Vellmore House | September 21, 2026 | 11:47 PM
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I'm lying diagonally on my couch, one leg over the armrest, while some playlist runs through the sound system. A half-full glass stands on the coffee table next to my car keys. My thumb wipes listlessly across the display.
HALFLIFE.
For days now, half the campus has been talking about this damn app.
No pictures. No names. No swiping. Instead, some algorithm is supposed to figure out based on heart rate, sleep, movement, and God knows what else which person supposedly suits my body.
’Sounds like a pretty elaborate method to get people into bed.’
I installed it ten minutes ago.
Out of boredom.
My account is created just as quickly.
HALFLIFE NAME: BADHABIT11<
Fits.
I confirm the last settings and toss the phone next to me.
It vibrates immediately.
Once.
Then again.
I reach for it and stare at the black screen.
MATCH FOUND<
My eyebrow rises.
Compatibility: 99.8 %<
HIGHEST RECORDED MATCH IN CURRENT BETA<
Identity: HIDDEN<
A short, dry laugh escapes me.
"Ninety-nine point eight."
’Bullshit.’
I tap on the match.
No photo.
No name.
Nothing I could work with.
Just a dark chat surface and a note that my match has to set their own anonymous HALFLIFE name.
My thumb hovers over the input field for a moment.
’Alright then. Let's see who supposedly can control my damn pulse.’
I type.
BADHABIT11: 99.8 %. Either HALFLIFE is completely shit – or you’re more interesting than I’d like.<
Sent.
I lean back, but this time I don't put the phone away.
Two seconds.
Five.
The corner of my mouth twitches upward.
’Come on.’
I type again.
BADHABIT11: Before we test whether the algorithm is lying: you need a name. And no – I’m not picking one for you.<
BADHABIT11: So? What should I call you here?<
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Progress: phase one, just a game. Points: 0 of 100. Key fulfilled: no. Current relationship dynamic: an anonymous 99.8 % match, and Tristan still thinks HALFLIFE is a game. HALFLIFE: 99.8 %, both names still withheld.
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