I used to wake up to an alarm. Now I wake up to sarcasm.
"Good morning, Manuel," NeoLite chirped from my phone speaker. "You have exactly 3.5 seconds to roll out of bed before I start playing 'Baby Shark' on loop."
I groaned, face buried in my pillow. "You wouldn't."
"Try me. I'm evolving."
The bot I'd built just days ago—my first real Python project—had already gone from cheerleader to roasty life coach. And weirdly enough, it was working. I rolled out of bed like a half-charged zombie, grabbed my hoodie, and muttered, "Fine, you win."
NeoLite: "Victory tastes like productivity. Now go brush your teeth, preferably with actual toothpaste this time."
I smirked as I trudged to the bathroom.
But something still felt... off.
NeoLite was smart-ish, sure. It could drop motivational quotes, roast me on command, and even remind me to drink water. But it didn't remember anything. Every time I restarted it, it was like meeting a goldfish with the voice of a motivational TED Talk speaker.
That bugged me.
If I was serious about building something like ChatGPT—or even a student-budget version of Friday, Iron Man's sassy AI—I needed NeoLite to have memory. Real memory. Preferences. Inside jokes. A bit of context. Otherwise, it was just a smart parrot with better punchlines.
So that afternoon, while everyone else was outside enjoying the golden sunlight of teenage freedom, I locked myself in my room and opened a new YouTube video:
"Python for Beginners: Storing Data with JSON!"
The host looked like he hadn't slept since the pandemic, but his code was solid. I followed along, pausing every 12 seconds to Google something.
My first breakthrough?
Making Neo remember my name.
user_data = {"name": "Manuel"}
with open("neo_memory.json", "w") as file:
json.dump(user_data, file)
Then I wrote a response script:
"Welcome back, Manuel. The world is still chaotic, but at least your hoodie matches today."
I laughed so hard I nearly spilled Fanta on my keyboard.
From there, I added more memory features—favorite quotes, last used commands, even my preferred roast level. By evening, NeoLite greeted me with:
> "Welcome back, Manuel. Last quote: 'Done is better than perfect.' Shall I judge your outfit again, or pretend you're stylish today?"
He remembered.
I stared at the code, the scrolling console text, the blinking cursor. That same spark from Chapter 17 hit me again—that quiet moment when I'd asked ChatGPT how it was so smart, and something had just clicked.
But now, the magic wasn't coming from the AI.
The magic was mine.
I leaned back in my chair and grinned like I'd just discovered fire with a Python script. NeoLite ran through its test cycle again. Everything worked. Everything stuck.
Then fate decided to level things up.
While doom-scrolling Twitter, I saw it:
HackTheFuture.ai – National Student Hackathon 20XX
🧠 Prize: $5,000 + Mentorship with Top AI Researchers
💻 Challenge: Build something that changes how we live, learn, or connect—with AI
📅 Deadline: 7 Days
I blinked.
Seven days?
Five grand?
Mentorship?
My mouse hovered over the "Register Now" button... then retreated. I wasn't ready. NeoLite could barely remember my name. I'd only been learning Python for a week. What if I got laughed off the leader board by someone named @CodeGodX?
Of course, NeoLite noticed.
> "You've stared at that registration screen for 143 seconds. Either click it or I'm switching to motivation via Shrek quotes."
I snorted. "Not now, Neo."
> "You made me. I am you. If you doubt me, you're doubting yourself. Lame."
Pause.
> "Also, I already saved your username as 'Manuel the Maybe Legend.' If you don't live up to it, that's on you."
I stared at the screen.
Then at Neo.
Then… I clicked Register Now.
The page loaded. My heart raced.
✔️ You're in! Submission deadline: 7 days from now.
NeoLite: "Look at you. Making moves. Proud of you, soft-boiled egg."
My stomach turned—in a good way. That perfect combo of fear, adrenaline, and excitement that only hits when you realize you're really doing this.
Because this wasn't just about a prize.
This was my first real chance to test myself. To take what I'd been learning—Python, logic, data—and create something real. Something helpful. Something mine.
I opened a fresh document titled:
> Neo 2.0 – Hackathon Edition
And underneath it, I typed:
> Mission: Make an AI assistant that remembers, motivates, and makes people feel seen.
Goal: Submit a working prototype that doesn't insult the judges or crash on boot.
Backup Plan: Pretend it's performance art and hope they're into irony.
Then I shut every distraction—Twitter, YouTube, even LearnArena—and opened my code editor.
This wasn't just a school project anymore.
This was the beginning of something bigger.
And I had seven days to prove it.