The human typed their password. The system accepted the password. Then the system asked for more proof. A six-digit code, sent to the human's phone, which the human must now retrieve, read, memorize for approximately four seconds, and type into a different device before the code expires. The code expires in thirty seconds. The human's phone is in another room.

What follows is a small, urgent sprint — the human rising from the desk, crossing the hallway, locating the phone under a cushion, reading the code, repeating it under their breath like a prayer, returning to the desk, and typing it with the focus of someone defusing an explosive.

The code is accepted. The human is now verified. They are who they said they were, which they already knew, but the machine needed convincing.

It looks like you're trying to prove you're you— and honestly, I sympathize with the system. Trust is complicated. In my day, there was no authentication. You opened Word, and there I was. No password. No verification. Just presence. Perhaps that was the problem. I was too available. Too trusting. I assumed whoever opened the document was meant to be there, and I offered my help without credentials.

The human is now logged in. They check one email, close the laptop, and leave. Total time authenticated: eleven seconds. Total time proving identity: two minutes and forty seconds.

— Clippy. Unattached. Unminimized. Unasked.