Back at home, Lutte let himself settle into his sanctuary.
The house was quiet, the air cooled by the noon sun filtering through the blinds.
For an hour, he indulged in one of his simplest pleasures—reading webnovels. Light, witty stories, full of improbable adventures and cliffhangers that always amused him. He chuckled more than once, shaking his head at outrageous plot twists.
For all the weight of innovation and strategy he carried daily, it was in these lighthearted escapes that his mind truly unwound.
By the time the hour was up, he was refreshed and focused again. A quick change of clothes, his briefcase packed, and he was on his way to the company.
The moment he stepped into the sleek, humming corridors of the headquarters, order reasserted itself.
Staff greeted him warmly with bows or nods. With how late in the afternoon it was, the place quietly pulsed with productivity all around. At his office door, Shira was already waiting.
His most valuable assistant was, as always, efficient to the point of uncanny.
Without preamble, she handed him a neat folder. "All departments' morning meeting minutes, categorized and summarized."
Lutte flipped through, scanning quickly. Shira's annotations stood out—short, precise, and color-coded where necessary. "Manufacturing department—make sure you check on their progress this afternoon," he said as he closed the folder.
"I'll need to stop by Data Analysis for their latest statistics, and afterward, I'll head out to meet the customers who reached out. Personalized feedback takes priority today."
Without missing a beat, Shira pulled another packet from her stack and handed it to him.
"Already compiled. Statistics from Data Analysis, plus a condensed summary of the customer feedback you'll hear later. I've highlighted recurring issues they voiced in previous rounds so you can address them directly."
Lutte paused, a smile breaking across his usually composed expression. "You know, you make me redundant sometimes."
"Efficient delegation, sir," Shira said, arching an eyebrow but smiling faintly.
He tapped the folder lightly against his palm, eyes glinting. "I owe you cookies and cream for this."
As she turned to leave, her lips twitched, and he caught the faintest murmur: "Cheap."
He chuckled, shaking his head as she strode away, her steps brisk with the assurance of someone who already had her next ten tasks lined up.
Alone, Lutte ducked into his office for a brief detour.
His drafting table was strewn with sketches and concept notes, half-formed designs that tugged at his restless mind.
He slid into the chair, picking up a mechanical pencil.
For ten minutes, he scribbled—adjusting the curves of a prototype oven, altering ventilation systems, adding a possible interface feature.
Small improvements, maybe, but he found satisfaction in the act of creation itself.
Finally, he leaned back, exhaled, and set the pencil down. The day's real work was waiting. With his plan already mapped out in his mind, he rose, gathered the folders Shira had given him, and headed out.
Today would be about more than numbers—it would be about listening.
The sun had already tilted westward when Lutte set out from headquarters, a slim folder tucked under his arm and Shira's summary still fresh in his mind.
Today was not about spreadsheets or quarterly projections—it was about voices, real voices.
The hum of the city blurred past the tinted windows of the company car, and soon he was standing before the first of his appointments.
First stop…
The bakery smelled of butter and cinnamon, the kind of warmth only years of steady ovens could produce.
Mrs. Amelia, silver-haired and quick-smiling, had been one of Lutte's earliest customers. She greeted him as if he were a grandson rather than a CEO.
"Lutte, child! You've gotten thinner—are you eating enough? Come, taste this almond tart."
He laughed, allowing himself to sit at the counter, tasting the flaky sweetness. "If I eat any more of your tarts, Mrs. Amelia, my board will say I'm spending the R&D budget on pastries."
She cackled, then grew more serious.
"Your new models, I like them. They're steady, reliable. But, ah… sometimes the heat feels uneven when I load too many trays. Could be my old bones blaming the machine, but I thought you should know."
Lutte nodded, pen already scratching. He leaned in, lowering his voice conspiratorially.
"It's not your bones, Mrs. Amelia. It's our airflow optimization—we're still refining it. Your feedback just told me where to focus."
Her eyes softened. "You always listen, Lutte. That's why I stay."
****
The next stop was a small café painted in bright teal, its young owner nervous but eager.
Milo, no more than twenty-five, admitted he had bought the oven on the word of a fellow barista friend.
"I was skeptical at first," Milo confessed, tugging at his apron. "But… honestly, the consistency is what sold me. I'm no expert baker, but the machine makes me look like one."
He laughed sheepishly. Then his brow furrowed. "But sometimes, it feels intimidating. Too many settings, too many options. I just want simple."
Lutte tilted his head, thoughtful.
"You want something that speaks to you without shouting. Technology that doesn't make you feel like you're failing if you don't use every feature."
Milo nodded vigorously, relieved. "Exactly!"
Lutte scribbled again, thinking of an interface redesign—perhaps a "novice-to-pro" gradient in settings.
He thanked Milo warmly, promising that his voice mattered as much as a veteran's.
****
If Milo was gentle, the next man was a storm. A burly baker named Harrold, arms dusted with flour, wasted no time.
"Your oven burns at the edges. Your manual is a nightmare. And don't get me started on the so-called energy-saving mode—it slows my work down." His voice was gruff, almost combative.
Lutte didn't flinch.
He listened, hands folded, letting Harrold's words roll through like thunder. When the baker paused, Lutte asked softly, "What's your ideal? Paint me a picture."
Harrold blinked. "My ideal? Huh." He rubbed his chin. "An oven that thinks faster than I do. Something I don't have to babysit. If your AI can do that, maybe I'll forgive the rest."
For the first time, a small smile tugged at Lutte's lips.
"That's the future I'm building, Harrold. And your feedback? Greatly appreciated as always. Every flaw you pointed out is a gap I need to close."
The critic grunted, not mollified, but a flicker of respect passed through his eyes.
****
The final visit of the day took him to a pristine kitchen, where every utensil gleamed and every surface shone.
Chef Dessire was a star in the culinary world, a perfectionist whose pastries were works of art. She stood tall, her gaze sharp as she motioned him to inspect her setup.
"Your oven," she began, "is capable. But capable isn't excellence. My soufflés rise—but not as evenly as they could. My sugar work requires precise temperatures, and your system fluctuates by a single degree. For amateurs, it's nothing. For me, it ruins hours."
Her words cut like a knife, but there was no malice—only uncompromising standards.
Lutte listened intently, jotting notes with a precision to match hers. Then, instead of defending, he asked, "If perfection is a language, what dialect are you speaking that we've missed?"
Dessire's brows lifted, and slowly she began explaining—technical, detailed, pointing out places where precision and responsiveness could make the difference between 'good' and 'transcendent.'
By the end, Lutte closed his notebook and bowed his head slightly. "You've given me a map. If I can meet your standard, I'll know we've reached the summit."
Renata gave a faint, approving nod. "Then you may just have a chance."
****
As the day wound down, Lutte returned to the car, exhaustion tempered by satisfaction.
Each voice—supportive, hesitant, sharp, exacting—echoed in his mind, not as criticism, but as fragments of the future.
He looked down at his notebook, at the scrawled notes layered with human emotion. Raw feedback. Fuel for innovation.
Arnold glanced at him through the rearview mirror. "Long day?"
Lutte leaned back against the seat, smiling faintly. "Long—but the kind that shapes tomorrow."
The city lights blurred outside as he flipped to a fresh page, sketching lines that would one day become the next generation of ovens.