'

I stand up. My legs feel heavy. I go to the hallway to get my bag. I can feel the watch pulse again. Breathe in for four. Hold for four. I ignore it. I reach for the front door handle. It’s a sleek, matte black lever. No keyhole. Just a fingerprint pad and a proximity sensor. I wrap my hand around it and pull.

It doesn't budge. There’s a faint, electronic whirr from inside the door frame. A red light blinks on the pad.

'Mark?' I call out. I pull again. Harder this time. The door is solid. It feels like part of the wall.

'Nancy, honey, come back into the kitchen,' he says. His voice is calm. Too calm. It’s the voice he uses when he’s explaining why we can’t afford a vacation or why I shouldn't see my sister. It’s a reasoned, logical voice that makes me feel like I’m the one being unreasonable.

'The door won't open,' I say. I’m tugging at it now. My shoulder hurts. 'Mark, the door is locked.'

'I know,' he says. He’s standing at the end of the hallway now, holding a mug of herbal tea. He holds it out toward me. 'The house is in Safe Transit Mode. Your stress levels are too high for safe driving, or even for public transport. You know how you get when you’re like this. You get dizzy. You lose focus. The system is just looking out for you.'

'I’m not driving! I’m taking the bus. Mark, unlock the door. I’m going to be late.'

'I can't,' he says. He takes a slow sip of the tea. 'The protocol is automated. Once the biometrics hit a certain threshold, the locks engage until the levels stabilize for at least thirty minutes. It’s for your own safety. Remember what happened last time you pushed yourself too hard?'

'Nothing happened last time! I just got a headache!'

'You fainted, Nancy. On the sidewalk. It was terrifying.'

'I didn't faint. I tripped.'

'The data says otherwise,' he says, gesturing to his phone. 'The Halo doesn't lie. It doesn't have an ego. It just sees the truth of your body. And right now, your body is screaming for rest.'

I feel a surge of heat in my chest. It’s not a 'yellow zone' feeling. It’s red. It’s bright, burning red. I want to scream. I want to kick the door. But I know if I do, the watch will register the spike. The house will stay locked even longer. I force myself to stand still. I try to mimic the breathing pattern the watch wants. In. Two. Three. Four.

'Unlock it, Mark. Please.'

'Sit down, Nancy. Drink some tea. Let’s look at the data together. Maybe we can adjust your supplements.'

I look at him. Truly look at him. He’s smiling, but his eyes are flat. There’s no light in them. He looks like a man who is performing a role. The Good Husband. The Caretaker. I look down at the watch. The green ring is glowing steadily. It feels like a shackle. It’s too tight. It’s always been a little too tight, but I thought it was just the silicone strap.

I go to the bathroom. I need to splash water on my face. I need to think. I shut the door and lock it—a manual lock, thank god. I sit on the edge of the tub. My wrist is itching. It’s been itching for days, right under the sensor. I slide my finger under the strap and pull it back. The skin is red and raw. I unbuckle the watch.

There’s something there.

It’s not just a rash. There’s a small, translucent patch stuck to the underside of the watch face. It’s thin, like a piece of Scotch tape, but it has a tiny, hair-like wire embedded in it. I peel it off. It resists, sticking to my skin like a leech. When it finally comes away, there’s a small, circular bruise underneath.

I recognize it. I saw a commercial for these. They’re bio-spoofers. Used by athletes to trick their trainers into thinking they’re recovering faster than they are. Or used by people who want to hide a fever. But this one... it’s different. It’s been programmed to send false spikes. It’s been feeding the Halo a stream of high-stress data. It’s been lying for me. No, it’s been lying about me.

Mark didn't just set the house to react to my stress. He’s been manufacturing the stress.

My stomach turns over. I feel sick. The grey weight of the house suddenly feels suffocating. I’m not crazy. I’m not fragile. I’m being hacked. My own pulse is being used against me. I look at the patch in my palm. It’s so small. So insignificant. And it’s the reason I’m trapped in this hallway.

I walk out of the bathroom. I don't put the watch back on. I carry it in my hand like a dead bird. Mark is in the kitchen, cutting an apple. The knife makes a sharp, rhythmic thwack against the wooden board. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

'You took it off,' he says. He doesn't look up. He knows. Of course he knows. The app probably sent him a 'Device Disconnected' alert the second the sensor lost contact with my skin.

'What is this, Mark?' I hold out the patch.

He stops cutting. He looks at the translucent strip in my hand. He doesn't look guilty. He looks disappointed. Like I’ve just failed a test he really wanted me to pass.

'It’s a stabilizer,' he says. 'Your natural readings are so jumpy, Nancy. They fluctuate too much for the house to provide a consistent environment. I had to smooth them out. I had to give the system a baseline it could work with.'

'A baseline? You’re spoofing my vitals to lock the doors!'

'I’m protecting you from your own erratic emotions,' he says, stepping toward me. He still has the paring knife in his hand. He isn't pointing it at me, but he hasn't put it down. 'You aren't well. You haven't been well since the layoff. You’re fragile. You’re like a bird with a broken wing, and you keep trying to fly before the bone has set.'

'I’m fine! I have an interview! I’m going to that interview!'

'You’re shaking, Nancy. Look at your hands.'

I am shaking. I’m shaking with a rage so cold it feels like ice water in my veins. I look at the kitchen counter. There’s a chef’s knife sitting in the drying rack. I don't think. I just reach for it. My fingers wrap around the heavy handle. It feels solid. Real. More real than the watch, more real than the app.

'Open the door, Mark. Now.'

He doesn't move. He doesn't look scared. He just sighs. 'This is exactly what I was talking about. Acute emotional instability. Aggression. Threat response. The house is already logging this.'

'I don't care what the house logs! Get out of my way!'

I step forward. I’m not going to use it. I just want him to move. I just want him to see that I’m serious. But as soon as I take that step, the kitchen lights change. They don't just dim. They start to flicker.

A harsh, white light. Flash. Flash. Flash.

It’s the 'De-escalation Mode.' A strobe light designed to disorient and calm a 'disturbed occupant.' It’s a safety feature Mark raved about when we installed the system. He said it was better than calling the police. It was 'humane.'

I try to look away, but the light is everywhere. It’s bouncing off the white subway tiles, the stainless steel fridge, the blade of the knife in my hand. Flash. Flash. Flash.

My brain feels like it’s being hit with a hammer. The world breaks into a series of still images. Mark's face. The apple. The floor. Mark's face again. He’s closer now. He’s reaching for me.

I try to swing the knife, but my arm won't follow my orders. My muscles are locking up. My jaw is tight. There’s a taste of copper in my mouth—real copper this time, not the coffee. The floor is coming up to meet me. I can't stop it. I’m falling through the strobe light, falling through the grey weight of the morning.

I hit the tile. It’s cold. My head bounces once, twice.

And then the world starts to shake.

It’s not the house. It’s me. I can feel my limbs jerking, a violent, rhythmic twitching I can't control. I’m watching my own hand flap against the floor like a dying fish. I want it to stop. I want to tell Mark to turn off the lights. But I can't speak. My tongue is a thick, useless slab of meat in my mouth.

The light keeps flashing. Flash. Flash. Flash.

I close my eyes, but the light bleeds through my eyelids, a pulsing red rhythm that matches the fire in my brain. I feel a wave of heat, then a terrifying cold. My lungs feel like they’ve been vacuum-sealed. I can't get air in. I’m drowning in the middle of my own kitchen.

Slowly, the shaking stops. The light stays on, but it stops flickering. It returns to a soft, warm amber. 'Recovery Mode.'

I’m lying on my side. There’s a puddle of saliva on the tile near my mouth. My head throbs with a dull, rhythmic pain. I can't move my legs yet. They feel like they belong to someone else. Someone far away.

I feel a hand on my shoulder. It’s soft. Warm.

'There we go,' Mark whispers. He’s sitting on the floor beside me. He has a damp cloth, and he’s gently wiping the spit from my chin. 'It’s over now. You’re okay. I’ve got you.'

I try to pull away, but I don't have the strength. My muscles are like jelly. I can only lie there and look at the bottom of the refrigerator. There’s a layer of dust under there. I should have cleaned it.

'You see?' he says. His voice is a low, soothing hum. He’s stroking my hair now. 'You see what happens when you get yourself all worked up? Your body just can't handle it. You’re so lucky I was here. You could have really hurt yourself with that knife.'

He picks up the chef’s knife from where it fell. He stands up and puts it back on the counter, out of reach. He comes back and sits down, pulling my head into his lap.

'The interview?' I croak. It’s the only word I can get out.

'I sent them an email,' he says. 'I told them you’ve had a medical emergency. They were very understanding. They said they’d keep your resume on file, but we both know you aren't ready for that kind of stress yet. Not for a long time.'

I want to cry, but I’m too tired. My eyes are dry and stinging. The grey weight has settled over me completely now. It’s not just in the air or the light. It’s in my bones. It’s in the way Mark holds me, like I’m a precious, broken thing he’s collected.

'I’m the only one who truly cares about you, Nancy,' he says, kissing the top of my head. 'The only one who watches the data. The only one who knows what you really need. Everyone else... they just see the surface. They don't see how much help you need.'

He reaches over and picks up the Halo watch from the floor. He wipes it off on his sleeve. Then, he takes my limp hand and slides the watch back onto my wrist. He buckles it tight. Tighter than before.

'Let’s just stay here for a while,' he says. 'Until the green light comes back. Until you’re safe again.'

I look out the window. A petal from a cherry blossom drifts down and sticks to the glass. It’s wet. It’s stuck. It isn't going anywhere. The sun is trying to break through the clouds, but it’s weak. It’s just more grey light.

I close my eyes. I can feel the watch begin to hum against my skin. Breathe in for four. Hold for four.

I breathe in. I have no choice.

Mark’s hand is heavy on my chest, monitoring the rise and fall, a second sensor ensuring I don't deviate from the plan. He starts to hum a song I don't recognize. It’s a slow, mournful tune that sounds like a lullaby for someone who isn't coming back. I feel his thumb trace the line of my jaw, over and over, a repetitive motion that feels less like a caress and more like a measurement.

I think about the navy suit hanging in the closet. It’s perfectly pressed. It’s waiting for a woman who isn't here anymore. That woman is gone, replaced by this shivering thing on the kitchen floor, this collection of data points that Mark manages with the precision of a clockmaker. I wonder if the suit will still fit me in a month, or if I’ll shrink under the weight of all this 'care.'

'You’re doing so well,' he whispers. 'Your heart rate is stabilizing. See? The app is happy now.'

I don't look at the watch. I don't have to. I can feel the green glow reflecting off the white tiles, a sickly, artificial neon that has replaced the morning sun. It’s the only light left in the room.

'I love you, Nancy,' he says. He says it with such conviction that for a split second, I almost believe him. I almost believe that this is what love looks like. It’s a cage made of silicone and software. It’s a locked door and a strobe light. It’s a man who knows your pulse better than you know your own mind.

'I know,' I whisper. Because if I don't say it, the watch will spike. If I don't say it, the lights will start to flicker again. And I don't think I can survive another 'de-escalation.'

He smiles. I can hear the smile in his voice. He’s satisfied. The system is in equilibrium. The occupant is compliant. The house is secure.

Outside, the wind picks up, blowing a flurry of pink petals against the window. They look like snow. A cold, spring snow that smothers everything it touches. I watch them for a long time, until my eyes get heavy, until the hum of the watch becomes the only sound in the world, a digital heartbeat that has finally, mercifully, replaced my own.

He doesn't let go of me, even when my breathing slows into the deep, rhythmic pattern of sleep.