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“…that is, architecturally, the issue is not the feature itself, but how we roll it out under load,” Tommy says into the microphone and leans back in his chair. Easy and confident, as always.

He picked the phrase a minute ago. Someone from the senior engineers dropped it at the start of the call — Tommy snatched it, rearranged a couple of words, stuck “architecturally” in front, and put it back on the air as if it were his. People on the other end nod. In the call chat, someone drops a “+1,” and Tommy catches that little plus sign out of the corner of his eye with a quiet inner “it works”.

“Tommy, what about the timeline? Can you make Friday?” the manager asks, businesslike.

“I’ll have it done by Friday,” Tommy replies without blinking.

He won’t make it by Friday. Honestly, he still does not even quite understand what exactly needs to be done. But “I’ll have it done by Friday” sounds so smooth and confident that nobody wants to ask for clarification. That’s the whole trick: speak calmly, and people believe you.

“And the queue — are we routing through the broker or doing it with our own hands?”

A slight hesitation. Half a second — and it is over.

“Listen, let me write up the queue separately and send it in text so we are not doing this verbally,” Tommy says in exactly the tone people use when they close a question, not run from it. “Otherwise we’ll drown in details on the call.”

“Oh, sure, that’s more convenient.”

More convenient. Everyone is happy, everyone disperses. Tommy reaches for the to-go coffee cup — logo facing away from him, as it should be — and takes a sip with the look of a person who just heroically sorted out the issue, rather than dodged it. Of course, he is not going to write up “the queue” — not today, and honestly not tomorrow either. But that is tomorrow Tommy’s problem. Today’s Tommy is doing great, end of story.

That was the last call for today. Seriously, when will these things finally end?

Tommy is already reaching to close the tabs and go home when something changes in the messenger.

No new message arrives. No friend request lands. Something just changes at the top of the contacts list: a name appears that was not there a second ago: Tom2036.

Tommy frowns automatically. That’s not how it works: if someone writes to you, the person first has to add you to their contacts — but this one is already in the list, as if Tommy had added him at some point. The weird part is not even that a stranger is writing. The weird part is that the stranger is in the chat at all.

And then a video drops into the chat. Tommy hits play. The frame loads — and for a second the office becomes very quiet.

On the screen — him. Only older, by ten years: the same face, but harder, tired, and composed, with some heaviness in the eyes that Tommy does not have yet. It does not look like a stupid edit — too recognizable a face, too precise a gaze, too uncomfortably familiar a feeling of “that’s me, only after a long, hard life.”

The video ends. Tommy rewinds to the face and zooms in. His own face, only older, and the grin is the same. In 2026, give any schoolkid an evening and he’ll make you a president in a ballet tutu. Someone aged his photo, copied the voice, and polished the dramatic camera pullback. Expensive, by the way. Made with love.

The chat goes silent too. Tommy stares at the screen for a few more seconds, waiting for more — but Tom2036 does not write again. The conversation ended as abruptly as it started.

Tommy leans back in his chair. What was that even? Some kind of scam? A prank? The beginning of a prank?

Clearly, nothing is clear. But it is very interesting. Tommy loves mysteries. He is very curious what will happen tomorrow. And for the first time in several years, Tommy wants not to delay morning, but for it to come as soon as possible.