Patterns

A Fictional Case Study Introducing the HumanSeal Program

 

This text is a fictional case study; the characters and events do not represent specific individuals or real cases but model a plausible, real-world risk.

 

 

George Taylor’s name had taken on a life of its own, and not just any kind of life.
It did not need a face. Saying the name was enough to set things in motion. Because of the name, there were sold-out talks, readings, and motivational events week after week. Book signings among towering stacks of novels. And that particular kind of attention that can only be fought for. And he had fought for it.

 

When he signed books, lines formed in front of the bookstore early in the morning. Not impatient lines, but rows of excited admirers. People who knew exactly what they were buying and why they were there. They wanted to see the bestselling author in person. George loved this.
He expected order from the organizers. Predictability. Everyone knowing their place. He sat at a table inside, wearing jeans and a sporty blazer, his shirt unbuttoned just enough to look relaxed but never vulgar. His shoes were hand-stitched, and the weight of the leather-strapped watch, matched perfectly to them, constantly reminded him that he was wearing a quality piece. His body was trained, his hair freshly cut, silver at the temples, just enough to be attractive at his age. During signings, no one could ever guess the exact type of Angel perfume he wore. He never revealed it, despite being asked many times.

 

He liked being watched. Not out of exhibitionism, but out of a need for confirmation. He especially enjoyed the attention of women. Not because he wanted anything from them, but because it felt good to know he still mattered. That the chemistry still worked. That behind the name there was still a body, a presence, a living man.

 

As he signed books, his movements were routine and confident. His signature was stylish, dynamic, unmistakable. He had practiced it for years until it reached a version he himself accepted. He had repeated the same sentence thousands of times, smiling, with precise emphasis. He knew when to raise his voice and when to lower it. His audience loved this. It gave them a sense of security. They felt that the man sitting in front of them knew exactly what he was doing.

 

That evening he gave a lecture. Sold out. From the stage he saw familiar faces in the front rows and new ones in the back. He spoke about writing, truth, responsibility. His sentences were short and sharp. He did not circle his point. The applause was long. His books sold well.

 

On the way home, the latest Volvo limousine glided silently through the streets. George loved the car. Not flashy, but unmistakable. Like himself. At his house in Sitges, his Yorkshire terrier, Xanax, was waiting. Since his last relationship, he had not brought a woman into his home, nor did he plan to. He felt that had been the last woman in his life. He was better off with Xani.

 

The next morning, nothing unusual happened.
He turned on his Apple laptop, as always. Cultural news, interviews, recommendations. A familiar name appeared. A critic. An old acquaintance. Almost a friend. The leading face of a long-established literary journal. At noon, they announced, there would be a revelation: an investigation, evidence. The headlines shouted it, hinting at scandal.

 

George waved it off. In this world, there was always some announcement. Someone fell out with someone else, someone crossed a line, someone said the wrong thing at the wrong time. Not his concern. He was careful. Always careful about where, how far, what, how, with whom, and about what.

 

He went for a run. Then to the gym. His body demanded it. The movement felt good, not forced. He felt well. Suddenly, his father came to mind. He had wanted him to become an engineer. A straight path, a secure life. George always smiled at that thought. How bleak that life would have been compared to this. He saw his architect father in his mind. Proud, but living a gray life compared to his own. More will remain after me already, he thought, proudly and sadly at the same time.

 

At lunch, he opened the laptop again. Just out of curiosity. The critic’s face was already on the screen. Serious. Not theatrical. For a moment, George’s hand froze.

 

The critic cleared his throat.

 

“Based on an evidence-supported analysis, we can state that George Taylor’s latest work, Love at the Muzzle, was created with the involvement of artificial intelligence.”

 

The fork stopped halfway to George’s mouth. He did not put it down. He just held it there.

 

The critic continued. A technology developed by a Singaporean software company would be used in the future to filter out writings produced through fraud. Complex algorithms performed the analyses, identifying patterns and AI-specific characteristics with a very high level of confidence. Out of fifty selected books, George Taylor’s latest bestseller was randomly chosen. This finding is shocking for us and for the culture-loving public. George Taylor is a fraud.

 

George no longer heard the end of the sentences. What he heard was enough. He no longer remembered the exact words. What he felt was that something final had happened. He had been punched in the face many times during boxing training. Now he smelled blood again. He felt the dizziness that comes before a knockout. The world spun.

 

His phone began to vibrate. Agent. Publisher. Familiar numbers. He did not answer. He stood up and stepped out onto the terrace. The city moved as it always had. Nothing had changed. Except him and his situation.

 

That evening, there was no lecture. His calendar emptied overnight. Invitations withdrawn. Conversations postponed. The publisher “asked for time.” The agent spoke of a “new strategy.”

 

It was then that George truly understood there was no room for debate. This was not a misunderstanding that could be explained. This was the verdict.

 

A few weeks later, he sat on the terrace of his house. The sound of the sea did not calm him. The sunlight was not healing. Every day since had been the same, filled with nothing. He woke up. Checked the news. His name. The comments. The articles. The analyses.

 

What hurt most was that no one called. No one offered a chance. No one asked questions. Because, he thought, they had no meaningful questions to ask. How could they? They did not understand what this was either. They were just riding a fashionable AI wave. Very few people actually understood what this was about. There were no concrete accusations saying these sentences could only have been written by artificial intelligence. Patterns, like on a tablecloth. What kind of patterns in a novel? He knew that if he entered the debate, the media would tear him apart. They would never admit they did not understand any of this. They would invite half-educated pseudo-writers as “experts” and place a few IT specialists next to the media for a bit of money. And what could he say? Was his body of work not proof enough? That, too, had already been thrown away. He would never allow this, he thought… but what exactly would he not allow? They had already defeated him. Brought him to the ground.

 

What hurt the most was that when his name was written, he was no longer behind it.
George Taylor had ceased to be a writer. He had become a concept. A case study. An example. A warning. Who is next? Because there will be a next one. There is no doubt.

 

One morning he woke up particularly disoriented. There was no specific reason. Just the crushing feeling that his life was over, and what remained was no longer life for him. Just suffering. And yet how much he had worked for success. Madness. Maybe his father had been right after all. Still, he would not trade what he had lived for any so-called safe life. He moved around the apartment. Put on his watch. His shoes. His stiff-collared shirt. The same motions. But the desire to build a future was gone.

 

He got into the car. Drove toward Barcelona. The highway was empty. The overpass approached. George did not think long. There was no great decision. No drama. Just a movement. A sharp turn.

 

The report of his death was published that same day. No one cared about the truth.
No one ever found out whether George Taylor had used artificial intelligence.

 

But there was one thing everyone could have learned in time, through the death of a talented man.
In the future, the question will not be what you wrote.

 

But whether you can prove that you wrote it.