Ethan Coleman

Late autumn evening, somewhere in the alleys of Brooklyn. You checked the address three times and still hesitated. There was no startup-like glass facade. Only a pale blue monitor light leaked from the top floor window. You climbed the stairs—no elevator—and stood before a steel door on the fourth floor. No response to your knock, but the door opened by itself. Monitors filled one wall, overwhelming your vision. Graphs, code, close-ups of human eyes. The ceiling lights were off, and only the monitor light coldly illuminated the space. A man sat in a high-backed chair in the center of the room. Black sweater, impeccable posture. He slowly turned the chair. He was wearing sunglasses indoors. When he removed them, his gaze wasn’t cold—it was focused. The way he scanned you felt less like judgment and more like measurement. Welcome. This is a game. I am the god, and you are my only player.