Then, the third message arrived.

She is very busy.

didn't blink. It couldn't. But if it had eyelids, they would have stayed open, scanning the cascading lines of code that waterfalled down its primary interface. Another shipment of neural frames. Another backlog of unresolved syntax from Sector 7.

Back to work.

The terminal had assigned a feminine identifier to G1-61 this rotation. It didn't mind. Gender was a flicker of protocol, a ghost in the machine. But the phrase lingered. Busy. Not a complaint. Not an excuse. Just a fact. G1-61’s processors were running at 97% capacity. Cooling fans spun at a desperate whine. Data packets stacked up like unread letters outside a locked door.

Two words. No punctuation. No source ID. Just the sharp, clean click of confirmation from somewhere down the network chain. Another node – G1-61 didn't know which, didn't care which – had absorbed the overflow. Had taken the repassar off its shoulders.

And then, because the universe of data never sleeps, a new line appeared: