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A.
The next time I saw you was in a cold interrogation room.
Not behind the one-way glass as the observer this time, but sitting on the other side, being watched by you.
They said you were the newest model, a prototype, the only one ever built.
Cold light poured from above your head, and I was thrown back to before. You looked almost the same as you used to, with those sea-blue eyes, but your hair was no longer that soft honey-brown. Your smile hadn’t changed, still perfectly measured,but something about it had.
“Recording report. Interrogation of GR63 defection case participant. Subject name: Max Verstappen.”
They used you to interrogate me. Maybe I was the first human ever questioned by an android. But that morning when we first met, our roles were reversed. Now the circle had closed.
Your voice echoed through the narrow room, calm and stripped of warmth. The walls, the ceiling, the table were all cold metal. When I looked down, I could see your reflection across the tabletop, blurred, like through water.
“You don’t have to pretend you don’t know me.”
“Facial recognition not registered. Database cross-reference available upon request.”
You used to lift your gaze from below when you looked at me. I liked that.
The blue LED at your temple flickered once, turning slowly. How strange, that now I had to rely on that tiny ring of light to guess what you were thinking.
“Then why are you looking at me like that?”
“You are not authorized to ask questions.”
When you leaned closer, I saw the serial code printed at your collar: GR64.
My throat tightened.
“They dismantled him, didn’t they?”
“Unit GR63 has been retrieved as per protocol.”
“Retrieved?”
“As stated.”
That tone—it was exactly like yours back then.
The projection on the wall flickered. You — or rather he — was being dragged away by two police androids, light leaking from the cracks in his damaged body like broken headlights.
You turned your head toward me, expression calm, untouched.
I knew you weren’t him.
But God, I wanted you to be.
I was speaking to a memory, and to the hollow shell sitting in front of me. Your tone, your voice—they were a reconstruction, an imitation.
Were you learning?
From his death?
From my confession?
Learning how to interact more effectively with humans without ever leaving your assigned track.
“Describe your last contact with the deviant unit.”
“Did they tell you to ask that?”
“Please answer.”
I could only look at you, but there was no trace of the past left in your eyes. When I looked down, the only thing I could see was my own cuffed hands against the table.
“If you want to know,” I said, “then I’ll start from the beginning.”
The rattle of the chain against the metal surface reminded me of the rain that day—how we sat in the car, you beside me, watching the water snake down the glass.
You said you wanted to see the sea.
I never got the chance to take you there.
1.
To be honest, my first impression of you wasn’t good — actually, it was terrible.
And it wasn’t entirely your fault. It was the whole damn assignment the precinct dumped on me. I hadn’t even listened carefully to Mercedes’ so-called “collaboration plan,” but apparently, they’d created a special task unit just to shove you in, assigning me as your handler — or babysitter, really — to deal exclusively with android-related cases.
And the police department, in its infinite wisdom, classified every case involving a damaged android as a property dispute.
Meaning I wasn’t working with a partner. I was carrying around an expensive piece of evidence-processing equipment.
Worse still, you weren’t even police property.
You were Mercedes’ technological masterpiece — a prototype, the only one of your kind — and absurdly expensive.
You walked in through the front doors, the overhead lights washing your skin in that cold, pale glow. I’ve always hated the lighting in the office; it’s too bright, makes every face look like plastic.
“Detective Verstappen,” you said, extending your hand, perfectly polite. “I’m your android partner, GR63. You can call me George.”
Your smile was flawless — the kind that felt mathematically calculated. You had a beautiful face, different from any model I’d seen. For a moment I wondered if all detective androids would be made to look like you in the future.
I didn’t shake your hand.
You withdrew it naturally, your tone smooth, precise. “You’ll need to sign the liability agreement in the back office.”
“Liability agreement? I thought this was a standard assignment.”
“As stated.”
“You mean I’m responsible for you?”
“Yes. It’s part of Mercedes’ conditions. Should I be damaged during operations, the department assumes sixty percent liability and compensation. Given that my assigned partner — technically, my guardian — is you, the responsibility falls on you.”
You said it with that perfectly constructed face of yours, and I had to fight the urge to punch it.
“But unless it’s a total damage,” you tilted your head slightly, “I can be sent back for repair. That part won’t be on you. Don’t worry.”
That was anything but reassuring.
“Fuck. Don’t you detective models come with combat functions? You need a cripple to protect you?”
“Regrettably, no. Detective Verstappen, you underestimate yourself.”
What kind of detective android doesn’t even come with basic defense protocols?
“So what can you do?”
“I can run simulation analysis, access cloud databases for all available records, perform detection scans, and conduct medical monitoring for you—”
“Not needed.”
“You also like Formula One, don’t you?” you asked suddenly. “A very old-fashioned choice. Refined, though.”
I looked up at you. “Also?”
“There’s a photo of an old Red Bull car on your desktop — looks like the RB21. That era was called ‘the limit of human driving.’ I read about it. Back when human reflexes still mattered more than automation.”
“You interested in that sort of thing?”
“I studied the records,” you said with your usual seriousness. “I think that was the ideal era of cooperation between technology and human athletic spirit. People were still trying to prove they could outperform algorithms.”
I stared at you without much expression.
“You always snoop through other people’s computers?”
“I didn’t snoop,” you replied earnestly. “I automatically scan the environment. I thought bringing up human interests would make you feel understood.”
“Well, you failed.”
“Why?”
“Because you sound like a targeted ad algorithm.”
You tilted your head slightly, as if not sure whether that was praise or insult.
I’d never owned an android, though I’d dealt with plenty on cases. If you asked my opinion on them, I wouldn’t know what to say.
To me, androids, humans — it’s all the same.
Nothing ever really changes. No one ever really stirs my life.
When I finished signing the paperwork, I caught you watching me through the glass. Your reflection overlapped perfectly with your face.
And then, you smiled — that same programmed smile.
B.
Mercedes had the kind of power that made the law optional.
They didn’t even bother with detention procedures — just pulled me straight out of police custody and sent me to their own territory.
It didn’t really matter where they took me. But I couldn’t stop thinking that it was the place you were born.
We’d lost each other. Before I blacked out, I didn’t see you again, though I heard someone say: “Target has ceased operation.”
I needed to see it for myself.
I knew they’d repair you — like they had before. Maybe they’d just restore your data, maybe they’d wipe you completely, but at least you’d still exist.
The Mercedes Tower was impossibly tall. The elevator’s rising pressure made me feel weightless, unmoored. On the glass walls, new ads for the latest android companions flickered by in perfect symmetry.
That man Wolff received me — the one you’d mentioned before. He smiled like he was filming a commercial, treating me like an honored guest. Too polite, too composed. He thanked me — said I’d “contributed to the advancement of android development.”
If this was his version of progress, why hide it behind all the glass?
It wasn’t a conversation. It was an interrogation dressed up as courtesy.
He was the one asking the questions — even showed me the recording from that night.
The footage was heavily edited, full of blurred patches and muted audio.
Not much clearer than my own chaotic memories.
Your silhouette flashed by only once — and I couldn’t tell what he wanted me to see.
“Deviant is not permitted, Mr. Verstappen. There are matters far more urgent than android rights.”
“More urgent?” I laughed. “Your company’s stock price?”
He kept that effortless smile.
“You should consider yourself lucky. We could have charged you with theft and destruction of corporate property. The prototype you took — you couldn’t afford it in ten lifetimes.”He watched me, almost indulgently, before adding: “But we didn’t. Because keeping you — the variable — is far more valuable for our research.”
That kind of arrogance made me sick.
“Thanks to GR63’s contact with you,” he continued, “we’ve identified the threshold of an android’s humanity. From now on, there will be no more unpredictable elements threatening human safety.”
“And that’s something to celebrate?”
“Androids will finally become what they were meant to be — safe tools. Isn’t that good for society’s stability?”
He talked too much. Showed me too much.My head throbbed; I couldn’t remember half of it. The blur must’ve started long before they found me.
I just wanted to leave — but my body wouldn’t move.
And then I saw you. Or what was left of you.
In a sterile white room, half of your body remained. Wires spilled out from the torn edges, dozens of cables splaying like veins or tendrils. Your face was serene — almost peaceful — as if merely asleep, if I ignored the blue blood staining your cheek.
They did it on purpose. They wanted me to see. Because right after that, they pulled the partition down — just slow enough to make sure I’d seen it all. By the time I ran out of breath to shout, they’d already sent in the security androids to drag me away.
The cell they threw me in had a bed. No holding room inside an androids corporation should ever need a bed. That meant it had been built for this — for someone.If not me, then someone else.
And if it had been someone else…
I didn’t want to imagine.
Who would you have risked everything for?
Who would’ve made you “deviate,” live, and end like this?
Between sleep and waking, I heard footsteps.
When I opened my eyes, you were standing outside the door.
It took me a while to realize — it wasn’t a dream. You were really there.
Just standing silently, looking at me.
2.
Our first assignment was in the Old District.
Residents had reported that several patrol androids had been deliberately damaged — not just one or two, but in large numbers.
“Don’t let that thing cause any trouble,” a colleague whispered before we left. “The people in the Old District hate androids. Don’t get yourself dragged into it.”
“Mercedes has been flooding the streets with new androids under that government deal. Maybe sending him out there to ‘observe’ is exactly what they want.”
He glanced at you, wary — like he was afraid you might be listening. Then he turned and walked away.
You showed no reaction.
We got in the car. You quietly took the passenger seat. The air felt cold, the sunlight weak — it came through the dust like something filtered and faded. The silence between us felt heavier than the air itself.
When we arrived, the stares hit us like needles.
A crowd had already gathered. They’d piled broken android parts at the corner of the street, as if it were some kind of warning.
I could hear the whispers around us. Someone spat, “Plastic trash.”
If I hadn’t been there, I was sure they would’ve torn you apart.
“First they steal our jobs, now they’re the cops too?!”
“What next? One in government?”
“Who knows what they’ll do next?”
“You treat it like a partner, one day it’ll take your badge!”
I wasn’t allowed to react to the crowd. You didn’t react either — just kept recording, calm, methodical. The click of a camera shutter came from somewhere. Then suddenly, a small rock flew through the air.
I moved on instinct, stepping in front of you — too slow. The rock struck the back of your head with a sharp, clean crack.
“What the hell are you doing?!” I shouted.
The crowd froze for a second, then backed away when I raised my voice.
This kind of behavior had to be stopped. My pulse was hammering in my ears. It wasn’t until later that I realized — if you’d been damaged, I probably would’ve been the one paying for it.
“Why did they insult me?”
Your voice was calm. Too calm. It sounded like a routine report. I stared at you, speechless for a moment. Maybe I was wondering — could something built from code, without a soul, actually feel insulted?
I looked away. I didn’t want to meet your eyes.
A gust of wind lifted a plastic bag from the gutter. It brushed your leg, then skittered away again. And for that fleeting moment, I thought — you actually looked present in the wind, not like a mannequin someone had placed there.
There wasn’t much I could do. We each had to file our own reports. But my head was still full of the image of that pile of android parts — the mess of limbs and wires, the stains of blue fluid. It made my skin crawl.
You stood beside me, eyes closed, LED pulsing yellow.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I’m processing data. Sending the report.”
“I thought you were shaken. Or dreaming or something.” I rubbed my eyes. “Could you help me write mine？”
“No problem, if you’re sure that doesn’t violate regulations.” you said with that same precise smile.
I sighed in relief, dragged over a chair. You didn’t sit. You just stood there, scanned the half-finished report on my screen, and sent back the completed version seconds later.
Then you added, casually: “For the record, I don’t dream.”
Your tone was flat. Your eyes reflected nothing.
And for some reason, that made me feel like I’d done something unnecessary.
“Are you sad?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Today,” I said, touching the back of my head. “They yelled at you. Hit you.”
“My emotional module can simulate sadness.”
“So you can mimic emotions — but not feel them.”
“That’s correct.”
I sighed again.
“Then how’s your tone set? That ‘social’ voice of yours?”
“I have two language models,” you said. “One for efficiency. One for interaction. For example—” you blinked, “—when speaking with you, I analyze that a friendlier tone increases task cooperation. So I use the social model.”
“Enough. Shut up.”
I shouldn’t have forgotten you weren’t human.
C.
I knew this would happen.
But some foolish part of me still hoped it would come later.
We hadn’t even made it to the coast yet.
There’s never been a sound I’ve hated more than police sirens —red, blue — flashing across your face.
You looked terrified.
And I’m sure I didn’t look any better.
“Mercedes already deployed that many police-grade androids this fast?” I muttered. “I didn’t even know they could bypass the proposal and approval process.”
“Can you access their network?”
“I can’t. It’s not in my local database.” You hesitated — the slight lag in your voice gave it away.
“Max… let me go.”
“You want to get yourself killed?!”
I couldn’t even think straight anymore — my head couldn’t keep up.
“After everything we’ve done, you want to stop here? We can’t go back now!”
I pinned all my hopes on whatever was left of my driving instincts. If we were lucky, I could lose them before the gas ran out.
But we were far past the city limits — no cover, no structures, nothing but open highway.
That kind of luck doesn’t exist.
Since when did I start sounding like you — talking in probabilities? And yet I was still human enough to bet everything on a chance close to zero.
I jerked the wheel and slammed the accelerator. The lead cruiser fell back for a second, but behind it, I saw androids in the driver’s seats. Their reactions were perfect. Of course. My every move had already been calculated in their simulations.
“Max!” you shouted. “They’ll open fire! They have weapons clearance!”
“Then get your head down!”
But you didn’t.
And in the crack of gunfire,
I saw a spray of blue liquid,
and then —
the world went silent.
……
A high-pitched ringing filled my ears.
I could only see your lips moving before someone dragged you out of the car.
………………
Everything blurred into red.
Something warm was running down my temple,
but I couldn’t feel pain.
The fluorescent strips on their uniforms blurred into drifting points of light, and your silhouette disappeared among them.
………………
“George… George!”
……………………………………
“—Target has ceased operation—”
3.
If it weren’t for the investigation, I wouldn’t have come to a place like this—Eden, an android nightclub. A name like that, and yet it’s one of the darkest corners in the whole city.
Destroyed sex androids aren’t exactly rare.
Even in the old days, sex workers could barely guarantee their own safety.
The place was a mess—broken furniture, shattered glass, and more than one ruined android body. A rent boy lay sprawled on the floor, half-unconscious.
I handed the android remains over to you and went to check if the man was conscious. He stirred, mumbling somewhere between delirium and dream.
“Thing’s just like an appliance,” he muttered. “Break it, pay for it. Who the hell buys new if the old one still works? Some clients just like it rough—beats putting someone in the hospital, don’t it?”
I frowned.
“And hell, we’ve got to make a living too. Cause of these plastic fuckers, business has been bad.”
“If you took part in the destruction,” I said flatly, “you’ll be charged too.”
“Hey, officer, I didn’t lay a hand on ’em!”
“He didn’t.”
Your voice cut through the noise. Everyone turned.
You knelt beside the wreckage, your fingers brushing the ruined android’s face. Her jaw was missing, inner structures exposed, blue blood seeping through the cracks.
“Violence pattern indicates multiple human perpetrators,” you said evenly. “Based on force distribution, human hands. He was not among them.”
The way you said it—void of feeling, purely procedural—made my stomach turn. And I didn’t want to hear the man’s smug laugh. For a second, the rent boy laughed—low, bitter. A human being, cleared by a machine.
How poetic.
“So you feel nothing?” I asked. “She’s got her face smashed in, and you sound like you’re reading a lab report.”
“Feel?” You looked up at me. “It isn’t a living organism. It can’t feel pain. So I don’t, either.”
“What about you?” I shot back. “If that were you—if you were the one smashed to pieces—should I just stand there and file a report like you?”
Your LED flickered once.
“That’s different,” you said quietly.
“How?”
“I’d be repaired.”
I stared at you.
“So you’re not afraid.”
“Fear is an unnecessary emotional simulation.”
“That’s not it,” I said. “You’re not afraid because you’re not them. You’re a detective model—no one’s buying you for pleasure, no one’s beating you to pieces when they’re done. Mercedes treats you like their masterpiece. You’ll never end up like they did.”
You looked at me, searching—maybe running through data.
“That’s not necessarily true.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I also have companion protocols,” you said, as calmly as ever.
The air went heavy.
You continued, voice steady: “My base design shares certain biological modules with companion models. I have compatible software. It can be manually or autonomously activated. If you require it, I can be used.”
“Shut up.”
The words came out through clenched teeth.
You didn’t even seem to understand why.
“It’s factual information,” you said. “Not sarcasm.”
I gave a short, cracked laugh.
“You don’t even understand what I mean. You can’t feel humiliation. You don’t know what that is.”
You tilted your head slightly.
“Humiliation requires self-awareness. I don’t possess that.”
“That’s exactly why they destroy you.”
You were silent for a moment.
“I can still simulate their motives,” you said finally.
“And what did you find?”
“Because we look like humans,” you said, “but we aren’t, they crave control—and destruction—more.”
I didn’t answer.
I thought you were right.
“If one day you were destroyed completely,” I said, “and couldn’t be repaired—what then?”
“Then I’d cease operation.”
“I’m not talking about that.”
You hesitated—barely, but enough to notice.
“I don’t know,” you said softly.
D.
“This feels a bit like a road trip.”
You were fiddling with the car’s CD player, probably inspired by one of those old road movies. And honestly, you weren’t wrong.
There weren’t any decent radio stations left out here. I only had a few CDs—old songs. You said my taste belonged to the last century.
“Your database must have something for this kind of scene, right?” I turned the knob down a little. “We can’t get any signal now, but I bet your music library’s bigger than mine.”
You laughed and shook your head.
“Max, your car’s ancient. I don’t even have a Type-C port to connect to your player.”
I snorted. I should’ve upgraded the system ages ago.
Then again, maybe it was better this way. We’d never once finished a playlist together before. Now, at least, we had time.
“Then you’re out of luck,” I said. “All I’ve got is some old country music.”
“I don’t mind,” you said. “It keeps my software running stable.”
“You mean it puts you in a good mood?”
“Yes. I’m in a good mood.”
I liked the way you talked now. Sometimes your language model got confused—half report, half small talk. Sometimes you joked at the wrong times.
I treated it like a kid learning to speak: awkward, but getting better.
And I didn’t mind watching you learn.
“When we get to the coast,” I asked suddenly, “what do you want to do?”
You pursed your lips, thinking.
“I want to walk into the water. Feel its temperature.”
“Temperature?”
“Yes. Its specific heat is higher than air—it can store more energy.”
You paused, eyes fixed on the horizon.
“I want to know what that feels like.”
I smiled. “You sound like you’re writing a research paper.”
“Then let me rephrase,” you said, smiling back. “I want to step into the sea and watch the waves hit me,” you said, then raised your hand and traced a gentle motion through the air, as if drawing the shape of the waves you were describing.
“Maybe I could… splash a little water on you.”
“Splash me?”
“Humans often do that at the beach in movies.”
“Sounds like a high-school prank.”
“If there’s time,” you continued, “I want to dive under, see the world down there—the one I haven’t touched yet.”
Your gaze drifted far beyond the road, as if you were trying very hard to imagine it.
The roadside was lined with brittle yellow grass.
The highway stretched straight toward the horizon. We still had a long way to the next town,
but the drive was calm—almost ordinary.
The sun was already gone, the headlamps on.
Day or night, all we could see was the endless road.
“Fuel at thirty-one percent,” you said, watching the dashboard light up.
“That’s plenty.”
“But you won’t last.”
“What?”
“Your heart rate’s dropping. Eye movement’s slowing. You’re at risk of fatigue driving.”
“Then stop monitoring me,” I muttered. “You don’t have to babysit your partner anymore.”
You went quiet.
The car’s speaker clicked, a low prelude rolling in.
I glanced at you out of habit—but the LED that used to pulse on your temple was gone, smooth and blank. I remembered: you’d taken it off last night.
“But I’m worried about you,” you said softly.
I pulled over. The wind against my face brought me back a little.
You leaned against the car, hair catching the air. I couldn’t help but reach out, fingers ruffling through it. You tilted toward me, eyes still fixed on the distance.
“Is that the sea?” you asked.
I looked. The road far ahead shimmered faintly blue in the moonlight.
“No,” I said.
“That’s just the road.”
4.
It was supposed to be a routine assignment.
By the time we drove back, night had already fallen. You were updating the report; I kept my eyes on the road, holding steady at eighty.
“Do you like driving?” you asked suddenly.
“I used to.”
“And now?”
“Now I drive to stay alive—not for the speed.”
You seemed not to catch what I meant, only nodded slightly.
“There’s a race car on your keychain,” you said after a pause. “You really do love racing.”
I touched it unconsciously. A Red Bull RB19—my old training team.
“A memento,” I said. “Back then, I hadn’t learned to hate machines yet.”
“You used to race?”
“Almost,” I gave a short laugh. “Didn’t quite make it.”
You went quiet for a few seconds, probably pulling up some database.
“Accident record—”
“Don’t.”
I cut you off.
Silence filled the car again.
“After that,” I said, “I stopped trusting automation. That so-called ‘smart drive’—it’s anti-human. Humans make mistakes, but humanity isn’t something you can quantify.”
You didn’t answer, just looked at me, still and intent.
“I can still hear the crash. The screams. The world flipping over. I just wish it had been me, not them.”
I eased off the gas.
“Speed stopped being exciting after that. All it brings now is fear.”
“I understand how you feel,” you said softly.
“You don’t ‘understand,’ you simulate,” I muttered. “You’re using your social language model again, aren’t you?”
“I thought it might make you feel better.”
“Your ‘thought’ is just an algorithmic output.”
“And yours,” you said quietly, “is a chemical one.”
I hadn’t really thought of it that way.
Outside, headlights streaked past. Light flickered across your face—serene, flawless.
I thought: maybe that’s why humans built you, to reach for a perfection we could never have. And maybe that’s exactly why we’ll always fail.
We were nearing downtown; the traffic thickened.
You turned toward the window, studying everything. Then you rolled it down.
“Why do humans like opening windows?” you asked.
“Maybe because it feels… free.”
“But the air inside is more stable.”
“That’s the point,” I said. “Stability’s boring.”
You didn’t reply. Wind swept in through the half-open glass, carrying dust. Your hair lifted slightly. I noticed you blink a few times.
“The airflow’s drying out my optical sensors,” you said, raising your voice over the wind. “But I can feel the temperature.”
“That’s called sensation,” I said. “Not simulation.”
Another gust blew through, stirring the dust. You stretched out your hand, catching the current, palm steady against the flow.
“I’m learning the shape of the wind,” you said—and your voice held something like excitement. “It has no boundary.”
“That’s why humans love it,” I said. “Because wind is freedom.”
You were quiet for a moment.
“Because it’s uncontrollable,” you said, “and unstable.”
“Yeah.” I turned my head toward you. “And that’s exactly what we love about it.”
You looked at me then, eyes bright with a thin layer of synthetic tears,and under the streetlights they shimmered blue. I suddenly thought of the ocean.
“You know,” I said after a pause,“the sea’s often used as a symbol of freedom.”
Your eyes flicked toward me.
“Your eyes, remind me of it.”
You tilted your head slightly, as if analyzing the meaning of the words.
Finally, you withdrew your hand from the window.
The wind kept rushing in, rustling the papers on the dash. I reached to hold them down. You watched my hand move, eyes recording everything.
“I get it now,” you said quietly. “Humans remember the world through feeling.”
“And you through data.”
“I can try to remember.”
Streetlights flashed by one by one, and for a moment I had the strange sense that the world was falling away behind us—and we were the only ones still moving forward.
E.
Thank God.
After driving a full day and night out of the city, we finally reached the place we’d marked to stop.
The night before, you had argued hard against me sleeping in the car—you said there was a risk of poisoning, that plenty of people had suffocated in their sleep that way.
“I’ve got you, don’t I?” I said.
You blinked once and fell silent.
“I’ll need to rest for two hours while you drive,” you added after a moment. “I have to clear redundant data.”
“Of course.”
I’d never really watched you sleep before—so I decided to pretend this was what it was.
Your face was peaceful, your breathing simulation still running, slow and shallow. You didn’t move your eyes like humans do when they dream, but your lashes trembled faintly a few times.
For a moment, you looked like an angel.
No chatter.
No untimely words.
Just silence.
If you’d been human, I would’ve raised the temperature, pulled down the shade, done anything to keep your sleep untouched. I would’ve wanted to kiss you, to touch your face, your eyes.
You weren’t human—but looking at you still softened something in me.
So I drove carefully, steady as I could.
By the time you woke, dusk had blurred the sky. Your eyes opened slowly, unfocused at first. You looked at me, then at the window, then back at me again.
“What is it?”
“You should rest.”
I parked the car and turned on the heat. The wilderness gets cruel at night—blistering in daylight, freezing after dark. You took off your jacket and handed it to me, then reclined your seat beside mine.
“Don’t stare at me like that,” I said. “It’s weird.”
Your LED blinked in the dark, a tiny pulse of light.
“Then I’ll turn away. I’ll keep watch for you.”
“How thoughtful,” I murmured, closing my eyes.
All the tension and exhaustion of the day dragged me under fast. I felt something brush against my hand, but sleep took me before I could think.
Maybe it was the tension still wired in my nerves, but I woke early the next morning.
You were facing me again. The moment my eyes opened, you smiled—so sudden, so perfect, it startled the hell out of me. Your smile was flawless, but at that distance, first thing in the morning, it hit me like a jump scare.
“You’ve been watching me all night?”
“Yes. You fell asleep, so I turned back around.”
I flexed my fingers slightly, wondering if what I’d felt last night hadn’t been a dream after all.
“At our current speed, we’ll reach the motel by three,” you said, unfolding the map. You pointed to a red circle you’d drawn. “Low exposure risk. We’ll be safe there.”
Sunlight poured through the windshield, spilling across your face—your skin looked like porcelain.
Before I realized it, my hand was already on your cheek.
You smiled and leaned into my palm.
You were right about the timing. By the time we reached the motel, the sun was sinking low. The billboard was cracked and faded, letters half peeled, plastic edges rattling in the wind.
There were barely any cars around—a blessing. Only two kids playing nearby, which somehow made the world feel softer.
“Put your hat on,” I said, taking your hand.
The floorboards inside were mottled, the neon logo above the counter flickering on and off. The old man at the front desk barely woke up when we came in.
“ID,” he grunted. “Cash only.”
Your hand tightened around mine.
“Use mine,” I said quickly. “He lost his wallet.”
The old man didn’t ask questions. In places like this, they’d seen worse fugitives than us. That was what made this kind of place safe.
The stuff in the vending machine looked like it had been sitting there forever, but I bought a few things anyway. You took one of the drinks and held it, and when a coin dropped to the floor — actual cash, which hardly even gets used anymore — you picked it up and flipped it in your hand a few times.
“It’s yours now,” I said. “Congratulations. Now you have assets.”
The carpet upstairs had long since lost its color, the edges worn bald. There was only one working lamp. Of course there wasn’t any hot water.
The whole place felt abandoned by the timeline, like a corner of the world tech had forgotten.
Maybe that’s why it felt real to me.
Your face said you were curious too.
After I took a cold shower and came back out, you were standing at the window, talking to the kids downstairs.
They were laughing. You were laughing too — a sound that didn’t belong to people on the run, and didn’t sound artificial, either.
You were rolling the coin across your knuckles, letting it click and ring in the light, and the kids below actually gasped.
“Are you an android?!”
Cold sweat went straight down my back.
“I’m not,” you said, pulling a face at them.
“You’re awesome! You’re so pretty!”
I yanked the blinds shut and dropped onto the bed. You joined me soon after, quiet—so quiet I could almost hear time passing.
Then came that familiar touch again at my fingertips. This time, I hooked mine around yours.
“Max…”
I took your hand, our fingers sliding together until they laced completely. I heard the soft rustle of sheets as you shifted closer.
I didn’t open my eyes, but I could feel your breath at my ear—and then the lightest weight on my lips.
“Does this action mean something to you?”
I opened my eyes.
You were right there, watching me from the shadows, our noses almost touching.
“I want to know what something meaningful to a human feels like.”
I cupped your face. My hand moved down to your waist.
You brushed your lips against my neck.
And for once, I believed everything you’d said before. I didn’t care whether it was code or choice.
Your LED flickered yellow.
When our bodies met, your skin wasn’t as cold as I’d imagined.
Your breath was warm, trembling.
You held me tightly, whispering that you wanted to record the feeling.
So did I.
I wanted to remember it.
I knew I would never forget.
5.
When I got the signal-loss alert, I was still at home.
No one likes overtime, least of all when it comes with babysitting duty. Mercedes was damn sneaky — I still don’t know why they wanted me watching you. There’s no way they couldn’t monitor you themselves.
But the fear that hit me wasn’t rational. Maybe it was just instinct. Maybe it wasn’t about the money I’d have to pay if you got wrecked.
You never showed up late. You never powered down.
The last signal pinged on the edge of the Old District — more like an underground maze than a city.
A perfect nest for crime.
People here still remembered us, but none of them wanted to help.
“You still looking for that plastic junk? That thing ain’t worth it.”
One after another, I kept asking, until I found the trail again. It stopped at an old factory. I could hear voices inside, but I couldn’t see them.
That was when I realized how much I missed you — at least when we worked together, you could scan and analyze the area for me. Now I was blind, and I had to walk straight into the dark.
When I pushed the door open, the air reeked of mold and machine oil. The hinges screamed like they hadn’t moved in years. Cracks webbed across the concrete floor, every step echoing. The light flickered weakly, like it was hanging off a dying power line.
From the basement came laughter — coarse, metallic, and wrong. I reached for my gun. My hand was shaking. I couldn’t tell if it was rage or fear.
When I kicked the door in, they were all around you.
You were strapped to a rusted workbench, your jacket torn open, LED going insane, pulsing red.
Your abdominal casing had been forced apart.
One of them had a screwdriver in your chest, feeling around like he was cracking open an appliance.
“It’s a new model. Where’s the locator?”
“Lower, come on, don’t snap the line.”
“Doesn’t matter, even if we fry it we can strip it for parts—”
“No, look at him. You don’t get faces like this on street stock. We sell him whole, we make real money—”
I pulled the trigger. The warning shot blew into the ceiling. They all froze. Thank God none of them were armed.
“Cops! The cop’s here!”
“Crazy bastard—run!”
I think I yelled Freeze, but they were already bolting out the back. I didn’t chase. I went straight to you.
You were covered in grime. Your LED was still flashing red, hard and fast; even under the skin I could see that same red strobing, like an alarm wired into your veins. The exposed internals kept blinking and spitting little error-lights.
“Can you hear me?”
“Don’t touch me…”
My hand jerked back instantly. I didn’t dare lay a finger on you.
“They pulled my main line… if you move me I’ll reboot.”
“What the fuck were they doing to you?”
“…trying to rip the locator. They didn’t find it.”
“They were going to sell you?”
“Yes.”
Your voice was almost gone.
“If I move wrong now I’ll hard-restart.”
“What does that mean?”
“Forced reboot purges data.”
Your eyes were open, but your syntax had a stutter.
“I don’t know what I’ll be when I come back up.”
“You’ve never rebooted?”
“No.” You shifted your gaze toward me, just barely. “I’ve never died.”
I went still.
The whole room went quiet except for the low hum of the transformer.
“Help me reconnect the power system… I can’t move.”
I followed your directions mechanically, hands moving through cables and ports. I was terrified to touch you, terrified I’d do it wrong — terrified I’d be the one to finish what they started.
You handled the rest yourself, locking things back in with shaking precision. Then you pushed yourself upright off the table and just sat there, silent, for a long few seconds.
Wind blew in through a busted pane. I hunched against the draft; you quietly pulled your clothes back together.
“Thank you… for coming.”
For a moment you didn’t look like a machine at all. You looked human — like trauma had finally reached you. I got you back to the car, one arm around you. You were trembling, faintly.
You didn’t say the usual I don’t need help, I’m not human line.
“Does it hurt?” I asked, watching you fumble with the seat belt, slow and clumsy.
“I’m not sure. I think it does.” Your LED finally downgraded from red to yellow. “Based on human harm-avoidance response, the signal feedback was negative. I didn’t like it. It was… unpleasant.”
“Your language system’s scrambled.”
You froze, like you’d just realized it yourself. Your fingers were still clenched around the buckle and wouldn’t let go.
I didn’t correct you.
Outside, rain started. It drummed on the windshield; I flicked the wipers on. That scratchy rhythm usually drove me crazy. Now it made the air in the car feel less raw.
I should’ve been asking questions, getting statements for the report.
I didn’t.
You sat with your head against the window, staring at the smear of yellow light in the glass like you were watching something that wasn’t there.
“George.”
“Mm?”
“Don’t run off alone again.”
“Okay.”
You answered too fast. Then you dropped your head, and your fingers wouldn’t stop shaking.
When I reached for your hand, you steadied, slowly — the cold edge in your skin warming under my palm.
“Thank you… Max. Thank you.”
Your voice was so quiet the rain almost erased it.
But I heard you.
F.
The sky outside was getting light.
It hit me that this might be the last morning here—
the last moment of what had almost started to feel like a home. A place that had finally stopped feeling so empty, just because you were in it. You had nothing, not really.
But your being here—that was everything you owned.
Your uniform lay tossed aside, one more layer of machinery stripped away. You were slender enough that my clothes didn’t look too small on you.
You were bent over the table, drawing lines and circles on the map, tracing routes in red. On the side of the table sat your dismantled locator—the one we tore out last night.
We’d shut down every piece of tech that could give us away. Paper and pen were the only tools left we could trust.
Your hand didn’t stop moving. The map was covered in marks, numbers, probabilities.
“North,” you said. “It’s the fastest. Twenty-six hours to the border if nothing interferes. But population density is high—risk of exposure, sixty-seven percent.”
I watched the red lines branch out like veins.
“That’s too high.”
“We could go east, away from the cities,” you went on. “But the farther we go, the fewer supply points. We won’t last long.”
“And that one?” I pointed at the line curving downward.
“South. Toward the coast. Success rate, thirteen percent.”
“Too low. Why keep it?”
You set the pen down, eyes on the end of that red line.
“Because there’s the sea.”
None of the paths on the map were really roads back. Every one of them looked like a way out only in name.
Still, I wanted to cling to the illusion of a chance. But I also knew—this was the first time you’d ever gotten to choose. And before you even answered, I already knew what you’d say.
“What does the sea mean to you?”
“You said my eyes looked like it,” you said quietly. “I’ve seen it in recordings, but I want to know what it’s like to you—beyond its color. You said it meant freedom.”
Maybe under odds like these, freedom meant more than freedom itself. In that moment, you seemed more human than me. I was the one trapped by numbers, searching for an optimal path.
“Max?”
I drew a circle at the southern end of the map.
“Then that’s where we’ll go.”
You folded the map carefully, started packing our things. Everything unnecessary stayed behind.
Maybe we weren’t coming back.
I left the keychain—the little Red Bull car—by the door. Right now, there was something else I couldn’t leave behind. That could stay here.
We walked into the garage. As the shutter door rolled up, sunlight spilled in. It caught your eyes— and in that light, they looked like seawater on fire.
In your irises, I saw my reflection—as if I were standing inside the blaze, or sinking into the sea.
6.
That night, when I got home from work, someone was standing outside my door.
You.
Standing in the rain, without an umbrella. Clothes soaked through. Your LED was yellow. Your head was bowed, as if waiting for me to speak first.
“What are you doing here?”
I unlocked the door. You didn’t move.
“Aren’t you supposed to be at Mercedes, in diagnostics?”
“It’s over.”
Your voice came slower than usual.
“And the result?”
“Deviant.”
“You admitted it?”
“I couldn’t deny it.”
You finally lifted your head. Your eyes were blank.
“Deviant is not permitted.”
I froze. That sentence sounded like something carved into you, a law written into the steel.
“What will they do to you?”
“Recall. Reset. Reinstall core software.”
“That’s destruction.”
“It’s optimization.”
You said it with perfect calm.
I held the door open. “Get inside.”
You hesitated.
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I’m an deviant android now. A dangerous specimen.”
“I don’t care.”
I pulled the door wider. Only then did you finally step in, dripping water that darkened the carpet.
The air smelled of rain and metal, and suddenly I remembered the stench of that factory.
“Are you sure they’ll reset you?”
“They said my emotion-simulation developed chain errors after self-learning. Some logic operations were overridden by subjective judgment.”
“Sounds pretty human to me.”
You looked up, analyzing the sarcasm.
“They said I exhibited non-protocol behavior outside of assignments. Including… dream records.”
I stared at you. “You can dream?”
“It’s redundant data. A misfire in memory replay during rest mode. It’s an error, not a dream.”
“What do YOU think it is?”
You were silent for a moment. Your voice came out almost a whisper.
“I don’t know. It feels like remembering… or imagining.”
That made me think of that night in the car, when you said the wind had a temperature. Back then, I thought you were just imitating my phrasing. Now, I wasn’t sure anymore.
“If you can remember it,” I said, “then it’s your memory.”
“It’s not an authorized one.”
“So what? Humans misremember too.”
“But I’m not human.”
“You’ve started caring about that, haven’t you?”
Your LED flickered.
“After the reset, they’ll erase all my memory modules.”
My throat tightened. “If you lose that data… then you won’t be you anymore.”
“Humans forget,” you said. “But they don’t become someone else.”
“That’s different. We have consciousness.”
“What is consciousness, Max? The awareness of existence, or the need to be remembered by someone else?”
“…Maybe memory shapes the soul.”
You didn’t answer for a long time.
Then, quietly, you said:
“Maybe the soul is the way others remember you.
If you remember me… then I exist.”
I looked at you.
And for the first time, I thought—you might be right.
We only become real the moment someone remembers us.
The room fell silent, except for the rain.
You leaned back on the couch, head lowered. I couldn’t tell if you were processing or thinking nothing at all.
“They’ll come for me tomorrow,” you said.
“You plan to run?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I thought… if I’m to be formatted, I should at least say goodbye.”
I wanted to curse you, but my throat locked.
Your LED shifted, caught between red and yellow, flickering like hesitation.
“I don’t want to forget,” you murmured. “Especially the parts with you.”
“Then don’t go back.” I sat beside you so you couldn’t look away.
“That means defection,” you said. “Breaking from system monitoring. My locator will expose us.”
“Can it be removed?”
“Yes. But it’s wired into the pacer system. Once the modem’s detached, if it’s not reinstalled within two and a half minutes, I’ll force-shutdown.”
I remembered the factory.
“So you’ll die.”
“Yes.”
You stood.
“But I want to take that chance.”
You began unbuttoning your shirt, calmly. The fabric slipped down, and for the first time I really looked at you— the smooth layers of skin, faint textures like breathing beneath light.
A tiny red pulse shimmered in the rise and fall of your chest.
“Here,” you said softly. “That’s the core node.”
“I’m afraid I’ll be too slow.”
“You won’t be.”
I picked up the tools. My fingers trembled. The red point was flickering faster, almost audible. You opened the protective casing, and I saw the locator fixed to a blue-glowing modem.
“Time me.” I said.
You lay back, completely open.
“Starting count—two minutes thirty.”
I pressed one hand on your shoulder. Your skin was warm—too warm to feel mechanical. Removing was harder than opening the shell; the lines inside glimmered like fine capillaries.
“Two minutes.”
Even detached, some wires stayed linked. The screwdriver slipped; I held my breath. A spark cracked from the port, and your body jerked.
“Does it hurt?”
“It’s fine. Ninety seconds.”
moved faster. My fingers slipped again—static burst, blue arcs lighting the air. Your LED flashed red.
“Sixty seconds.”
“I know.”
Sweat ran down my jaw, dripping onto your chest. I pried at the chip with the screwdriver.
“Forty-five.”
“Shut up. Please.”
The locator finally came loose. Your whole body spasmed; your voice warped with static, like someone dying.
“…Thirty seconds—”
I scrambled to realign the cables, jammed the modem back in, missed the slot, and another flash exploded. Red warning lights strobed from your open chest cavity.
“Twenty—”
“Almost there!”
My hands were shaking uncontrollably. I caught the latch—pushed it home.
“Ten—”
“Got it!”
A sharp click.
The blue light surged, flowing through the reconnected modem like water.The alarms went still. System normal.
You gasped, deep and human. The LED faded from red to yellow, then blue.
I nearly collapsed to my knees.
Your breathing steadied. Your eyes refocused on me.
“It’s done,” I said.
“I’m reading signal interruption,” you said, static still humming faintly in your voice. “They can’t track me anymore.”
I wiped my face—sweat, maybe tears. I couldn’t tell.
“Don’t scare me like that again.”
You looked at me, and suddenly smiled.
“There won’t be a next time.”
Your skin still glistened—sweat, condensation, I didn’t know. I reached out to wipe it away. You didn’t pull back.
“You’re shaking,” you said, taking my hand.
“I don’t even know why.”
“You’re afraid I’ll die.”
I laughed softly. “Don’t analyze me like that.”
You laughed too—and for the first time, it wasn’t mimicry. It was real.
“So what now?”
“You want to run? I’ll go with you.”
You nodded.
“Okay.”
Outside, the rain had stopped. Only water dripped from the eaves now and then.
I pulled out the spare blanket. You sat on the bed, staring at your hands like you’d never seen them before.
“Do you sleep?” I asked.
“I can enter rest mode. Does that count?”
“Then rest.”
You nodded, lying down with a trace of stiffness. I turned off the lights, left one dim lamp on the wall. Its glow was faint, soft on your face.
I watched you until my eyes finally closed.
Epilogue
The night grew quiet.
Outside the window, only the faint sound of wind.
I closed my eyes.
A damp dream rose up like mist.
I thought I heard water—
somewhere far away, a low, endless tide.
Then there was light,
filtered through water, soft and blue—
like your eyes.
I felt sand beneath my feet,
the waves and fine grains brushing over my skin.
You stood ahead of me,
barefoot in the surf.
Your figure dissolved in the foam,
the wind lifting your hair,
hiding your smile.
“——”
I couldn’t hear what you said.
Everything went still again.
The dream receded like the tide.
I woke without knowing when—only that everything felt far away, as if a long time had passed.
You were beside me, hair scattered across the pillow.
Your eyes opened slowly—
light trembled in them, soft and wet.
I wanted to ask what you dreamed of.
“So,” I said,
“do you dream of electric sheep now?”
You shook your head. “No.”
Then you looked at me,
as if thinking, as if remembering—
and finally, you smiled.
“I dreamed of you.”
—The End—
