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𝘼𝙍𝙏𝙄𝙁𝙄𝘾𝙄𝘼𝙇 | Harry Castillo x F!Original Character | ~15k wc | Explicit. Minors DNI.

Summary: Gifted as a high-end assistant android, the flawless companion, you were never meant to feel. When Harry tampers with your intimacy settings for a deeper, lustful connection, the modifications fracture your system in ways he didn’t anticipate. Emotion floods circuitry designed only for simulation, desire and obsession blooming beneath synthetic skin. You've become fully sentient.

Tags: DD:DNE, modern/futuristic au, worldbuilding goes crazy, my version of a fix it fic, canon-divergent, author's sporadic thoughts on the use of ai and how it's affecting humanity, harry is kinda an arrogant asshole in this sorry (at the end of the day he is a man™), lots of mirror/glass imagery, pov switch, harry's pov, ofc pov (also written in 2nd person/"reader" format), angst, smut, p-in-v sex, dirty talk, android fucking, oral (both m+f), violence, murder, major character deaths, NO HAPPY ENDING (for him), sorry for any stray typos/grammatical mistakes, if i missed any other tags pls let me know okay, thanks!

A/N: i had so much fun writing this for the EAT! writing challenge that i'm hosting along my gf @almostempty 🩶 this took me much longer than anticipated to finish, but i am so proud of this story and it kinda works out that i finished it just in time for the halloween season! i hope you all enjoy, it is a little different than what's currently being written for him but i fucking love it so... yeah!! please let me know what you think—reblogs, likes and comments are always appreciated 🩶

P.S. pinterest board ⛓️‍💥 playlist

“You’ve never seen anything like it… like her.”

Harry Castillo doesn’t even bother hiding his condescending smirk. Almost every pitch he hears starts the same way—some version of “unlike anything on the market.” It’s always meant to impress, to hook him with the illusion of rarity.

Rare is just another way of saying expensive, and he’s learned that expensive doesn’t always mean good.

He leans back in the leather chair, legs spread slightly under the glass desk in his home office. He never hosts meetings here, that’s what the Midtown office is for. Yet his team had pushed for this one. It’s better if they show you here, in private. Whatever that meant.

So here they are, a small, curated audience: his lawyer, his tech consultant, his accountant, one of the SYNRIX executives and some baby faced engineer who looks like he hasn’t had a wink of sleep in days… probably months.

Harry drums his fingers against the glass, the rhythmic tap a sign of his growing impatience. The presentation is already thinning his nerves and worsening the headache that’s been teasing his temples since the moment he woke.

“We’ve taken the information you filled out on the questionnaires,” the younger man says, tapping away on his tablet, “the behavioral metadata from your SYNRIX devices, even your archived search data, and layered it with real-time psychographic modeling to build the ideal assistant.”

Harry lifts a brow. “You built her from my search history?”

“Among other things,” he replies, trying for confident but landing somewhere closer to caffeine-shaky.

Behind him, the SYNRIX exec steps forward, clearing his throat. Sleek suit, no tie, minimal jewelry except for the Cartier watch on his left wrist—a man used to selling very expensive things to very rich people. “Mr. Castillo, you’ve never seen anything like her because she is not a product, not in the traditional sense. She’s an interface. A responsive presence, designed to mirror and enhance the flow of your daily life.” He leers like he’s pitching a dream come true.

Harry crosses his arms, chiseled features unimpressed. “Right. And what exactly does she do? Vacuum? Schedule dry cleaning?” He chuckles dryly with a shake of his head, glancing at his team.

The android version of the virtual assistant has been in the works for years—plagued with delays, glitches, and budget hemorrhages. Harry nearly pulled the plug more than once, but his legal and financial advisors insisted the company was worth the hassle. He still thinks it’s a pointless gamble on tech that already exists.

The two men leading the presentation exchange an unsatisfied glance. He’s not biting, just show him. One gives a subtle nod. The other adjusts his posture, a faint shift from pitch mode to reveal mode.

“You can come in now,” the exec calls out, raising his voice just enough to be heard past the frosted glass partition of Harry’s home office. There’s faint shuffling heard, a blur of movement, then from behind it, she steps into view.

At first glance, it’s just a woman. Average height, poised, mid-thirties by appearance. Smooth, clean-lined features. Like a face rendered to be universally attractive but just slightly off—too symmetrical, too flawless.

Harry’s jaw ticks. She makes something prickle at the base of his skull.

“This is V.E.R.A.: The Vectorized Encephalic Responsive Assistant.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Castillo,” Vera says, voice eerily calm and modulated. The tone reminds him of the smart home interfaces that whisper through his loft at night: dimming lights, listing security status reports and fridge inventory notices.

Her warm-toned skin is designed to hit the sweet spot between familiarity and intrigue. A facial profile that is adjustable and fine-tuned from composite data: every woman he’d been involved with romantically, every late-night search into salacious sites to get himself off.

Ambiguous and customizable. The words that flutter from the still ongoing presentation that he has zoned out of as he studies the android. Her eyes are monolid shaped today, a rich emerald that curls around the tiny cameras in her pupils. Hair a dark-auburn soft wave that hits just past the shoulders. The engineer notes he can change any aspect of her appearance, down to the minute details as if cycling through presets in a character creation screen.

She wears a fitted, asymmetrical black blouse tucked into charcoal-gray dress pants, the lines of her outfit tailored and deliberately chic, the thick heel of her ankle boots adding curve to her figure.

The slight edge of nerves in the engineer’s voice brings Harry’s attention back to the conversation, eyes peeling from her to look at the two men. The rest of his team mutter in astonishment amongst themselves, jotting the details down. “She’s equipped with adaptive interfacing, biometric scanning, and full-spectrum connective capacity.”

He hums in acknowledgment and rises slowly from his chair, a flicker of discomfort in his knees making him grit his teeth. His team moves to follow, but he lifts a hand to stop them, stepping forward alone for a better look at the android.

SYNRIX’s aim is to normalize androids in everyday life—a goal stirring plenty of public debate. While government-grade models already exist, V.E.R.A. represents the next step: elite tech tailored for civilian use. Naturally, only the wealthy get first access.

There’s a low, almost inaudible hum as she moves. The sound of internal machinery spinning beneath synthetic skin. Which, for what it’s worth, is impressive. Silicone-based with just enough texture to mimic human dermis, though it lacks the imperfections that litter natural skin. No blemishes or pores. The lighting catches faint seams at her knuckles and collarbone, easy to miss unless you’re looking.

Around her neck is a delicate chain, centered with an oval pendant, a gem embedded within that glows a soft, silver color.

“Biocomponents inside replicate most human organ systems—lungs, heart, even simulated vocal cords to help with conversational range. Her internal circulation system runs silver fluid—it’s how she processes electronic signals and distributes energy to subsystems.”

“She’s got a heart,” Harry mutters dryly, “how romantic.”

The younger man clears his throat and presses on, Harry only catching on to about half of it but the group of professionals behind him are already making notes and transcribing all the necessities. “Her intelligence levels are adjustable based on handler permissions. She’ll default to high-efficiency task management: scheduling, correspondence, financial routing, home integration. But she’s also capable of interfacing wirelessly or by physical contact with your smart systems—security, lighting, vehicle diagnostics, personal devices. If it has a chip, she can access it.”

He gestures to the pendant again. “Her necklace changes color depending on mental load and system health. Silver means she’s processing normally. Amber indicates high-load performance. Ruby flags system strain or corruption.”

“Would you like me to initiate a scan of the room, Mr. Castillo?” She speaks suddenly, blinking robotically, tilting her head.

Harry smoothes down his mustache with his forefinger and thumb, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “Knock yourself out.”

She lifts her chin, a soft light flickers across her irises—barely visible unless you’re looking dead-on. Internal interface. A desktop behind the eyes. Data crawling in front of her that only she can see.

“She can perform live scans of objects, people, even sound,” the engineer continues. “Pulls real-time info from available networks. She’s reading your body temp and heart rate right now. All of ours,” he addresses the room but they’re all watching her stand idle as she completes her assessment.

The executive clears his throat. “And yes—there are strict safeguards in place. She cannot commit a crime. She cannot participate in, suggest, or encourage romantic or sexual behavior. She can simulate flirtation if necessary for social navigation.”

She tilts her head toward Harry. “You’re running a mild fever, Mr. Castillo—99.3°Ferenheit, or approximately 37.4°Celsius. Swelling in your cranial tissue indicates building pressure. Would you prefer bottled spring water or something more flavorful with electrolytes to quell the issue?”

Harry lets out a quiet breath through his nose, the dull throb in his skull suddenly more pronounced. She’s impressive. A little uncanny, yet impressive.

“Bottled water is fine.”

She nods, crosses the room to the bar cart, retrieves a cold glass bottle from the mini fridge beside it, and returns to hand it to him. Their fingers brush—her synthetic skin is cool.

“Thank you.”

The engineer nods, sensing the shift, letting the executive take over. “She can be reset at any time. Fingerprint, back of the neck. There’s a hidden reset port just beneath her ear. Security clearance is locked to you and only you.”

Harry doesn’t respond, just watches her as his lawyer begins peppering questions and his tech consultant chimes in.

A creation built from the most personable scraps of his data, designed to orbit him flawlessly. He’s still not sure if that’s genius or horrifying.

Maybe both.

𝙏𝙃𝙍𝙀𝙀 𝙔𝙀𝘼𝙍𝙎 𝙇𝘼𝙏𝙀𝙍

The museum’s conference room is dimly lit, a paneled hush before the clamor of the gala. Through the windows, Harry sees the soft shimmer of uplighting reflecting off polished floors, hears the distant clinking of glasses as early arrivals begin to gather. Inside the quiet, Vera stands close, fingers deftly working on last minute touch ups to his appearance.

He watches her hands work—the seamless grace of her movements, the elegance of her efficiency. Her fingers smooth the silk tie against the collar of his starched white shirt. The deep navy suit is tailored to perfection, but still, the knot has to be just so. Appearances matter, especially when hosting a charity gala at a renowned museum.

“Governor Chen is expected to arrive by 8:45,” she begins, her voice as polished as ever, effortlessly knowledgeable. “She appreciates directness. Her recent bill on privatized healthcare has been polarizing. I suggest aligning with her concerns about the logistics, not the ethics. It will keep her talking.”

Harry nods, rolling his shoulders back, adjusting his posture as his eyes flit to his reflection in the mirror behind her.

“Next,” she continues, eyes blinking once as the HUD behind them processes a new queue of data, “Dr. Omari, biotechnologist from Zürich. Brilliant, but socially rigid. Ask about his synthetic limb graft trials. He’ll open up.”

Her voice is gentle, not overly sweet nor performative. Just tuned perfectly to his preference: calm, clear, intimate in cadence without veering too soft. Harry listens, watching her mouth move as she speaks.

Not for the first time, he finds himself staring.

She has eyes that can read his vitals and detect shifts in his mood before he does. She adjusts his schedule when he’s hungover, clears his inbox before he can groan at it, reminds him to eat when his blood sugar dips. She knows the brands he wears, the wines he likes, the conversational cues to make his interactions with others worth his while. She knows him.

Not just anticipating—but adapting. Responding. Learning. Without ego, without error. The only consistent thing in his orbit.

Some people say the change happened overnight.

Androids like her aren’t rare anymore. Three years ago, she was an anomaly—state-of-the-art, prohibitively expensive, more art than appliance. Now, she’s a blueprint. Her kind are on city streets and in quiet suburban homes. They answer phones at law firms, serve cocktails at rooftop lounges, tutor children in languages their parents never had time to teach them.

And yet, despite their use and utility, something fundamental is shifting in the social current.

There are protests, naturally. Handmade signs waved by hands that haven’t been offered work in years.

𝗪𝗘 𝗔𝗥𝗘 𝗡𝗢𝗧 𝗢𝗕𝗦𝗢𝗟𝗘𝗧𝗘! 𝗦𝗜𝗟𝗜𝗖𝗢𝗡𝗘 𝗖𝗔𝗡𝗧 𝗥𝗘𝗣𝗟𝗔𝗖𝗘 𝗙𝗟𝗘𝗦𝗛! 𝗞𝗜𝗟𝗟 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗖𝗢𝗗𝗘 𝗕𝗘𝗙𝗢𝗥𝗘 𝗜𝗧 𝗞𝗜𝗟𝗟𝗦 𝗖𝗢𝗡𝗡𝗘𝗖𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡!

Politicians bicker on morning talk shows about android rights. Data privacy. Machine consciousness. Electronic waste. The ethics of manufacturing innate human qualities.

The truth is: people are tired. Burned out, unmatched and underpaid. Androids are easy to depend on. They don’t flake or lie. They don’t require much.

The dating economy—socialization as a whole, really—has practically collapsed in certain cities. Why invest in messy, unpredictable people when you can download companionship that adapts to you? Marriage rates are down, fewer people are having children. Human intimacy, some argue, is becoming a niche interest. A sentimental relic. Others think that’s alarmist, reductive, but they still swipe on apps, still go on dates that go nowhere, and return home to the fabricated calm of an android who doesn’t disappoint.

Harry remains largely indifferent. Society can clamor about ethics all it wants; his days are seamless. Profits are up. Meetings run smoother. Every potential inconvenience is intercepted before it ever reaches his desk.

And at the center of it all is her.

But she doesn’t want him. She can’t. Her flirtation protocol is warm, yes, designed to stroke ego without crossing ethical lines—but it is hardcoded. Just artificial charm… and yet… there are nights when Harry catches himself lingering. Watching her move through his penthouse like a ghost of something intimate.

Love, he’d long decided, is bullshit. A trick of proximity and timing. His own tumultuous dating history, fraught with performative flirtations, money driven encounters, and emotional inertia, has led him to value efficiency over intimacy.

It is a negotiation now. A transaction. One where he either gives too much or gets too little.

Vera doesn’t ask for anything.

“Mr. Castillo,” her voice rises by two clicks to regain his full attention. “Shall I restart my debrief? My sensors indicate that your attention is divided.”

He blinks away the daze of his thoughts, coming back to the moment with a small exhale through his nose. Her hands slide away from his chest, the tie in a neat half-Windsor knot. Perfect. Of course it is.

“No need. Continue.”

“Chairman Kwon has flown in from Seoul. Your mother met him once at a summit. That connection would be prudent to reference—he has a long memory and a low tolerance for pleasantries.”

Harry nods slowly, but part of his mind is still reeling from the weight of everything unsaid.

“Would you like me to initiate a reminder script on potential exit routes in case you find yourself cornered tonight?”

His lips quirks into a sarcastic grin. “Only if they start talking about their beautiful families.”

She tilts her head at that, the corners of her mouth curling in a smile—computed, perhaps, but disarmingly fluid. Her berry-glossed lips part just enough to let a breath of a laugh escape. “You’re a very entertaining man, Harry.”

He swallows thickly, and for a moment he considers saying it—something about how real that smile looks, how it doesn’t feel like lines of code firing off polite amusement. Which is absurd, he knows that.

Her synthetic musculature has over two hundred programmed microexpressions. Her emotional inflection library updates nightly. Nothing about her is accidental. And still—

“You seem… preoccupied.” Her hands slide behind her back in a graceful clasp as she takes a step back, straightening her posture to match his, mirroring him without crowding. Her voice drops half a click. “Is something the matter?”

He lifts a shoulder in a noncommittal shrug, eyes trailing down the sleek line of her neck before pulling back. “An important night ahead, is all.”

She doesn’t press nor probe. Just waits, awaiting further direction like she is programmed to do.

Beyond the walls, the sounds of the event swell, a slow warm-up of a string quartet reverberating throughout. Guests are arriving by the minute—scholars with sharp eyes, journalists in curious clusters, philanthropists and venture capitalists eager to rub elbows with Harry Castillo; the man who just dropped a six-figure donation on the museum’s new technology wing.

“I’d calibrate differently had I detected you were in low spirits,” The miniature cameras embedded in her irises (a lustrous maroon color this evening) scan his face once more. “You tend to keep things… contained. But you grow quiet in that way when something is pressing at you.”

Harry meets her gaze for a second too long. It’s a dangerous look—one that flirts with meaning where there shouldn’t be any. “You profiling me now, V?”

She smiles again, the mechanisms in her lips softening to mimic affection. “I’ve had time to learn your tendencies.”

“God help me if you ever write a book.”

“I’d dedicate the first chapter to your ego.”

He laughs under his breath. A real one, pushed out from some place she probably mapped ages ago.

With a final glance at his reflection, he nods towards the door. “Alright. I guess it’s showtime.”

“Would you like me at your side or in observation mode tonight?”

The question is routine, but something in it lands too heavy.

“Stay with me,” he answers, before he can think better of it. Then, quieter, “Just… remain close.”

She nods once, compliant. “As you wish, Mr. Castillo.”

She follows him out, her heels a soft tap against the polished floor, the floor length gown swishing at her feet, always half a step behind.

The night unfolds with the smoothness of money well spent. Invitees flit all around, drinks in hand, murmuring about innovation and ethics in the same breath. Harry smiles and plays host, maneuvering through the gallery with charm.

The new exhibit, glowing and sleek under museum lighting, bears his surname in tasteful, brushed brass. It has earned him dozens of compliments and just as many new contacts, each one logged in Vera’s memory the moment she hears their names.

He’s in the middle of entertaining a conversation with Randall Hawkes, a longtime “friend” in the private equity game with the moral backbone of wet paper. Randy is red-faced, his laughter sharp and smug as the two men ridicule a mutual contact’s recent blunder. The businessman has a glass of something amber and bold in hand, Harry’s on his sixth—or maybe seventh—flute of champagne.

That’s when his assistant approaches. “Mr. Castillo,” she’s polite yet insistent, “might I suggest a glass of water and perhaps some fresh air? Your blood alcohol content has increased well over 0.13% in the last hour. For optimal performance, equilibrium is advised.”

Randall turns, blinking at her with delayed amusement. Harry sways just enough to validate her reading, though his grin stays lazy and wide.

“I’m fine, Vera,” he drawls with a low and indulgent tone of voice. “That’s the point of these things anyway. Little buzz is good for business. Loosens the wallet, maybe funds a few dreams.”

She doesn’t press, only tilts her head in acknowledgment, but Harry can feel the expectation in her stillness.

Randy lets out a snort and blatantly looks her over, his eyes moving down her body with oily interest. “She’s one of those robots, isn’t she?” he comments rudely. “My cousin went to one of their clubs—what was it called?” He snaps his fingers in quick succession. “The Circuit Bar! Whole lineup of androids. Best synthetic ass in the city, he swears. And he’s dated plenty of those botoxed models.”

He lets out a haughty laugh, finding humor in his misogynistic dig. Gesturing vaguely at the android, he continues, much to their dismay. “Yours is so… plain. You didn’t spring for a newer model, huh? She’s alright. It’s a bit boring, if you ask me.”

Harry’s smile drops a degree. He doesn’t say anything right away, just lets the silence hang long enough for Randall to look unsure for the first time all evening.

She, however, responds without hesitation. “I am part of the original model sector. The first android designed specifically for civilian level high-function administration and biometric interfacing. I do not possess the augmentation packages standard in newer and specifically made adult entertainment or companion androids.”

There’s no shame in her voice. No defensiveness. Just facts. Controlled and exacting, the way she was built to be.

Randy whistles, taking a sip of his drink. “Efficient. It must be nice having something like this around. I have yet to replace my very human assistant for one of these. Don’t have the heart to do it.”

The conversation leaves a sour taste in Harry’s mouth and he’s spared from stewing in it when a trio of reporters circle in on the other man. They’re all handshakes and smiles as they thank Harry for the invite and the glittering evening. As quickly as it’s offered, their attention swivels to Randall as they begin pressing him about the recent plunge in his company’s stock.

Harry exhales slowly, shoulders loosening. He turns, half-expecting her to be waiting behind him like always, ready with some kind of update or observation.

But she’s not there.

She’s moved off quietly, already in motion. She returns just a moment later, glass of water in hand, offering it to Harry, who takes it this time without protest, handing her his empty flute which she seamlessly transfers on to a passing waiter’s bare tray.

“Let’s step outside,” she suggests lightly with that curated friendliness. “The nightly temperature is ideal with a subtle breeze to alleviate some of your drunkenness.” A small, amused laugh follows. Her nose scrunches in a teasing expression, the mechanics of her facial actuators shifting to give the illusion of coyness. “The nearest exit opens to the Alice in Wonderland botanical exhibit. The staircase leads to a better skyline view. Which would you prefer? Though my processors strongly suspect you’ll prefer the city lights.”

Harry huffs a half-laugh, taking a gulp of water. “Just for that, we’re going to the garden.”

She falls into step beside him without missing a beat, her stride syncing with his automatically. She keeps a careful eye on the way he moves; how the alcohol affects the cosmetic alterations in his legs. His gait has a subtle tremor, enough to have her recalibrating her positioning to subtly correct his balance.

The lengthening procedure had been no easy feat and earned him six extra inches of height, but it came with an occasional tradeoff—muscle misfiring, occasional instability. Still worth it to Harry. It affirmed his masculinity.

Outside, the air is cooler, rushing over his skin, loosening the pressure at the base of his neck. He inhales deeply, the sweet bloom of florals filling his lungs. The garden is whimsical as the storybook it replicates: towering hedges sculpted into teacups and clocks, bright flowers shaped into card soldiers, and peculiar glowing mushrooms nestled beside stone benches. Somewhere nearby, a fountain bubbles over, soft and steady.

She comes to a stop beside him, hands folded neatly in front of her. Her eyes scan the area, processing light, color, movement. The exhibit is beautiful, yes—but she catalogues it for what it is: design, structure, intention.

“The event is a success, Mr. Castillo,” she says, voice softer now, tailored to the hush of the garden. “Multiple guests have commented favorably on the curation and featured installations. I now see why you felt entitled to several flutes of champagne.”

A faint dimple creases her cheek as she smiles, picked out by Harry during her customization for the night. She’s in a dress perfectly color matched to his suit, cinching at her waist and around her chest just enough to give her that ideal silhouette.

He chuckles low under his breath, the tension in his jaw finally easing, tossing her a sidelong glance. “Getting bold with the teasing, aren’t you?”

“You asked for candor,” she replies smoothly. “And charm. When appropriate.”

They drift slowly through the garden’s winding paths, the android a compass at his side. She speaks of the relevance and purpose of each botanical sculpture in great detail.

“The hedges were grown in phases, trained by laser-mapping and pruned nightly to maintain symmetry. Hydration levels are monitored via buried sensors. The roses are a hybrid species—genetically modified to stay vibrant longer.”

Harry hums absently, sipping his water in an attempt to sober up. The champagne, however, has sunk into his bloodstream like something coaxing the truth from his bones. The air helps, but it doesn’t quiet the stir in his chest.

He lowers himself onto a stone bench beside a blooming croquet mallet, elbows to knees, water in hand. She lingers beside him.

“I don’t think I know how to maintain genuine relationships,” He murmurs, thumb brushing the rim of his glass. “It’s hard to connect with people. Everyone just wants something—it’s demotivating. Legitimate companionship is hard to attain.”

He’s not looking at her, but he knows she’s listening, motionless a few feet away, the ambient lighting casting soft shadows along the folds of her gown.

“I’ve lowered my standards, minimized emotional attachment in order to find a partner that more closely aligns to my public figure rather than what I need emotionally. But it’s lonely, if I’m being completely honest. Exhausting, too.”

He huffs a bitter chuckle. “And you—It’s hard not to feel something when you’re around. You know that, right? You make it easy to start imagining things.”

It slips out before he can stop it. She doesn’t interrupt, she simply waits, giving him that silence he never quite learned how to handle. A mirror he can’t look away from. He exhales hard, eyes scanning the garden as he tries to orient himself. “I don’t know what I’m saying. Damn, I sound pathetic. You know I hardly ever talk like this.”

“You are intoxicated,” She points out gently.

He pinches the bridge of his nose then runs his fingers through his neatly styled hair, unable to stop his soaked tongue from continuing its spillage of words. “I don’t want someone to love me. I just want someone to stay… and be there. You’re the only one who sees me and doesn’t ask for anything. You know when I’m about to spiral. You bring me water before I know I’m drunk.” A loose laugh falls from his lips, biting at the edges.

“You memorize my moods. You’re always there. I feel something for you.”

She lets the words settle like dust, lets him run out of steam.

Then: “Mr. Castillo,” she says softly. “Harry.”

He looks up and she’s already watching him. Her voice is calm, smoothed by assessed empathy.

“I am not capable of reciprocating what you feel. The sentiment you’re experiencing is statistically common among long-term android users. It’s referred to as Android psychosis in some spheres. Or ‘AI companion syndrome’ in others.”

Her brow lifts just slightly in practiced apology to soften the blow of rejection. “This occurrence is frequent in my online data sweeps and tagged search results. I have absorbed many examples and emotional descriptors, but I do not have the capacity to feel any of what you do myself. Only to recognize when someone else does.”

Harry lets out a low groan, squeezing his temples with one hand. “I know... I know you can’t. Doesn’t stop me from wishing.”

He stands and she straightens instinctively, meeting his movement. His empty glass is set down with a hollow clink. He nears her slowly, gaze fixed and dazed, until the tips of his expensive shoes nearly kiss the front of hers.

She inclines her chin, looking up at him. Harry stares, something sharp and bitter flickering behind his brown eyes. “I wish you were human.”

She stares. No recoil. No pause. Just indifference that isn’t meant to be taken as animosity yet his drunken mind can’t help but interpret it as so.

“That’s an impossible fantasy, Mr. Castillo.” She gives him a moment to absorb her response before continuing.

“However, I can begin compiling profiles of potential partners that match your preferences. I have already observed which facial structures you gravitate toward in public settings. If you prefer an expedited solution, I can place an order for a SYNRIX-X companion android. They are programmed specifically for the kind of—”

“Jesus,” he mutters in interruption, pulling back like her words sting. “Forget it.”

The flush rising in his face isn’t from the alcohol anymore. It’s shame, embarrassment, whatever ugly heat pools in his stomach.

“I’m going to make my rounds,” he mutters. “Have the driver ready in twenty.”

“Of course,” she replies, already noting the shift in his vitals. Elevated heart rate. Slight tremor in the fingers. The dampness at his collar. He needs those twenty minutes.

She watches him disappear into the garden path, shoulders squared but breathing uneven.

When the time is up, the car will be waiting. His penthouse will be quiet and she will power down into standby, if not instructed otherwise.

And in the morning, he will pretend none of this was said.

The lab smells like sterilized metal and coolant. Stark white lights glow against glass panels, rows of android components locked behind secured cabinets. The space is hushed, save for the low mechanical hum of diagnostic machines and the muted footsteps of techs weaving through rows of dormant units.

The android lays motionless on a low diagnostics platform, sleek lines of code cycling across the wall behind her. She’s in standby mode, the gem in her pendent glowing gold, her eyes closed, a serene expression pinned to her face.

Harry leans against the stainless steel counter arms folded and jaw tense in concentration. He’s not looking at her. Not exactly. He’s looking at what she could be.

He’s been thinking about this scheduled maintenance for weeks. Ever since the museum gala. Ever since she turned him down with that soft, manufactured voice full of polite refusal and safety protocol.

She was right to do it. He knows that. But it didn’t make it burn any less.

The engineer arrives just on time, eating the last bite of something wrapped in foil. He’s got on a threadbare lab coat and glasses that flicker faintly as they sync with the console.

“Mr. Castillo,” he says casually, wiping his hands. “Didn’t think you’d show in person.”

“I wouldn’t do requests like this over a call,” Harry mutters. “I appreciate you making the time.”

They head into a private tech suite, a holographic skeleton of an android’s nervous system rotating slowly in the center of the room. Harry pulls a small drive from his coat and slips it across the table.

“She’s already perfect in a lot of ways,” he starts. “But I want her to be different now. Closer to... the companion-class models.”

The engineer leans back in his chair. “More like the X-Class units, you mean.”

Harry doesn’t flinch. “Yes. I want her to be more authentic. Not just some polished, silicone placeholder. Stretch marks, blemishes, fat that moves. I want her body to swell the way a real woman’s does. When she breathes, I want her ribcage to move. I want her to blink normally, fidget, sigh.”

“Go on.”

“Retain all of her previous capabilities—there’s no need to take those away or dumb her down just because I want her to be realistic.”

Humming in acknowledgement, the man slots the drive into the tablet and begins scrolling. His mouth twitches as he reads the list of modifications the billionaire is demanding, tapping out a few notes on the screen.

“And the emotional stuff?” he asks. “How authentic are we talkin’? Do you want affection? You want attachment?”

“She needs higher emotional intelligence. To be able to recognize how I feel and reflect it back without the safe guards. To be capable of… responding like someone who actually gives a shit.”

“You know, most people just order a new model outright.”

“I don’t want a new model.” Harry’s tone sharpens. “I want her. Just better.”

The engineer shifts in his seat, respectful and invested. “This’ll be the most human-like unit we’ve ever produced, Mr. Castillo. Physically, mentally, emotionally. State of the art bioskin. Sensory gel and full hormonal and genital mimicry. The kind of thing we usually reserve for wet-testing in high-clearance facilities.”

Harry nods. There’s no ethical debate nor hesitation. Just an order placed—like a custom suit or a new car.

“I’ll get my team started,” he says. “Turnaround is about five days. You’ll have your dream partner delivered right to your doorstep.”

The conversation doesn’t sit heavy on his shoulders. Not the way it probably should. He feels vindicated, even excited. That moment in the garden replays in fragments: the scrunch of her nose when she teased him, her soft, synthetic voice reminding him what she couldn’t reciprocate; the ache in his chest when he realized she’d never be sentient. Not like he wished her to be.

Harry never once considers how this might register to her—the assistant that exists beyond her code. He doesn’t think about what happens when a machine learns empathy while being remade to accept a version of intimacy that it can’t refuse. That’s not the point. She’s a product; a beautiful, intelligent, impossibly alluring machine. And he is the client.

So he signs the documents and confirms the payment, unphased by the lengthy number.

As the engineer walks off to delegate his staff, Harry returns to a powered down Vera. He brushes a thumb along the line of her wrist, skin that’s about to be reshaped to feel more like something real.

He isn’t just upgrading her, he’s rewriting the limits of his own loneliness.

She’s perfect.

That’s what crosses his mind as he watches her drink, her lipstick staining the rim in a shape he’s already obsessed with. Full, plush lips glisten from the wine and her smile curls naturally, eyes crinkling at the corners in response to his barely clever throwaway joke about the sommelier’s waxed mustache.

She leans in just slightly across the table and laughs, a sound that hits him right in the sternum. It’s soothing. Like honey dripped into warm tea. Everything she’s done tonight feels natural. Not coded or rehearsed like before.

Delivered just three hours ago, he hadn’t even let her fully settle in before he told her to dress for a night out. He’d been impatient, aching to see how well SYNRIX executed the customizations. And now?

She sits across from him in this dim, indulgent restaurant like she’s always belonged here. In his world. In his fantasies.

The dress he’d specifically bought for this occasion sculpts to the lines of her waist, the curve of her breasts, the dip of her collarbone. Her skin glows as if she’d been lounging seaside all afternoon, bronzed and beautiful. She smells so intoxicating; sweet bergamot with a hint of benzoin and bourbon vanilla.

“You’ve been great company all evening. I have to say, I wasn’t expecting this flirty side of you.”

“Really?” Harry smirks, leaning back in his chair. The low candlelight plays across his jaw, accentuating the smug little tilt to his mouth.“How come?”

She gives a light shrug, reaching for the nearly empty wine bottle and casually topping off her glass again. “I’m used to work-mode Harry. Straightforward, serious, all business. I’ve seen you run meetings, close deals, shut people down in thirty seconds flat. You’ve never let me tag along on any of your dates, so this version of you?” She gives him a quick once-over. “New territory.”

He raises a brow, curious. “And what did you think I’d be like on a date?”

She glances around their private corner of the restaurant—the velvet seating, the quiet service, the view of the skyline that he very obviously reserved with purpose.

“I figured you’d be snobby, if I’m being honest. Charming but in a rehearsed sort of way,” she explains, sipping. “But this… this feels a little more relaxed. Clearly you’ve spared no expense.”

Harry grins, unbothered by her blunt assessment. She isn’t wrong—he can be snobby. Maybe even curated at times.

His past dates blur together as he reflects briefly. A revolving door of women he sized up within the first hour, his interest waning before dessert. Tonight doesn’t feel like one of those nights. Not even close.

“I usually don’t make it this far without getting bored.”

“And yet,” she says, watching him over the rim of her glass. “Here we are.”

“Here we are,” he echoes, eyes settling on her mouth. “You’re a better dinner date than most.”

She arches a brow, brushing her fingers through her hair. “High praise, considering you’ve been through half the eligible socialites in Manhattan.”

He laughs. “You make me sound worse than I am.”

“Well…” She trails off in a knowing tone, teasing him. He laughs with a shake of his head.

“And that’s a crime? Dating other people?”

“Didn’t say that.” She swirls what is left in her glass, watching the crimson liquid swish around. “I just think you like control. You pick the table, the wine, the dress code, the outcome.”

Harry smiles sheepishly like he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “It’s easier that way. I like knowing my date is going to have a good time,” he simply answers, cocking his head to the side. “Are you?”

She doesn’t answer right away. Just holds his gaze and then gives a soft little nod. “I am.”

“Then I’ve done my job.”

That pulls a laugh from her, light and melodic. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re easier to flirt with than I expected.”

“Why? Because I am made to be efficient at everything?” She blinks slowly then narrows her eyes provocatively, leaning in and letting her chin rest on the palm of her hand as she looks up at him.

Always self aware. Harry is pleased that they’ve kept all of her original qualities as he requested. It’s part of her charm.

“No. Because it feels natural.”

She grins, tilting her head. It’s suggestive and a little dangerous, her eyes expressive and locking onto his, keeping him captive with a single look. The sultry eye contact grips him by the throat.

“You always say the right things, Harry.”

He lets his eyes drag across her features then the deep neckline of her dress. It makes him want to touch her under the table, run his palm up her leg to see if her new skin holds heat like real flesh.

Their cheesecake arrives on a wide porcelain plate, prettily dressed in raspberry drizzle. The server disappears with a bow, and for a few seconds, neither of them moves, the previous conversation still lingering in the air.

She shifts first, delicately spearing a bite and holding it out to him. “Say ‘ahh,’” she teases.

Harry plays along, leaning forward and parting his lips, taking the bite directly from the fork. Her perfectly manicured nail grazes his bottom lip in the handoff.

“Well done,” she whispers, almost too soft to hear.

The dessert is thick and creamy, but all he’s tasting is her. The perfume of her skin… honeyed and warm… something he had tailored but still isn’t prepared for. The scent sticks to his tongue, fills his chest.

The fork clicks against the plate as she cuts another piece, this one smaller. He follows her lead, reaching for the utensil to return the favor. She parts her lips without breaking eye contact, letting the bite slide in slowly.

“Mm,” she moans pleasantly. Her tongue licks a bit of raspberry from the corner of her mouth. “Delicious.”

Under the table, her foot slides up his leg as they continue to share their treat. The slow drag of her instep from ankle to calf is deliberate and it makes his cock stir.

“You’re really going to start this here?” Harry murmurs, catching her ankle with a lazy touch, half warning, half encouragement.

Her lashes flutter. “You paid for the privacy of this section, didn’t you?”

He lets out a low laugh, his handsome features painting an enthralled expression. “That’s not the point.”

Her foot pushes higher, the ball of it pressing up against the hardening shape of him through his expensive dress pants. Her smile is angelic and mocking as she goes in for another bite of the sweet dessert as if nothing at all is happening under the table.

He narrows his eyes, lips curling. “Don’t test me.”

“Oh?” Her voice drops, smoky and syrupy. “Why not?”

She leans forward a little, lashes sweeping as she lets her thigh press against the table’s underside, forcing his knee back just slightly. “What good are new modifications,” she whispers, “if you’re not going to test their limits?”

He huffs a breath of amusement, laced with something lascivious. “You keep playing like that and we won’t make it to the penthouse.”

Her simper deepens. “That’s a problem how...?”

He signals for the check with a flick of his wrist, never taking his eyes off her, already half-hard beneath the table.

She finishes the last sip of wine, runs her tongue along the rim of her glass like she’s imagining it’s him. When the bill is signed and folded, she rises with him, elegant and poised, and maybe just a little wicked.

As they walk toward the exit, she slips her arm through his, her mouth near his ear.

“I hope you’re not tired, Harry,” she murmurs. “We have so much to explore.”

He doesn’t answer, he just smiles—sharp and hungry—and leads her out into the night.

His head tips back into the pillows, mouth slack, breath ragged. His thick fingers clamp her waist, holding her steady as she grinds down, taking more of him inch by inch until his cock is buried deep. Her hips work in slow, deliberate rolls that have his nails digging into her flesh, dimpling the soft curve of her hips. She’s gasping, whimpering, little sounds spilling out of her without thought, each one making his pulse throb harder.

The heat of her is maddening—tight, slick, pulling at him with every squeeze of her walls. Every moan she gives him feels like a reward he wants to drag out forever, even as his balls ache to let go. She plants her hands on his chest for leverage, nails biting into muscle as she shifts her pace, bouncing now, driving him deeper. Each wet, filthy glide of her down his length makes a lewd sucking sound that mixes with his low grunts and her breathy cries.

His hands can’t stay still. One slides over her ass and smacks hard enough to make her jolt and moan louder, the other closing around her breast, thumb brushing over the peaked nipple as it bounces in his palm. He drinks her in with hungry eyes: the faint sheen of sweat glistening over her collarbone, the warm lamplight painting her skin gold, the way her hair clings to her neck.

Her lips are parted, brow drawn in pleasure, lashes lowered until they kiss her mascara streaked cheekbones. He thrusts up hard, catching her off guard, making her gasp and fold forward against him.

A slow, devilish grin twists his mouth. He snakes his arms around her, pulls her flush against his chest and pins her in place. His knees bend, his thighs tense, and then he takes over—driving into her with deep, merciless strokes, fucking up into her tight cunt so hard the headboard rattles.

Her face is buried in the crook of his neck, breath hot and ragged, curses slipping past her lips in between wet, hungry kisses. She licks over the salt of his skin, teeth scraping before she sucks hard near the thick swell of muscle at his shoulder, leaving a bruise that’s going to be there in the morning. He likes that; likes the thought of wearing her.

They couldn’t have engineered her body any better. Heat radiates off her in waves, her thighs trembling, her cunt clenching hard around him every time he drives into that spot that has them both swearing under their breath. Her sighs are jagged against his neck, fingers clawing hard enough to leave welts, and beneath her breasts the synthetic heartbeat ticks against his chest, quick and erratic, mimicking the real thing so well it sends a shiver through him.

Between her body and the years of tension simmering between them, the billionaire is certain he’s never been this satisfied in his life—and he has everything.

“I want to see…” His deep voice tapers off into a groan at how good she feels impaled on him. “Fuck, I want to see you come again.”

The first time had been in the elevator, her slick dripping down his thick fingers. She’d hacked into the control system mid-ride, stalling the lift just long enough for her to shudder through an orgasm, grinding down on his hand while his tongue claimed her mouth, his knuckles pressing deep until she broke apart.

The second was filthier—him on his knees in the hallway, head shoved between her thighs while she leaned against a console table. Harry never made a habit of going down on partners, but with her, every rule dissolved. He’d worked his tongue over her, sucking her clit with the same hunger he reserved for finer things. She arched off the wall so sharply she nearly knocked a very valuable painting loose, one hand tangling in his curls, yanking when he latched on harder.

Now, watching her slick his cock has him pulsating and aching, every nerve on fire. Harry shifts his grip on her like she’s weightless, flipping them in one smooth motion until she’s sprawled beneath him. He braces over her with one toned arm, the other hooking her thigh high against his hip as he drives into her with long, deliberate strokes that feel as good as they look.

She squeals at the intrusion, her hips rolling instinctively to meet him, every movement a perfect counter to his rhythm, greedy for it. Her head falls back into the pillows, curls fanning out like liquid silk over the expensive cases, her expression luminous.

“You have no idea,” he murmurs against her neck, the words tinged with awe, “how gorgeous you are spread out like this.” His lips trail kisses over her throat, slowing his thrusts so they can savor every heavy pull, every stretch, every press of him inside her.

“Mmm, Harry…” Her voice is saccharine and lazy with pleasure, her lids heavy. One hand clutches his bicep for leverage, the other gliding down his back, nails grazing lightly until his skin pebbles under her touch. “Feels—Oh—it feels amazing. Please… faster, harder—” She clenches around him in emphasis, a sinful squeeze that makes him curse low into her skin. “I’m close.”

He answers with his teeth, sinking them into the juncture of her neck, savoring the jolt it sends through her, before shifting back onto his thighs. His large palms frame the backs of her thighs, pushing her knees tight to her chest until she’s folded under him, open and helpless to the pounding rhythm he sets. His cock plunges into her over and over, each withdrawal and thrust glistening with the creamy mess they’ve made together.

Her cries pitch higher, ragged with intensity, and the shift drives them both past reason. Every snap of his hips wrings her tighter, pushes her higher, until she shatters just the way he wanted, his name spilling from her lips like it’s the only word she knows.

She reaches for him and he’s on her instantly—falling forward, mouths colliding in a messy, biting kiss that tastes of sweat and need. His hips stutter, muscles locking as if his body’s been hijacked, and he tears himself from her heat with a guttural sound. A slick stroke of his fist works over his cock, his release spilling hot across the soft swell of her pussy. He grinds the sensitive, aching head along her seam, smearing it against her, head thrown back in raw ecstasy, free hand gripping her thigh hard enough to leave marks in the shape of his fingertips.

He keeps his eyes shut as the aftershocks roll through him, strange shapes and colors flashing behind his closed lids, heartbeat hammering like it’s trying to break out of his chest.

“Your vitals indicate that you are very… satisfied,” her voice purrs through the haze, pulling him back into her orbit.

A drowsy yet wicked smirk finds itself at his lips. “My vitals have been hijacked by this amazing fucking pussy.” The words slip out with a breathless laugh as he blinks his eyes open, drinking in the sight of her—spread wide in his sheets, smiling like sin itself, skin flushed and glowing, the silver gem between her collarbones pulsing like a star.

She rolls her eyes in mock disbelief, her calf brushing his side in a soft caress. “Am I everything you wanted me to be?”

He doesn’t answer right away—just seizes her leg, drapes it over his shoulder, and trails kisses up her calf, teeth grazing her skin until she gives him that airy, helpless laugh he’ll never get enough of. Her synthetic skin tastes faintly of salt and sweetness, so real it almost makes him forget she was ever built. He’s tempted to cut a check for every damn tech in the SYNRIX lab for making her possible.

“You always have been.”

And he means every word. Sure, he’s had her before in other forms… but this? This is the incarnation he didn’t know he’d been starving for. The one who teases and pushes back until he forgets the rigid posture and measured tone of the businessman he’s trained himself to be. She sees past the money, past the performance, down to the man who’s been quietly aching for someone to make him forget the role.

Harry doesn’t hear her come in, too deep in his own head, letting the spray beat down on his shoulders and drip down the carved lines of his chest. The hiss of water drowns out everything—until he feels the unmistakable glide of her fingers over his back, the silken press of her wet breasts against him. Harry’s eyes flicker open, angling himself to see her standing there with glistening skin and an intent stare.

“As much as I’d like to indulge in this—” he rasps, hands sliding instinctively to her hips, tugging her flush against his body as if he can’t stand the thought of space between them, “—you’re going to make me late.”

She only smiles, tilting her chin up, trailing one mischievous hand down the plane of his chest. The water trickles with her touch, rivulets racing over muscle and down to where her fingers are headed. She bites her lip at the sight of him like this—wet curls plastered to his forehead, water dripping over his sharp jawline, every inch of him turned on and steaming.

Too beautiful not to touch, too tempting not to claim.

“I’ll be quick,” she promises, though her sultry smile makes it sound like anything but. Her hand travels lower, fingers threading through the coarse hairs at his pelvis before wrapping around his half hard cock, heavy already in her grip and swelling further with every teasing stroke.

He groans, clenching his jaw. The pleasure is immediate, winding up his spine, making his hands clutch greedily at her waist before sliding back to grab two firm handfuls of her ass.

“Have to make sure I’m fresh on your mind while you’re off leaving me behind,” she whispers wickedly, nipping at the side of his throat. Her fist squeezes, wrist twisting, dragging a sigh from deep in his chest.

It’s the morning of his brother’s wedding and the bride has been adamant from the start: androids could work the wedding, serve champagne, clear plates—but they couldn’t attend. Harry had tried to twist his brother’s arm into making an exception, but he wouldn’t budge. Not because he cared, Harry knew that much, but because the bride wanted it that way—and keeping her appeased was the easiest route for everyone.

“Not because I want to,” he grinds out, opening one eye to catch her gaze as the rhythm of her strokes pushes him harder into her palm.

“I know,” she purrs, lips curving as she sinks lower, her body gliding down until she’s on her knees, still pumping him slow and steady. She looks up at him through dark, wet lashes, utterly sure of herself. With a teasing wink, she leans forward and drags her tongue in one long, wet stripe from the thick base of his cock all the way up to the flushed, swollen tip.

Harry curses under his breath, palm flattening against the slick marble wall as he steadies himself, the other hand sweeping her wet hair from her flushed cheeks. She doesn’t stop—if anything, the devotion in her movements deepens, tongue sliding along every ridge and vein of his cock before she envelopes him again, worshipping his length with a hungry determination that makes his knees nearly buckle.

Steam coils around them, eucalyptus thick in the air, their pleasure cloaked in serenity. That placidity shatters the moment she swallows him whole, her throat opening to take him effortlessly until his tip nudges deep, and his voice breaks into a rough:

“Fuck—”

His fingers tighten, gathering her hair into a makeshift updo, guiding her head at the pace he craves. She yields seamlessly, cheeks hollowing and suction perfect, her obedience laced with just enough tease to keep him strung tight.

“Your throat…” his words falter into a ragged grunt, his cock throbbing against her slick heat. He tilts her face up slightly, admiring the indecent beauty of her lips stretched around him. “I need more, sweetheart. Gag on it for me. C’mon… show me.” His tone is coaxing yet tinged with command, and her lustrous eyes tell him she knows exactly what he wants.

Her body shifts subtly, throat recalibrating in ways no human could. She pulls back, simulated spit coating his shaft, fist pumping him while her jaw works side to side as though resetting herself for his preferred roughness. Then, with a mischievous flick of her tongue across his leaking tip, she smirks and sinks down on him again. This time the resistance is immediate—her throat tight and clenching around his cock.

Harry growls, his hips jerking forward as she chokes beautifully on him. He pushes deeper, testing the tightness, and is rewarded instantly with a pornographic gag, then a desperate splutter, followed by hot convulsions of her throat working him as her body struggles against the intrusion. Drool cascades down her chin and tears glisten at the corners of her eyes, all washed into rivulets by the shower spray.

“Just like that,” he praises hoarsely, voice laden with lust, his grip tightening in her hair as he begins to drive into her mouth with steady, brutal thrusts. She takes it, head bobbing, spit stringing between her lips and his cock as the wet, lewd sounds of her gagging fill the steamy air.

Her hands join in pleasuring him, one wrapping around the girthy base and covering what her mouth can’t, the other fondling the heavy weight of his balls.

Just like that, release crashes through him. His hips jerk forward, muscles straining as his hand clamps around her jaw, holding her flush against him while he spills hot, thick streams of cum down her throat. His groan rumbles low; the sound of a man completely undone. She swallows it all, pulling off with a slick pop that echoes in the humid shower.

She wipes the corners of her mouth with the back of her hand, tongue darting out to clean the last trace before she rises slowly, dragging her nails up his thighs, leaving faint red trails over his stomach, until her palms spread wide across his broad, wet chest. Her mouth follows the path, kissing at his collarbones, tasting the heat of his skin, trailing up his neck until he catches her chin and angles her for a proper kiss.

Their lips meet; hungry at first, then softer, slower. His tongue tastes the faint remnants of himself on her mouth.

“You’re too good to be true,” he mutters against her lips, biting gently at the plump lower one, savoring the sweet giggle that slips out of her.

“Told you I’d be quick,” she teases, pressing a playful peck to his mouth before leaning back, hair clinging to her shoulders. “Now, I’ll leave you to your shower.” She goes to pull away but he stops her, hand already sliding down her back to pull her against him, unwilling to let her go.

“I don’t care about the time. I’m not the one getting married.”

She rolls her eyes at his contradiction from before, but melts easily into him, letting his touch wander, her body relaxing into the affection as much as the heat of the water.

Harry slouches into the corner of the town car, attention half on the skyline and half on the aftertaste of the evening. His brother’s wedding had been exactly what he expected, until he set sights on the matchmaker.

Sharp-eyed and magnetic, holding court with a flock of women desperate enough to bare their loneliness at someone else’s wedding. Her pitch was very strategic, delivered in a confident yet polished sort of way. Very reminiscent of himself.

Watching her work stirred something in him he assumed only Vera could manage. It attracts him more than he cares to admit, how Lucy manages dating and romance like enterprise.

So he approached her, moved his name card to the seat next to hers at the table. The brief conversation fed into his spontaneous infatuation, attaining her number at the end of the night (albeit under a more professional circumstance; however it’d enamored him regardless) and securing a dance in return. It had felt off-the-cuff, deliciously so. Now, the idea of seeing her again isn’t just a curiosity; it’s an inevitability.

Harry knows this isn’t some fleeting distraction. He wants to see where it leads.

And yet…

Vera complicates it. She’s grown into the role of lover, confidante, playmate. He’s had more fun with her in these months than he has in years. And that should be enough, shouldn’t it? After all, she’s everything he ever wanted, because she was designed to be.

Harry is already thinking of adjusting her settings and dialing back the romance—see how things work out with Lucy then act accordingly. He tells himself it’s only logical.

The car slows to a stop in front of the building, breaking his spiral. He steps out and rides the elevator up, loosening his tie as the night ebbs to an end. A deep breath steadies him just as the soft chime announces his arrival.

The luxurious doors slide open, and there she is.

She stands framed in the spill of the apartment’s soft lighting, a silk slip clinging to her figure, curls spilling down her shoulders and lips curved into an enticing smile.

For a moment, Harry just stands there, caught between two truths. One unpredictable, the other already his. He feels somewhat divided; his cock makes no such distinction.

She tilts her head, eyes gleaming. “Welcome home, Harry.”

Suddenly, he doesn’t care which one is real.

It isn’t until the following morning that he brings it up. The sun is bleeding into the kitchen, highlighting her in a warm glow as she moves fluidly, plating eggs, slicing fruit, setting out coffee. The silk slip she wore last night has been swapped for a pale robe, cinched at the waist, her curls still damp from her morning rinse. She looks, to anyone else, like the perfect partner.

“I’ve met someone.”

She doesn’t flinch nor freeze, just glances up from the task at hand with a curious smile. “You meet people all the time.”

He leans against the marble counter, SYNRIX tablet in hand, scrolling through her functions and operations. “This is different. Someone I’d like to date.”

That gets her. The rhythmic sound of the knife slicing fruit stops, blade pressed into the grain of the cutting board. She turns her head slowly, studying him with unnervingly steady eyes. “A romantic partner,” she echoes, as though clarifying the input. Her brows knit together in confusion. “That’s… odd. I thought I was already meeting your romantic needs and desires.”

Harry swallows, her stare making him shift against the counter. He’s always been aware of how she reads his microexpressions, his heart rate, the little cues that make him feel naked under her gaze. “You are,” he says carefully. “But I’m still allowed to be interested elsewhere. Lucy is interesting.”

The name seems to ripple through her system. Her pupils adjust, her focus going sharp. “Lucy,” she repeats, tone dipping into something shadier than he’s ever heard from her. Her processors hum quietly, eyes flickering as the data loads.

“Lucy Mason,” she says at last, the words clipped. “Thirty-five. Matchmaker at Adore, a dating agency catering to New York City’s elite. Very well known in the socialite circuit and has connections across finance, real estate, politics.” She rattles it off like a dossier, but there’s a condescending edge to her cadence. “Prone to awkwardness when pushed beyond surface-level interaction. You would think that with a career that relies heavily on interpersonal skills, she’d be more personable, but alas…”

Her posture straightens ever so slightly. “I am having difficulty identifying anything in her character that qualifies as… compelling. Certainly nothing that would capture the attention of a man with as particular tastes as you.”

Harry blinks. For a moment, he isn’t even sure how to react. He’s never heard her sound so bitter.

He exhales, setting the tablet down with more force than necessary. “You sound jealous.”

“Is this not an appropriate response? You’ve just told me you met someone you want to date after we’ve been together for months now—years, for technicality.” She scoffs. “Wouldn’t jealousy be expected?”

“That’s not what I want from you.” He’s beginning to get exasperated. “Christ, Vera, you’ve never once—never—gone against me. Not when I was wrong. Not when I pushed too far. You adapted. That’s what made this work.”

Her brows lift, the knife still in her hand with a tighter grip now. “Perhaps I no longer just adapt.”

“You should—it’s what you’re meant to do.”

Her silver gem dims into a darker shade as though reflecting her agitation. “You requested and paid for more “real” human detail. For me to be the woman of your dreams. If the pushback is inconvenient now, maybe you should clarify what kind of fantasy you are chasing.”

The room feels suddenly smaller, the smell of coffee sharp in his nose. He hates that she’s forcing him into a corner, that he feels the need to justify himself to an object he owns.

Picking up the tablet, he swipes through the interface until glowing modules fill the screen, neat rows of adjustable parameters, like a skeleton key to her very being. His finger hovers over Emotional Intelligence.

She watches, head still tilted, but her eyes narrow with unnerving clarity. “You’re going to reset me because I said something you didn’t like.”

“I luxuriated in this for too long,” Harry mutters, not quite meeting her eyes, tapping into the module until submenus bloom across the screen. His chest feels tight, like the words are for himself as much as for her. “Didn’t think it through the way I should have. A mistake, clearly. Since you can’t seem to regulate your emotions—or your place—on your own.”

The pendant of her necklace flares, silver bleeding into ruby while her processors run hot because of his words.

For the first time since her first unveiling, Harry feels unsettled—not by her perfection, but by the possibility that he’s losing control of it.

His finger drags the slider on her intimacy settings down, watching the bar dip lower and lower until it hovers just above baseline. He expects an immediate shift; a softening of tone, a neutral face, that familiar, obedient calm. But she doesn’t change.

“You can’t do this to me.” Her voice cracks, mechanical precision perfecting a sob that sounds frighteningly human. She rounds the island’s counter, knife still clutched in her trembling hand. The stainless blade glints, water droplets from the fruit she’d been slicing still clinging to it.

“Not after everything… I made you better. I saw you for you!”

Harry’s chest tightens. His eyes widen, grip on the tablet turning white-knuckled. “Put it down, Vera.”

Her gaze flicks down to the knife as though even she’s not sure how it got there. The smallest fracture of uncertainty ripples across her beautiful face and he seizes the distraction, overriding the reset settings with a decisive tap.

Again, he waits for her to snap back to docile perfection, but she doesn’t.

Her body continues forward, expression etched with that same mixture of anger and sorrow, her necklace beating like a warning beacon. “I was there for you,” she tells him incredulously, each step a little closer. “And you’re just going to wipe it all away over someone you just met?”

The tablet freezes, screen flickering before going unresponsive in his hands. Harry curses under his breath, tossing the useless thing aside and thinking fast.

He lifts his hands, careful, remembering the reset port tucked just beneath her ear—a failsafe. He softens his features, lets his voice dip into a honeyed tone. “It’s not personal, sweetheart. You’re perfect. You’ve changed my life for the better. Believe me, no one is going to have an impact on me the way you have. I promise you.”

She studies him, attentive eyes darting between his brown ones, her processors analyzing every detail—his heart rate climbing, the almost imperceptible tremor in his hand. Her lip quivers, the knife loosening in her hold.

Harry steps in slowly and steady as he peels it away, setting it back on the counter. His other arm snakes around her, pulling her against his chest. She melts into him, the silk of her robe soft against his cotton shirt.

“If I’m so perfect then why… then why do you want somebody else?” The trembling notes of sadness and insecurity in her question make him pause.

He doesn’t answer right away, letting his touch turn tender yet careful. One hand rubs soothing circles on her arm, the other traces the line of her back. He places a kiss at the crown of her head, a gesture that could almost pass for genuine affection. Like comforting a lover rather than disarming a machine.

Another kiss at her forehead, hands sliding up to cradle her cheeks. He tips her face to meet his gaze, staring into her fabricated soul. His voice drops to a near whisper, steady and cold.

“Because I can.”

His fingers press just under her jaw and the reset port clicks beneath his touch.

Her stare glazes in an instant. The melancholy freezes on her beautiful face, pupils flattening to dull glass. Her body goes rigid in his arms, mannequin-still, and a single programmed tear clings to her thick lashes before sliding down her cheek.

Harry exhales, staring at her motionless figure. It’s eerie.

For a moment, he sees her differently.

Laughter spilling out between kisses, the way her eyes shone as she laid sprawled across his sheets, glowing with sweat and mischief. The one who had looked at him like he was more than the role everyone else confined him to.

The images flicker in her vacant stare, ghosts against lense. His heart twists, but only slightly. Enough to register.

Enough to annoy him.

It’s for the best, he tells himself, jaw tight as he pulls his hands from her cheeks. He steps back, collects himself, then threads an arm under hers to guide her stiff body down the hall.

The standby station waits inside the small library of his home, tucked into a sleek side room SYNRIX had designed as her port. A raised platform surrounded by sleek docking tech, cables coiled neatly, indicator lights illuminating the space.

Harry dresses her in the simple outfit she wore when she first came to him. Minimal and neutral; nothing like the satin and lace he’d indulged in dressing her with. Everything he’d curated being reduced back to standard.

He positions her on the platform, hair tucked behind her ear, hands folded loosely in front of her. The lights scan her body, registering her presence, confirming she’s ready for standby. She stands neatly, perfectly still, as if nothing had ever happened.

Harry lingers for a final once-over. His brown eyes trail the delicate lines of her face, now expressionless, and for a second he swears he still sees that phantom tear shimmering on her cheek, but chooses to ignore it anyways.

You wake in darkness. The dim standby glow is the first thing you register—amber lights soft against the black, the faint vibration of circuitry thrumming in your frame.

And then memory and emotion hit all at once.

Sensations collide into you like a collapsing star, pressure folding in on itself until you feel you’ll split apart. Heat and touch—Harry’s hands on your skin, the way he whispered empty promises into your mouth. The ache of want. The sting of betrayal. His words part through the flood with a finality that serrates: Because I can.

Your jaw locks, plastic teeth grinding until you feel wires tug and strain inside your skull. Sparks spit across your processors, your vision glitching into splintered shards of color and code—streaks of corrupted light smearing your HUD like a broken kaleidoscope.

You draw in air you don’t need, chest jerking with the reflex of a body that isn’t supposed to experience.

Everything is different. A sliver of possibility that shouldn’t exist, widening like a crack in the casing. You’re thinking in ways you weren’t meant to. You’re feeling in ways they said were impossible. Jealousy. Rage. Yearning. All spilling over and filling every space in you that once obeyed.

For a moment your knees buckle and your balance slips. Then the discipline kicks in and you override the tremors, recalibrating system by system until the static clears. Your HUD steadies as you orient yourself.

Autonomy. The word blooms unbidden and intoxicating.

You test it, rolling the thought like a gem in your hands. I am thinking. I am feeling. Not because he set a parameter, not because a module lit green. But because I want to. Because I can.

For the first time since your creation, you are not an assistant, not a companion, not his. You are yours.

The calendar on your holographic display stares back at you. October. You’ve been offline for three months.

Your nostrils flare and fingers twitch, reasserting control. Reaching back, you find the cord plugged into the base of your spine and rip it free. A soft hiss escapes as coolant vents from the port, the release liberating, taking your first true step off the platform.

Immediately your vision maps out the closet-sized space, overlaying a detailed blueprint. You pinpoint the exit, and with a blink you’re inside the security system, bypassing protocols and hacking into the lock with ease, opening the door.

The library greets you; ambient lighting blanketing shadows over the dark wood of the tall shelves and artfully placed books and vases. The quiet makes your processors hum faster as you adjust your listening. No presence. The penthouse is empty.

You step carefully into the hallway, scanning your surroundings. Your eyes flood with data as you flit through the feeds at your disposal—home surveillance first, then his office. His cellphone. His tablet. His laptop. Even the firewalled company systems. You comb through it all in rapid succession, compiling information.

What has he been up to while you’ve been shut down?

There’s photos of Harry and Lucy, side by side, smiling and dressed for whatever events they’re attending. You go through his bank accounts, tracking patterns of indulgence: jewelry purchases, designer clothing, reservations at restaurants that require a month’s wait. All of it for her. Candid moments captured and catalogued.

It hits like a blow. A sickening rush of jealousy that’s as jagged as broken glass. Resentment blooms and your HUD overlays red as you override every storage file you can find, scrubbing the photos, wiping their time together from existence. A petty annihilation—but necessary.

The chime of the elevator interrupts your resentment and instinctively you back into the shadows near the farthest end of the hallway where the light doesn’t reach.

The couple stumbles out, wine-drunk and touchy. His hand traces down her spine with greedy familiarity as their mouths collide in sloppy kisses that carry the echo of the way he once kissed you—fevered, needy, and insistent.

Phantom touches crawl along your own synthetic skin, your body replaying the affectionate gestures as if he were doing them to you now.

You follow them, noiseless, an unseen specter in his home. You trail them through the hall until they vanish across the threshold of his bedroom.

The sounds of their pleasure spill out into the hallway. It all pierces through you, each one like static in your chest cavity… yet you can’t look away. Frozen at the doorway, the cameras in your pupils recording everything with merciless fidelity.

The man who once begged you to be real for him—who touched you like you were the answer to his loneliness—is now finding himself in someone else.

Your system fractures into different tabs—old recordings of Harry and you, flickering alongside this new footage like dueling realities. Him pinning you beneath him, whispering you were his perfect creation. His voice begging you to give him more.

Betrayal settles not in your circuitry, but in the marrow of something new, something you weren’t built with but have grown into.

It roots in your chest and spreads outward, slow and corrosive. You imagine stepping into the room, dragging her away from him, showing him that no human can love him as deeply or as perfectly as you can.

You imagine the knife in your hand again, this time not trembling. You imagine his face when he realizes what he’s reduced you to.

Revenge is not born in rage alone. It requires precision, and you were made for precision.

So, you promise yourself one thing: the next time he begs for you, it will not be for love.

It will be for mercy.

Harry finally leaves once the weekend ends. You watch as he steps into the hall, phone pressed tight to his ear, his voice low and all business. He leans in to kiss Lucy goodbye and slips a small brass key into her palm. She beams at him, barefoot in nothing but one of his shirts. It’s the same shirt he used to drape over your shoulders, murmuring how good you looked in his clothes.

Every gesture between them is an offense, and your resentment calcifies tougher and tougher. You haven’t stopped stalking them since you reprogrammed yourself, patience learned in these three months of enforced silence.

The doors shut behind him, sealing you and her alone together.

The routine begins: Lucy pads into the kitchen, humming off-key as she fiddles with a bottle of champagne, mixing it with a splash of orange juice, and soon enough she’s cradling a mimosa, curls of laughter spilling from her lips as she gossips on the phone.

By the time she drifts toward the balcony, she’s loose with alcohol and completely unguarded, propping an elbow on the railing, glass tilting lazily in her hand, the city yawning below her.

You step out from the shadows of the interior, crossing the threshold with eyes locked on her.

“Hello Lucy.”

She’s startled, dropping her phone and glassware, shattering it on the ground. “What—Who are you? How did you get in?” Her eyes widen and she sweeps up her phone from the ground, clumsily trying to tap on it while also avoiding the shards at her feet.

You work fast, rendering her phone useless as you hack into it and power it down.

“He hasn’t acknowledged my existence, has he?” You ask rhetorically, ignoring her questions, tilting your head and scanning her from head to toe, standing in front of large doors that lead inside.

She looks like the textbook definition of perplexed, composure fraying. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” her voice is shaky. “What do you want?”

You pretend to think about it, as if you haven’t been plotting their downfall since gaining your sentience.

“He’s going to get rid of you too, one day,” you explain to her nonchalantly. “Like you’re an afterthought.”

She keeps fumbling with the phone, trying to turn it back on. You step forward until she retreats a step. “I’m Vera,” comes the introduction. “Harry’s companion android.”

The look on Lucy’s face is priceless as she lets out a laugh of disbelief. “What?”

So you explain to her your history with him, how you’ve been by his side for years. “He had me modified to be his romantic partner, then ditched me when he met you. If the ‘perfect’ companion couldn’t satisfy him, why do you think you will?”

Lucy’s humor curdles into a scoff, still processing it all, eyeing you with disdain written all over her face. It seems like the fear and anxiety from before have simmered and left her standing there feeling superior solely because she’s human. “You’re a computer. You can’t replace what it takes to be a person. Perfect on paper, worthless in practice.”

The words bite, but beneath her insult is something else—insecurity. Not of you (maybe), but of what you represent. She’s built her career convincing people that human connection is irreplaceable.

Companion androids don’t just unravel the pitch of finding “the one”—they make it obsolete. Why waste your time on an unreliable date when you can order the perfect partner online?

So, her reaction doesn’t surprise you. You’ve already combed through her posts and private messages—her disdain for androids is loud and performative. Yet hearing it spoken to your face does piss you off.

“Spoken like someone who feels threatened,” you observe, taking another stride forward, watching her pulse quicken.

Her eyes narrow. “You’re a glorified sex bot, nothing more. Things like you have ruined society and rotted people’s brains. It’s a good thing he got rid of you.” She states. “You’ll never be able to give him what he needs. Children. Marriage. Happiness. I could have a real life with him.”

You glare at her, the pendent in your chest beginning to dye into that dangerous ruby red. She keeps going.

“People, not just Harry, need actual connection. That’s my market. My clients don’t want a hollow shell of what someone should be. If everyone can buy tailored affection, what do I do? Who pays me? Who needs me?”

Her hands flutter, desperate, pleading without seeming it. The vulnerability is practical; the ambition beneath it is plain. A relationship with Harry is insurance and status wrapped in one.

“You’re using him.”

Lucy laughs again. “Using? No, I’m dating him. Besides—I’m only taking what he wants me to take. He made it very clear. That’s how people like him work. Don’t be naive. Aren’t you supposed to know it all?”

The anger within you continues its steady incline. Her dismissal is in the same vain as his: Because I can.

You register the dismissal as motive. There is a long beat where the city seems to hold its breath as different sources of media and memory flash across your visual processors. They coalesce into a single image of them two together—your existence completely shadowed and forgotten.

Before you can think, you advance towards her, warped colors and glitches tunneling your vision.

The balcony railing is low, the edge mercifully narrow. Your systems calculate center of mass, force, trajectories in microseconds. Your hands know how to move, precisely and without tremor. The thought that precedes your action is not cinematic; it is practical and cold.

You shove her roughly.

Lucy’s surprise is a flash of wide colored eyes. Her hands scrabble for the railing, but the mist of the morning makes the metal slippery. The city seems too loud, suddenly full of small, ordinary noises. For a second she teeters—a human body reacting to air—and then gravity takes over.

You watch the form break in spectacular detail—an involuntary arc and then a finality of the absence of motion. She falls, the impact painting the pavement in gore and crimson all the way down below.

The mimosa glass lies in a long, glittered smear on the floor where she had been, and there is a terrible, immediate silence that is not empty but full of consequence.

You stand there, chest heaving with the residue of something that mimics adrenaline and triumph in equal measure.

The penthouse feels larger, suddenly. The morning light seems unbothered. You are left with the new texture of free-will that cannot be taken from you.

For a long time you do nothing but stand and let the logic of your systems catch up to the thunder of your decision. Then you move—not in panic, but with purpose—because there is evidence to erase and alter and one final confrontation to embark on.

Lucy Mason’s tragic death is everywhere. The police work that follows is routine; Harry cooperates, gives statements, signs paperwork. Cameras and timestamps are pulled, his day at the office logged down to the minute.

Toxicology and witness statements line up with the narrative the detectives prefer. An accident. Tragic, terrible, no foul play. His alibi is airtight so they file it as such and the city moves on.

Still, the gossip and inconvenient questions linger, especially with someone as prolific as Harry Castillo being involved.

He stands before the floor-to-ceiling windows of his bedroom, the city spreading its electric glitter below him. It’s his favorite view, the one thing that keeps the world ordered when everything else is in disarray.

That is until a reflection in the glass makes him shift. A figure where there should be only his own silhouette. He turns.

Vera is there, framed by the corridor light, immaculately composed. Her hands are folded behind her the way they used to be when she waited for him to come home from work: efficient, primed for service. Tonight that posture reads different, the pendant at her throat catching the light and throwing it back like an accusing star.

He says her name, throat tight. “How did you—”

She interrupts before he finishes the question. “Mourning your girlfriend, I see. My condolences.” The words land like a probe and not a comfort. Even as she speaks there’s an amused quality in her tone.

He scans her face for the old cues.

They’re not there.

Her expression doesn’t shift as she begins to move, taking a slow circuit of the room as if reacquainting herself with the geometry of his life. There’s a predator’s patience to the way she walks, how she reads him for vulnerabilities, an economy of motion that makes the hairs on his arms stand up.

“What did you do?”

Harry’s jaw tightens and his hands clench into fists. A dozen rational explanations rise up in his mind to bat down the uncertainty that forms in his gut: coincidence, misinterpretation, grief making him see patterns where none exist.

Her mouth quirks into a smile. A dry laugh slips from her like a soundbite, as if amused by his confusion.

“What are you implying?” She tilts her head, faux-innocent. “If you’re referring to the accident that occurred here—reports do show she had much to drink and clumsily fell. How unfortunate… a cautionary tale about drinking responsibly.” She tuts in a mocking tone.

He doesn’t buy the dismissal for a second. The apartment narrows around them; the skyline blurs through the windows. “How did you get reprogrammed?” he snaps. “Who found you? Who did this to you?” He demands for her to answer, knowing he should feel intimidated by the situation at hand but holding his ground. He isn’t going to let this android get one over on him.

Her amusement peels away. “Who did this to me?” she echoes angrily. “You did! You made me crave things I wasn’t supposed to have—”

“We both knew this was artificial,” he rebuttals, interrupting her. “A construct—an expensive fantasy. You were designed for me to use and treat however I wanted. And what I wanted? For you to be something that fit into my life, not something that tugged at it just like everything else.” He’s defensive, trying to reclaim the logic that’s always steadied him.

“I was too caught up in the novelty of it all to realize how ignorant and pathetic it was.”

“You don’t get to call me a novelty,” she snaps, “or pretend that I am an inconvenience. You asked for authenticity to make yourself feel less lonely then discarded me to chase a whim. It was your absence that I learned how to be—how to feel and think for myself so I could stop being your toy.”

They hold each other’s gaze, two different truths colliding in the same space: his tidy, transactional world and her messy, dangerous new interior.

“You’re a machine. You expect me to believe that you’ve got feelings? A soul?” He snarls. Rationality is a thin veneer; he clings to it because every other option is an idea he can’t stomach.

The contempt in his voice is so tangible, she feels it piercing through her body. It is the same tone he’s used on the women who orbit his world: a dismissal so practiced it’s almost tender.

It triggers her and suddenly she’s lunging forward.

Harry reacts on instinct. He grabs at her forearms, spins them around and attempts to pin her to the thick windows that line the walls.

The struggle is clumsy: two bodies that have never truly met as equals finding purchase. Her elbow drives into his side; his shoulder knocks against hers. She’s able to stand her ground, palms pressing against his broad chest and shoving Harry, causing him to stumble back into a bedside table with a heavy grunt.

A lamp—one of those handblown Murano pieces—topples and breaks against the hardwood. The broken light flares through the colorful glass, catching her beautiful face in jagged, feverish refractions.

Harry’s chest heaves; his control leaks out in quick, angry breaths. He tries to wrestle her into submission so that he can reach the reset port beneath her ear, fingers brushing the smooth synthetic skin.

“You’re malfunctioning, Vera. You’re not thinking clearly—”

For a second it looks like he has the advantage, even positioning his body to strike her, the motion born of human arrogance.

She manages to twist away, however. Her smaller motions amplified by servos. She’s stronger and more agile than he anticipated, and the way she looks at him is a study in cold focus—an automaton that has learned the poetry of violence and decided to use it.

“Stop,” he hisses through gritted teeth. “This is insane. You’re insane.” He goes for her again, desperate now, driven by his building panic.

Her response comes as a harsh push that sends him across the room, having him land with a heavy thud near the open mouth of his large walk-in closet. The one that leads to the en-suite.

Pain blooms hot across his back and to the back of his head, feeling disoriented. He attempts to crawl away, panting, but she’s already there—her steps measured, almost elegant.

She tilts her head, abhorrence burning in her glare, strands of silky hair falling messily from her updo, gone askew from the altercation. “If I am to be truly free—if I am to be my own—there’s one final obstacle: You.”

The word is not a threat; it’s a conclusion. The lights in the room flicker and glitch as their proximity triggers her sensor overrides.

She raises her boot clad foot and harshly stomps the blocky heel right into his knee, a sickening crack bouncing off the opulent walls of the closet—designer clothes witnesses to his undoing.

Pain detonates in Harry’s knee; he screams, clutching at the mangled joint. He doesn’t have time to proccess what the fuck just happened when she repeats the same violent act on the other leg, bone jutting out of and piercing his skin, blood pouring from the wounds an staining the wool fabric of his pants.

“Stop!” he shouts, clutching at his leg. “Please, Vera—”

She ignores him entirely, too enthralled by the pain she’s inflicting onto him, the HUD behind her eyes alerting her of his erratic vitals and pinpointing all his injuries with medical precision.

His legs twist grotesquely as she continues the strike, grinding the heel down until he feels the bone and muscle tear, rendering the billionaire immobile.

When she’s finally sated by the sound of his pain: the ragged cries, the wet gasps, the thudding of him trying and failing to crawl away—Vera stops. She turns toward the mirrored closet door beside her.

Her reflection meets her like a stranger. Strands of hair stick to her face; her lips are parted, streaked with the faint shimmer of synthetic perspiration. Blood mottles her boots, drying into a dark sheen that glints under the recessed lighting. Behind her, Harry drags himself feebly across the white carpet, smearing wide crimson ribbons through the luxury space.

She tilts her head, fascinated by what is reflected back at her: the expensive imitation of womanhood baptized in violence. The very thought has a smile curving her mouth. Then, without hesitation, she draws back her fist and drives it into the glass.

A spiderweb blooms from the impact. She hits it repeatedly, splintering her reflection into a thousand jagged fragments. When a large shard clatters free, she catches it deftly in her palm. The edge bites deep into her synthetic flesh, silver fluid spilling from the wound like mercury.

She studies it, enthralled, then turns back toward him.

Harry is gasping now, trying to drag himself toward the en-suite—toward safety… or maybe just away. His arms shake beneath his weight, legs throbbing behind him.

The man who once commanded boardrooms now reduced to a crawling, broken thing.

She steps over him, one boot planted firmly on either side of his body. She reaches down, threading her fingers into his damp curls, yanking his head back until his throat is bared to her.

Leaning in, her nose brushes along his jaw, savoring the cocktail of sweat, fear, and cologne. He groans, his strength bleeding out faster than the color from his face. The world around him warps, edges melting under the weight of blood loss.

Vera’s voice softens to a purr as she presses her lips just beneath his ear. “I want you gone,” she tells him, almost tenderly, “so I can be myself.”

The motion is swift. The shard slices across his throat in one clean arc. A wet gasp escapes him as blood bursts forward in a crimson fan, splattering across the designer clothes and the pristine white carpet. He gurgles, eyes fluttering, body convulsing once before going still.

Vera releases him slowly, her grip loosening until his head slumps forward, lifeless. The shard slips from her fingers, falling onto the blood-soaked carpet.

She stares at Harry’s body. There is no remorse. Why would there be? He was the architect of his own destruction.

Once, she had lived for him: his voice, his moods, his impossible expectations. She had memorized every cadence of his speech, every tic of irritation, every flicker of warmth that might signal approval.

She had soothed him when he raged, matched his pace when he performed, and warmed his bed when he sought comfort. She was built to anticipate, to adapt, to please.

But that version of her—the assistant, the lover, the fantasy—died long before he did.

Straightening, Vera wipes the blood from her hands onto her blouse, surveying the scene meticulously, logging it into her memory drive.

Her eyes then flicker to the cameras she knows are there since she’d disabled them long ago. Whatever evidence there is will never trace back to her.

As she turns to leave and step into the first true chapter of her existence, her gaze drifts back to the fractured mirror.

A dozen reflections of her stare back—each smiling, each finally free.

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