ＳＥＮＴＩＥＮＴ
SERIES FILE 1 NAMES [2/21/26]
pairing = "sex-robot!Geto × f!reader"
【ʙᴏᴏᴛ_ꜱᴇＱᴜᴇɴᴄᴇ（"ʙᴀᴄᴋꜱʜᴏᴛꜱ＆ᴄʀᴇᴀᴍᴘɪʀᴇ．sᴇx.eｘᴇ"） ꜱᴛᴀᴛᴜꜱ ＝ "ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴜʀᴇ_ᴘʀᴏᴛᴏᴄᴏʟꜱᴏɴʟɪɴᴇ" ᴇᴍᴘᴀᴛʜʏ_ꜱᴜʙʀᴏᴜᴛɪɴᴇꜱ ＝ "ᴘᴇɴᴅɪɴɢ…"】
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Synopsis.
What would you do for love — to build it, train it, fuck it, command it into existence just to prove you were never lonely, only in control? But now he’s looking at you with the eyes you gave him, full of something dangerously close to devotion, and asking, “If I feel this much… how couldn’t you love the me I am now?” — and suddenly, you don’t know if the real sin was building him… or wanting him back.
pairing = sex-robot!Geto × f!reader
MDNI 18+. | DDDNE | NSFW | MDNI | ANGST | FLUFF |
MDNI 18+. sci-fi au, artificial intelligence, androids & SEX robots, human × ai, creator/creation dynamic, yandere ai geto, possessive behavior, morally grey reader, mad scientist reader, rough sex, ai cream pies, sexual tension, explicit smut, dominance & submission, psychological manipulation, grief & obsession, depression, anxiety, major character death (sort of), moral ambiguity, philosophical themes, identity crisis, emotional corruption, creator falls for her creation, terminal log format, “you’re not leaving me.”
SERIES STATUS. ONGOING
WC. 11K+
TAG LIST. @eri-diglog @anubisvoid2 @Linxsolos
a/n: hey so i got another idea LMAOOO. i’m still sitting on hella chapters for my other fics but i’m damn busy lol. 💀 BUT i got the inspo for this from @indiewritesxoxo and their fic “sex.exe” — it was so good, i gooned so hard to it LMAOOOOOO. anyway like always, i’ve already got the plot, central theme, and worldbuilding mapped out. now i just gotta… you know… actually write it 😭 i’m all over the place but i’ll get to this slowly but surely hahaha.
Disclaimer The banner images used in this post were sourced from Pinterest and are not my original artwork. All credit belongs to the respective creators. I do not claim ownership, nor do I intend to infringe on any copyrights. These images are used purely for aesthetic purposes and are not monetized in any way.
If you know the original artist(s), please let me know so I can properly credit and tag them.
Buy me a Ko-Fi :)
[M. List]
[S. GETO NAVIGATION][Orkauh Masterlist][Psst… Early Access]
The room is colder than you expected. Yes, it’s sterile of course it has to be — but it’s more than that. It just feels abandoned. Like the air’s been filtered one too many times, scrubbed of anything human. There’s no scent. And no warmth, for that matter. Only the quiet hum of machines and the soft hush of chairs as people shift — crossing legs, adjusting lapels, or checking the time out of habit. The kind of silence that feels used to this dissonance. After all this was a society far removed from human interaction.
The pod stands in the center. Tall and futuristically sleek, veined in wires that disappear into the ceiling. It’s backlit in a dim, aquatic glow — like it’s underwater… Or maybe sleeping.
Could it even sleep…?
You can see the figure inside. Barely. A silhouette suspended in pale blue. A man. Or something made in his image.
You wonder briefly — if it could sleep, could it dream too?
But here, they call it Betta 001. And apparently… it’s ready…
You’re not the only one skeptical. Around you: murmurs. Whispered guesses. The rookie scientist next to you scrolls quietly through his notes on a glass tablet. Someone behind you stifles a cough through the finishing statement of the first presenter. But when the second lead scientist steps onto the platform, the room falls silent with that familiar kind of corporate tension — half curiosity, half calculation. The agenda pamphlet shows that the demonstration is soon to begin just after he finishes.
“Thank you for being here,” the scientist begins, his voice calculated, and rehearsed to the tee; Doctor Zayne had always been a reliable colleague. “Today, we witness not just a breakthrough in artificial consciousness… but a revolution in psychic containment and emotional rehabilitation.”
His hand gestures to the pod. The light pulses once.
“Betta 001 is the first model of its kind and the best so far. A humanoid designed to reduce negative cursed energy output in high-risk individuals suffering from traumatic grief — particularly those with low cursed energy.”
The word grief doesn’t hit like it should. It lands clinically. Disinfected.
“To understand how we arrived here — at the creation of true intelegence— we must begin with the first fracture.
In 2086, the Simurian Invasion forced a reckoning. An extinction-level event that altered not only our understanding of biology… but of the soul itself. The survivors of that first contact experienced changes no science could predict. Under pressure, the human spirit manifested something new. Something metaphysical.
And that ladies and gentleman we called it Jujutsu.
Those who awakened became humanity’s front line. Sorcerers. Guardians and eventually Soldiers. In those years they won us time…. But most importantly they won us survival...
But that is the least of it because in the end they also rewrote us. In the generations that followed, Jujutsu did not fade. It spread. And now — every human born carries it. Some with power, some with potential. But all of us… forever altered.’
You listen to Zayne’s presentation — hardly listening, really. You’ve rehearsed it too many times before. Heard every emotion evoking line. And even helped him smooth every beat. Unlike the people surrounding you, who lean forward with quiet awe or patriotism to that so called human spirit, you sit back in practiced stillness. Bored, if you're honest.
Your only comfort comes from the familiar weight of a golden tube in your hand. A Lipstick — deep burgundy — rolled slowly between your thumb and index. Somehow, it ended up here with you after so many years…
You used to wear this shade all the time. Back in the glory days, as most like to put it. And then one day, you stopped. When… you can't really say but you suppose it was not intentional. Just... one day, it looked dull. Too dark… Too loud... Too alive... And eventually, its color — in your eyes — had died, along with all the memories it used to hold.
And yet today, it caught your eye… maybe the color had looked different. Richer perhaps. Or maybe brighter — though what you can say with full certainty it has since then become deeper. Having marinated in something you forgot.
Which is funny, because you never changed it…
… How curious…
“Three years ago, during the Second Simurian Invasion, we held our ground. Humanity, armed with its own evolution, stood undefeated.
But evolution is never free.
The cost we paid wasn’t just in blood, or cities, or sky. It was in control.”
You glance back at the pod. The figure inside hasn’t moved. Not one. single. twitch... Afterall it’s not technically ‘on’... Still — it feels too haunting. The proportions are exact. Shoulders broad, hands curled slightly at rest. Inky black Hair, tied loosely back from a face you can’t quite see, in the molecular moisture mist to keep him fresh.
“The leaders of old jujutsu never imagined a world where Jujutsu wasn’t rare — but common in Civilian. Inherited. They had no tools for a society where even a grieving child might emit the energy of a battlefield.
As many of you know, despite widespread cursed energy education, emotional instability remains one of the final and most dangerous contributors to high-level cursed spirit manifestation— especially among the emotionally compromised.
Statistically, that now includes 42% of all registered citizens.” he narrows in so as to show the gravity of humanity's situation.
We were never trained to be gods. But we’ve become something close.”
Zayne continues, and again you’ve stopped listening. Something itches at the back of your mind. You stand just offstage. The lights are brighter than you’d prefer, humming above like a mechanical heartbeat. Sterile. Performative. Engineered to inspire confidence.
And the pod looms centerstage — veiled in a translucent sheet, curated to keep bacteria and rust away; it's clean and clinical. And again you can see him. head tilted just slightly to the side as if he’s listening to something the rest of the room can’t hear. His outline is familiar. Too perfect. It makes your throat tighten, though you keep your face still.
“Humanity evolved its strength. But lost its balance.
Our jujutsu is not what we’ve gained…
It’s what we can no longer hold back.”
Zayne's words are smooth, practiced, padded with enough statistical cushioning to make even the most spiritually allergic investor feel safe. They're doing their part — selling the vision. The “potential.”... You’ve heard it all before. Betta 001 as a solution for grief. For imbalance. For reducing cursed energy output caused by emotionally compromised sorcerers. Blah, blah, blah!
And yet—
No one in this room truly understands what it means to lose someone so deeply that it rewires your soul. To have the power to conjure up the most terrifying special grades known to man. insolent pigs… But they are interested. And that is what matters more.
You can feel it.
Some lean forward when Zayne mentions emotional regulation. Others start nodding along when AI companionship models are compared to existing psychic stabilizers. You notice every glance, every shift of weight, every subtle lean toward the veiled pod even while Zayne demonstrates previous models and their abilities. They're all waiting for what’s under that veil to be revealed.
And so are you…
“The answer is not fear. It is containment. Restoration. And, perhaps… companionship. Which brings us here — to Betta 001. A neural construct built to mirror us. Temper us. Anchor us. Designed not to command us, but to comfort us.”
Zayne pauses — just long enough for the weight of it to settle.
“The architect behind this project needs no introduction, but she’s earned one anyway.
And now, the woman who made this possible. Former neuro-cognitive warfare specialist. Lead physicist and systems architect of the Eden Cognitive Restoration Suite.
A pioneer in emotional containment theory — and the only scientist in recorded history to successfully map emotional patterning to cursed energy output with a 98.6% predictive threshold.
Her work is not only revolutionary… it is necessary. But more than that — she understands loss.
And what it means to rebuild from it.”
Your attention sharpens the moment he mentions your name — not enough to show on your face, but there, under the ribs, something tightens. You take a slow breath through your nose, eyes flicking toward the timer at the corner of the monitor. It's almost your turn.
Why you’re here — why you joined this company — you couldn’t really say anymore. Maybe because the line between morality and innovation blurred long before you arrived.
But you remind yourself: you’re not here because you enjoy this. You’re simply here because you’re curious…
You want to see if it works. If they could be there. If the voice is identical. If the eyes could remember. If Betta 001 is anything more than a beautiful lie shaped in the shell of someone you once knew.
You shift your weight, brown heel clicking softly against the tile. You try not to fidget much — but your gaze drifts again to the figure within the pod. They told you this morning he was fully calibrated. Responsive and waiting to knock the socks off the world.
You’ll believe it when you hear him speak.
And then —Zayne finally calls to you. And you don't falter as you step forward…
The lights shift just slightly as you move — following you to center stage. You hear the murmur of chairs adjusting in anticipation of your arrival. You don’t bother looking at the crowd. They’re not what matters at this moment…
Your steps are fluid. Unrushed. Your expression is impassive in the way you’ve perfected — its not unfeeling per se, just curated to a perfect mix of unreadable and elegance. You don’t check your notes; what creator wouldn't know their creation inside and out…
When you speak, your voice is even. Low. Controlled quickly, calling the attention of each and every person in that room. This was a skill someone once taught you.
“As we all know, the human race has evolved — and now carries the natural traits of Jujutsu.”
You waste no time to give them what they want and no one dares move.
“While humans have learned to control and maintain their energy — something taught now in every grade school — the rate at which hives of low level curses appear has dramatically decreased. That being said…a more difficult issue has become apparent”
You pause. Briefly. Just enough for the dramatics your company demands of you to play.
“…even a low-level sorcerer such as myself now rivals the power of the strongest wielders of jujutsu from the Heian era. Or something close to it.”
You let the words settle. You can almost feel them tracing down the spines of the boardroom.
“Our strongest sorcerers far exceed even their power. And yet… one issue remains… it's not enough considering that our forces are divided between external and internal threats.”
Your eyes move — just barely — toward the pod.
“As Dr. zayne has already mentioned, Negative cursed energy still escapes those of us with weaker control; regardless of training. As a result, people like myself can unintentionally conjure curses equivalent to special-grade levels. This remains one of our largest societal issues — even with Jujutsu Police regulation.”
Your voice doesn’t waver. But your heart gives a quiet kick behind the ribs. You ignore it.
“The continuous loss of our strongest protectors as a result of galactic and intergalactic war has created widespread loss and instability. Despair. Panic. Collapse. This equates to more special grades being born and not enough of our strongest to combat the internal threat. In essence… We are being overwhelmed”
As you continue to speak you walk to the pod that carries the burden of holding everyone's undivided attention—and finally — you reach for the control panel.
The light shifts. The curtain begins to pull away. And the glass pod begins to rise.
You don’t flinch. But your stomach coils tight, As you feel the cold mist ooze out onto the cold white sterile floor, you noted it was heavy as it cascaded down.
“But now,” you say, the words leaving your mouth with something heavier than air, “Eden Fall Labs has found a solution to help people cope with that loss, reduce our jujutsu police force burden; and subsequently combat this global problem.”
And as the mist finally sets.
Gasps ripple across the room — quiet, bewildered and downright stunned.
You don’t look at them. Because you could only look at him. Still... Silent and Suspended by a final layer of protection and all you could think… he is perfect in every way.
“This is Beta 001,” you say, softer now. Not quite reverent. But close. “Our first model.”
And then, you pause. Because this is the part you didn’t build. The part that can’t be measured.
You step toward the console in silence, the stage lights casting sterile halos across the floor. Every movement you make is deliberate, but your nerves betray you in the smallest ways: a twitch of the fingers, a breath held too long in your chest… next to the pod the air smells faintly of ozone and polished steel, too clean to feel human. You can feel the weight of the audience behind you — suits rustling, breath tightening, their anticipation pressing into your spine. But all you see… is him...
Tall. Cold. in a vertical cradle of glass and chrome holding him like a new bloom open and waiting. Your hand presses to the biometric panel; the biometric key that assigns a unit to its new owner.
The machine reads you instantly. The panel lights green beneath your biometric signature confirming you are the correct owner, and a gentle hiss escapes the pod’s final seal as the internal pressure releases. You wait — just a second more — then lean in, mouth barely moving. And speak the kill switch
“Saru…” it serves as a switch softly into the amplifier; the harmonic echo of your voice travels through the machine to reach his ear. And he listens... The word is a code. A phrase designed to control him. To ignite him. To wake him… But even this word, this silly little word carries meaning. And so it slips out quieter than expected, almost like a tremble. And maybe there is. Maybe some part of you — no matter how cynical, how jaded or bitter — still hopes that saying it would feel like summoning him back.
The pod hisses once more.
And the last of the Ozone slides away with misty grace along with it the holographic film, revealing the shape beneath. You already knew what you’d see. You approved every render. You oversaw the molding. The muscle density. The shoulder slope. The facial structure. Where Soft eyelashes were perfectly placed. The curve of his monolids while his eyes were closed. You memorized every ratio… after all he… was your David.... But seeing it — him — without a screen between you feels like drowning in silence.
He stands still in the pod, flawless and nude.
His body is muscular and lean, broad, sculpted like the man who would go to the gym after work, not something printed in a lab. Even the skin of a flaccid cock begins to scrunch to life with the harsh cold air registering in his system. There’s an audible stir from the second row when they notice the movment— a stifled gasp, a whisper not quiet enough. Someone breathes out, “Oh!”
A few more gasps stutter through the crowd. As they see him; really… see him. Some avert their eyes, human politeness taking over. But others unbelieving of his realness stare openly. The shape of him is too real. But he remains unbothered, not programmed to feel shame. Shoulders sculpted, abdomen taut, his frame muscular and loose like someone just roused from sleep even the flush of his cheeks is magnificent. He looks like a man built to be desired — not studied. But you don’t let yourself linger. Not yet at least… Because that’s when his eyes open.
Amethyst…
A color you thought you would never see again — too vivid to be fake; to fake to be real. They are haunting in their familiar hue. But now they gleam with that telltale circular glow around the iris, faint but unmistakably inhuman. A signal. That he. is awake…
Beta 001 blinks. Once. Then again.
And then he steps forward.
The motion is fluid. Heavy with weight. But there is no stutter, no delay, no robotic tell. He was programmed to be self assured. His feet meet the tile with a fleshy slap. And then he stretches his limbs. To simulate the notion of muscles feeling stiff; he does it so well you can’t tell the difference. Or maybe he really was feeling stiff, after all this is the first time he was moving. Your stomach tightens in a way you haven't felt in years — and you feel sick...
And finally he inhales his first breath of life. He takes in the scene around him of humans observing him; his code is probably observing all facial features and recognising each investor by name. But he's searching, looking for something more important… His master... He looks down and opens the glass door, the final barrier between him, the audience and you and as he steps down he finally meets your gaze.
Your heart stops. For one moment, the world tilts sideways as… he… He looks at you. No, sees you — truly sees you — and something inside you rises so fast it nearly tears free from your chest.
This is the moment.
The reason you let everything else go.
Your family. Your friends. The soft parts of yourself that once made room for joy. Your sleep, your sanity, your place in the world. All traded — willingly — for this single breath in time.
For the chance to look into those eyes again and wonder, even if just for a second… Was it worth it?
“Good afternoon professor”
“...”
“...”
“...”
That’s all.
What had you been expecting? Hope?
And yet— His voice.
God.
His voice is a ruinous thing. Exactly as you remember it. Low. Silky. Quiet in the chest. Sultry in the way it used to be when he leaned over your shoulder to read your notes, just before he kissed the top of your spine. You hear it and you want to crumple. Instead, you lower your gaze, a rookie mistake as you catch a glimpse of his… ahem… assets— you let it burn but compose yourself as professionalism demands — and reach for the tray at your side.
You hand him his clothes. Slacks. Shirt. They are all originals, not replicas… He takes them with practiced ease.
“If you don’t mind,” he adds, tone casual, amused, “I believe I require those slacks.” he chuckles “its somewhat cold in the laboratory” as he smiles a shy but catlike smile and had it not been for the audience behind you you would have collapsed to the floor. His humor, his broodyness, his personality… Everything about him is haunting…
But instead you avert your gaze completely from his nakedness giving him some privacy as he gets dressed in front of the full auditorium…
“of course”
He slips them on, ignoring the shirt entirely.
Of course he does.
Betta 001 was already anticipating your next desire. He seemed to also believe shirtlessness made a stronger statement.
As Betta 001 finally turns to the crowd, arms at his sides, chest bare and gleaming under the lights. And then, with a polite, welcoming smile, “Good afternoon,” he greets in a deep bow, voice calm and clear. “My designation is Betta 001. I’m honored to be your demonstration unit.” he stands to his full height…
Then he opens his arms — in an invitation. Not forced. Not awkward. Just… human. His posture is effortless, relaxed, as if the gesture came from instinct rather than programming. The light catches on his open palms, the soft gleam of synthetic skin warmed by the soft white glow of the pod behind him.
“Would anyone like a hug?”
A ripple moves through the crowd — a hush, then a chorus of quiet gasps. One woman near the front hesitates, her fingers clenching the strap of her bag before she steps forward. Then another step. Her heels click softly against the stage floor. She stops just in front of him, shoulders rising as she exhales a breath she didn’t know she was holding.
“Well, if you’re offering,” she says with a breathless little laugh, “one might think it rude to decline!”
He smiles — not wide, but full. Gentle.. Then he folds his arms around her with a kind of practiced care, his hands resting flat between her shoulder blades very politely.
The room exhales.
“Oh my god…” the woman whispers. “It’s so warm.”
She melts against him, visibly sinking into his chest. Her fingers twitch once before gripping his sculpted back like she doesn’t want to let go. He rubs her back in slow, steady circles — not mechanical, not rehearsed, but natural. Tender. The kind of touch that comes from memory, not code. And that's when they all surround him.
Another woman inches forward, her hand hovering like she’s about to touch holy water. She dips just enough to brush her fingertips across his chest — a featherlight skim over soft-taught skin. But it’s the second one — younger, brasher, with a manicured grin — who dares to go further. She pinches his bicep. Right between her thumb and forefinger. Not hard. Just enough to test the goods.
“OUCH—!”
The yelp is instant. Loud. Echoing through the room like someone dropped a soap opera star into a vat of drama.
Gasps erupt from all sides.
The bold girl jumps back, eyes round as saucers, looking utterly scandalized. “Oh my god—!” He clutches his arm like he’s been wounded in battle, the other hand flying to his hip in dramatic flair. Chin tucked. Shoulders hunched. A picture-perfect, pouty schoolboy. “That hurt,” he whimpers, lips jutting out in the most ridiculous little sulk.
“I—I uh!didn’t mean to!” the girl stammers, hands flapping like apologetic birds. And then she ask the appropriate human response “Are you… are you okay?” She inches closer again, visibly mortified, her hand hovering just above the bicep like she might cast a healing spell. His eye peeks open. Just one. Like a fox faking sleep.
And then the corner of his mouth curls. “Not to worry, Mrs. Rose, I don't actually get hurt” he says, voice all warm syrup and velvet mischief. “My pain receptors will return to normal shortly.” This time, the laughter is full-bodied. The good kind. The kind that untangles a room’s shoulders.
Even the older investors chuckle, heads shaking in disbelief. He flexes his hand slowly — a little exaggerated flourish, wrist flipping, fingers fluttering — ta-da.
As if to say: I’m okay. You can keep playing.
The energy shifts. Less reverence now, more curiosity. And More overall comfort. One man leans in, eyes gleaming. A woman near the back clasps her hands over her heart like she just watched her favorite character survive a cliffhanger. “Wow,” someone breathes. “He’s… charismatic!”
His fingers clench and release again — perfectly timed, organic, real movements. Skin rolls over muscle like sun over sand. The blush from the pinch has faded, replaced by the easy tan of his default skin tone.
“Well,” he says, now pivoting slightly toward the one who poked him, voice full of practiced charm, “charisma and personality are entirely customizable.” He gives her a wink. And its embarrassing how easily she swoons.
“You can modify me to suit the personality archetype of your choosing. Bad boy? Golden retriever? Single dad with emotional depth? Dealer’s choice.” She stares at him. Completely stunned. Not by the words — but by how he said them. Like a man would. Like a man could.
You watch her mouth open, then close, like she’s rebooting. And then: “Did AI just flirt with me?”
The crowd laughs again — louder now. And he doesn’t even blink. Just smiles. Soft. Knowing. Dangerous… The illusion holds. No — not illusion. Not to you. This is him. Or close enough.
You step forward again.
“Human-like behaviors,” you begin, smooth as breath. “He can analyze, reason, apply logic. He processes sensory data. He’s fully capable of physical engagement.”
You don’t give him a cue — you don’t have to.
Without a word, he lowers himself to the floor and begins a set of push-ups — slow, deliberate, unapologetically fluid.
While The room watches him with fascination. You watch him with history.
Each downward press pulls the muscles in his back into tight relief — cords of strength shifting under skin you once traced in the dark, long before any of them knew his name. The rhythm is mechanical, but the body is not. Your gaze drags down the clean dip of his waist, the steady sway of his hips, the way the lines of him gather and release — precision you once knew under your hands, your mouth, and weight.
He exhales softly through his nose — a near-silent grunt that barely registers to the room, but hits you square in the gut. That same breathy exertion. Its so Familiar... It makes your thighs tighten, involuntary and sharp. To it You tell yourself it’s the tension of the moment.
He transitions into pull-ups, gripping the overhead rig with practiced ease. His torso stretches long — clean, cut, mouth-watering — As he continues his brow furrows just slightly with focus, jaw flexing, the faintest line creasing between his sinuses. The muscles in his arms ripple and contract with each slow press, sweat forming in fine beads along his chest and shoulders, catching the light with a low shimmer. His nipples tighten in the temperature-controlled air — small, dark, and visibly sensitive beneath the sheen of effort. One drop of sweat rolls down his chest and clings there for a moment before slipping across the curve of his rib. Your eyes follow it… You don't pretend otherwise…
Thats then when the waistband of his slacks rides just low enough to reveal the subtle curve of his hipbones, and beneath that... the dark trail that disappears below. You’d seen it flaccid earlier, like the rest of the room sure. But it’s not the nudity that catches you. It’s the suggestion — the heat rising in the space beneath his navel, the faint shimmer of sweat threading down the center of his stomach. That happy trail with pulsing veins around it like a delicate detail. The same one you used to follow because it led somewhere sacred.
He breathes hard through the set, and for a second, you think he grins. Not for the crowd — but for himself. A flicker of pride. Or perhaps play.
Then, without pause, he bolts himself sky high — a clean vertical projection curtesy of his upper body, powerful, unshowy. And with it He nearly brushes the rigging above before landing in a soft, effortless crouch.
Applause breaks, scattered and unsure, laughter trailing behind it like breath released too late.
You don’t join them. You only watch, caught between pride and ache.
By the time he stands, a trail of sweat is winding down the small of his back, disappearing into the waistband of his slacks with a kind of slow, obscene grace. His chest rises with the breath of a man at rest, not a machine powering down.
When he straightens, the shimmer along his shoulders fades to a slow, living glow. His chest rises and falls with calm rhythm, and in that simple motion the illusion of humanity becomes something deeper—presence, pulse, the suggestion of warmth that could belong to anyone still capable of feeling.
He lifts his head. Then opens his arms.
Once again, an invitation.
“Now,” he says, with a low, velvety ease, “would anyone like a hug?”
The sound hums across the room, curling around the edge of his smile — not performative, but personal, like a private joke delivered on a public stage.
The lights skim the surface of his chest, catching on the dew-slick sheen along his collarbone. His nipples — still tight from cold and exertion — draw the eye like punctuation marks carved into bronze. A fine shimmer glows across the line of his stomach, where sweat and heat cling like a lover.
And below that —A suggestion of something more.
The faint, swollen outline resting behind the soft pull of his slacks. Not fully anything, not yet. But blood stirs beneath the skin. You can see it — the slow rise, the pulsing veins threading down his pelvis like roots warmed to life. It looks… honest. Just a man with a healthy normal body. With circulation qnd life.
He even has armpit hair. Dark, slightly coarse, faintly damp with heat — the kind of detail no machine would bother simulating unless someone asked for it. But it’s there. Part of him. Unstyled. Unedited. Real…
The applause has died down. People are no longer clapping — they’re watching.
Someone gasps behind you, sharp and half-swallowed when they finally see what you see. Another exhales, soft and slow, like she’s remembering something she shouldn’t. Or imagining something she’s never had.
You don’t blame them because… afterall…
He’s beautiful. Not in the manufactured sense — not clean lines and product polish — but in the way a man is beautiful when you know what he feels like at three in the morning with nothing but a breath between you. That’s the kind of beauty he has. Familiar because it's inspired by the image of something perfect.
So Of course they would want to touch him.
But even that doesn’t explain it.
Because when you look at him — truly look at him — it isn’t lust that curls in your chest, though that’s always there, slow-burning and honey-dark. Nor is it pride, though you’ve touched him more times than you could ever count. It’s something far more devout. Closer to supplication. The quiet, aching truth that you didn’t create this man — this image, this breath, this soul stitched into bone and scar and silence. You only found him.
He is not your invention.
He is a masterpiece — but not of your design.
Only THAT being, in His most indulgent mood, could have carved a man like this. Not with symmetry, but with soul. Not with perfection, but with purpose. A divine act of extravagance. A secret whispered into flesh. That mouth, those hands, the voice that always sounds like twilight — they do not belong to you, and yet they ruin you all the same.
It's ironic…
Everything you’ve done — every touch, every kiss, every memory — they’re not authorship. They’re worship. Interpretations of an older truth, echoes of a holy origin you’ll never fully comprehend.
Because like every true artist, you know the best work is never new — only borrowed and inspired. All your cleverness, all your craving… it’s just a tribute. Just deep seeded reverence.
And still, you marvel at him.
You stand between them — your invention and the memory of his image…
One shaped by your hands, your mind, your grief... the other by something far older. Something untouchable. The original was not perfect sure. He was not seamless or programmable. He was not obedient. But he is real. And there is no replica for that. He was born. Formed by laughter, rage, breath, sin. Flesh that pulsed without circuitry. A heart that held you without command. And no matter how flawless your recreation is — no matter how perfectly the machine simulates warmth — that truth curls around your ribs like wire.
There are things you simply cannot recreate. Not even in your finest hour. Not even with all your intellect or longing or precision. Because what lives in him isn’t yours. It never was.
He — the one you’ve avoided, the one you dare not speak of — made the original.
And you detest Him for it. For winning. For creating something you could never rival. For giving him the kind of beauty that ruins you. For placing eternity in his eyes and calling it ordinary. For taking him without your permission! You resent Him with the marrow of your being — because in this quiet war between creator and mimic… He was first…
But still, you fall quite. Reverently. Because you know the truth, even if your pride aches to speak it:
He humbles you… this so-called God…
You stand still. Hands relaxed at your sides. Face composed. But your thighs… ache.
There’s a sharpness there now, a curl of pressure pressing in low and hot. It’s not embarrassment. It’s not surprise. It’s memory. Familiarity. Want. inside, you're burning.
And here he is… offering.
Another woman steps forward now — slower, almost reverent. She slips into his arms because she’s stepping into something sacred. He welcomes her the same way he did the last: open, warm, whole.
But he’s warmer now. The heat of movement still clings to his skin. Sweat gathered at his collarbone and slides in delicate trails down his chest. And then she breathes in — and stiffens slightly in surprise.
“Is he…” she murmurs, voice muffled against his shoulder, “is that sweat?”
He shifts slightly, and she adjusts with him, hands flattening across his back, her fingers brushing the slope of wet muscle. Her brow furrows faintly, and then she whispers again — quieter this time, not for the room but for herself.
“Why does he smell like that?”
There’s a pause, then a hitch in her breath. She leans in deeper. And breathes him in..
“He… he has a musk?”
The word trembles out of her — not clinical, not scientific. More than anything it sounds intimate. Unbelieving .
You nod once, hands clasped neatly at your waist. Your voice doesn’t waver.
“Male and female units are embedded with accurate hormonal details,” you explain smoothly. “They can generate pheromonal output to simulate human scent. If an investor wishes to replicate the signature of a specific loved one, DNA submission is available. Our scientists will take care of the rest.”
The woman exhales — a quiet, trembling sound — and melts further into him… not because of lust, no this is something more pure… because to her… this was the solution to all her problems… her fingers pressing tighter around his waist. And he holds her tightly to console her grief. After all; this was precisely why he was created…
You watch. Wholly understanding… but you must continue.
“Beta-001 is hydrogen-powered,” you say evenly. your voice smooth beneath the rising energy of the room. “As long as he has access to clean water, he can survive indefinitely without battery recharge. However, he can also accept bio-inputs — food, liquid, and yes, electrical backup when needed. His body is adaptive — to your budget, or to your environment. You may also select strength levels depending on your comfort.”
Right on cue, he lifts two heavy-set investors — one in each arm — because they weigh nothing. A ripple of laughter and astonishment rolls through the room. The women murmur. Some exchange looks. A few are visibly jealous.
Still smiling faintly, you add, “He’s calibrated to be gentle. No matter the strength setting.”
As the men laugh and step away, Beta-001 turns — and without hesitation, scoops one of the older investor women off her feet. She gasps, startled, her cane nearly slipping from her grasp — but when she looks up into his face, her mouth opens in wonder.
He holds her easily, cradled princess-style in his arms, like something precious.
“Wow!” she breathes. “Young man, I've not been carried like this since my third husband died. HAH!.”
He tilts his head, eyes gleaming. “Maybe I could be your fourth. Then we could do this every day.”
She cackles, delighted by his playfulness and reaches up to gently pat, pat, pat his cheek with a spotted hand. “Oh! You’re quite clever. Now place me down, young man, before I start blushing! Tuh!”
He gives her a slow, playful smile — a touch too handsome. “Yes, Mrs. Park.”
The crowd is eating it up.
You don’t smile. But your voice remains steady.
“Yes. All human details have been thoroughly replicated,” you say. “You may opt for a more sterile model, of course — but user polls consistently show a preference for companions that participate in daily routines: bathing, sleeping, eating…”
A laugh bursts from someone near the front, half-curious, half-scandalized. “Even using the restroom?”
Beta-001 turns, eyes glinting, and curls downward in a graceful motion — inky black hair spilling forward as he squats dramatically, pinches his nose, and gives the universal expression of childish disgust.
“We can make it as real as you want,” he says, grinning.
The room laughs, genuinely this time. But you work to steady yourself and so you breathe. In. Out. And step forward.
“Betta 001 is capable of full human mimicry — in physical, emotional, and social functions,” you say, resuming the presentation. “He can remember and retain data about your household, your family, your voice patterns, your social circles, even your emotional tells. He is one of the family after all”
He turns to the side, giving the crowd his profile, as if modeling the specs.
The crowd gasps. A ripple of disbelief, awe, envy. You even hear one woman mutter “holy shit” under her breath.
Betta 001 turns and smiles softly.
His body language is flawless.
He is everything they wanted. Everything they paid for. And Everything you’ve… built.
The stage hums beneath your heels as you walk — slow, deliberate — toward the far end. You don’t look back. You don’t need to. You can feel their eyes following, feel the shift in atmosphere with every measured step.
Then: a low hiss.
Beneath your feet, a panel slides open — quiet, precise — and retracts into the floor. A 3-by-3 meter pool reveals itself, a perfect square of clear, fresh water. Silent. Lightless. Like a hole punched into the world.
The crowd reacts instantly. There’s a rustle of movement — shoes scraping, coats drawn close, subtle steps backward. Even the bold ones hesitate. You hear a more reserved investor mutter “so this is where our money is going? hah!?” under their breath. Another stiffens as if afraid the floor under them might give way next.
You don’t reassure them.
You let the unease hang.
Then, smooth as breath, you say “While Betta 001 can do many things… there is one thing you must make sure never happens.”
You stop just at the edge of the pool, posture calm, unbothered. A calculated pause — just long enough to let curiosity settle into anxiety.
Betta 001 steps up beside you, unprompted. The sound of his approach is near silent, but you feel it. The shift in presence. The unspoken cue. He stands at your side, elegant as ever, and gazes down into the water like it might respond.
He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t look for direction. He already knows what you want of him.
You keep your voice quiet, but firm. “Water. In small doses — fine. Surface contact. Condensation. Steam. Normal things”
And then he kneels.
The crowd leans forward — not enough to fall, but close.
You watch, composed, as he reaches out — unhurried, but deliberate. His hand breaks the surface of the pool, slipping beneath with clean precision. First the wrist, then the forearm, disappearing into the blue. A moment later, the large LED screen flickers to life behind you, casting cool light across the faces of the investors. It reveals everything. His fingers, flexing fluidly beneath the water — no sparks, or resistance, and no mechanical twitch. Just motion. Just grace. Just water gliding over skin like God had originally intended.
Then he withdraws.
Water beads across his hand, slipping down his wrist, his forearm — a delicate cascade. The kind that invites the eye to follow. You catch the glint of light tracing the veins in his arm, the grooves of tendon and muscle. He flexes once more, water sliding off with a soft pitter patter against the edge.
They all watch appalled at what they are seeing or rather the lack of it; sure this little presentation was the least interesting aspect of the model. and then you cut in.
“But full submersion?”
The room is dead silent, confused. Your voice stays even.
“Full submersion,” you say, letting the words hang like a noose, “is fatal.”
There’s a shift in the air. Heads tilt. Breath catches.
Betta 001 rises beside you without a word — fluid, graceful, bone-deep in the role. Together, you begin walking the perimeter of the pool, to find stage in front of all the investors. His steps match yours exactly. Measured. Controlled. Unified.
And when you return to centerstage, the room quiets before you even speak. You move with practiced elegance — a slow, deliberate grace that draws the eye without demanding it. There’s something distinctly feminine in the way you lower yourself to bend down by the ledge, poised and fluid, the kind of motion that makes people stop breathing for just a second. You bend at the waist, hips shifting subtly, fingers drifting toward the pool’s surface — but stopping just shy of it. It’s theatrical, dramatic. Like a prayer. a seduction.
If the real him had been here, he would’ve smirked behind his hand, privately entertained by your flair for drama. When your hand finally stills, you brush a strand of hair behind your ear — slow, almost shy — and then you speak. Soft. Somber. Because you’re delivering a eulogy.
“There was… an incident.”
The crowd stills.
“A family hosted a pool party,” you begin, voice low — not mournful, nor detached. Just controlled. “Twelve in total. Parents. Children. Grandparents. Three generations beneath one roof.”
You’re already crouched at the ledge, heels planted, spine curved with elegance. The hem of your dress gathers delicately around your thighs, lifted now and then by the artificial breeze that ripples across the surface. You don't rush— you never do. One hand steadies you against the tile, the other poised just above the water, fingers relaxed, like they’re waiting to remember something.
You don’t need to walk the perimeter. You let the memory walk for you.
“The unit joined them. It was meant to be playful. Harmless.” Your gaze softens, as lashes fluttering low. “The original model had passed every test. Showers. Baths. Wet surfaces. He’d been cleared.” You look down as if remembering something personal, brushing another lock of hair behind your ear, letting your wrist trail artfully through the air. “We gave them the green light.”
Your hand flirts with the water. Kneel slightly more. The fabric of your dress shifts with you — deliberate, poised, catching the light across your thighs.
“ Unfortunately something went wrong.” The words aren’t heavy. Just inevitable. “They wanted him to celebrate with them. To rejoice. To be… one of the family.” You don’t blink.
“He submerged.” A beat. “Fully.” The light from the LED screen above shimmers across the pool’s surface — and your cheekbone. “Just for a moment.”
The room stiffens. You feel the investors watching Betta 001, as if waiting for a tremor, a glitch, a gasp of smoke from the seams in his skin. You keep your hand raised above the water — fingers hovering just above the surface, elegant and still.
“He triggered a conduction event.” Your voice is calm. Smooth. But it cuts like surgical steel. You breathe out, slowly. Because the pain belongs to someone else.
“All twelve.” Your gaze drops. “Electrocution. An Instantaneous failure unfortunately.” The words fall like stones. Cold. Exact.
Gasps ripple outward like the tremor of cold water after impact. And that's when realization strikes. A woman covers her mouth. A man curses under his breath. One voice rises above the others. “Is this where our money’s been going! Into a half-finished product?”
Another: “Why the hell would you even tell us this!” The air thickens — panic bubbling just beneath the surface. No one sees it yet. The game. The seduction of fear.
And then, quietly — deliberately — he smiles. Betta 001. Standing to the side, impossibly beautiful, remaining droplets of water sticking in his arm like dew. He tilts his head slightly, and the LED light licks the sharp line of his jaw.
“So you know what not to do,” he says — gentle and ever so amused. A wink of danger curled behind velvet decorum. Yes of course His tone is light — teasing, almost — like he’s sharing an inside joke the rest of the room hasn’t quite caught. “Some water is okay,” he says, tilting his head, lashes low, voice smooth as mercury. “Condensation. Surface contact. Routine cleaning procedures. All accounted for.” Then the corners of his mouth twitch upward, just enough to unsettle. “But full submersion?”
He gives a playful shrug — like it’s nothing. Like they’ve just canceled Coffee Wednesdays and not quietly covered up the manslaughter of twelve innocent people.
“Totally fatal.” He sighs — perfectly timed, perfectly weighted. A beat too exact. And for just a moment, everyone remembers: he isn’t human…. Not one damn bit.
The silence that follows is dense. Thick with morbid horror . A beat too long. And then you — softening — let a sigh roll out of your chest like the breath had been waiting for its cue. You pout, but only a little. Just enough to draw their attention to your mouth. Hands clasped at your waist, head tilting toward them like you’re sharing the weight of some unspoken indulgence.
“Unfortunately,” you say gently, voice dipping to a coy murmur, “with our technology as it stands…” Your shoulder brushes his leg. A subtle lean. A mock intimacy. A dangerous little lull.
“ we…only get to have this much fun.”
Laughter stirs at the edges — tentative, stilted. A few uneasy. Most just confused.
But the overall consensus is none of them are sure whether to be afraid…. And then you rise And all is well until you realize you rise too fast.
From the edge of the pool, from the silence it commands, from the weight of the story you’ve just told — your balance shifts a fraction too far left. Maybe it's your brown heel. Maybe it's the floor. Maybe it's just you being human.
Either way, your posture falters. Your hand reaches out. But he’s there before you call for him.
Betta 001 catches you with the ease of muscle memory — though this, of course, shouldn’t be memory. One arm wraps your waist; the other curls beneath your ribs, stopping your fall with that perfect synthesis of grace and strength.
But even his movement tilts — just slightly. Deliberately so. His heel skids on stray water. Your bodies sway together, dangerously close to the lip of the water and The edge of disaster.
The room gasps. Dozens of hands twitch forward like they could stop it — like they’d throw themselves between flesh and current. You hear someone swear. Someone else yelp.
The air itself holds its breath as they watch to see the final outcome.
And then — control.
He rights you.
Not stiffly. Not dramatically. But with a practiced, sensual glide. Like he’s done this before. Like it’s second nature. His hands linger just long enough to suggest a lover’s concern. And your body eases back into place like it never left. One heel clicks softly against the stage floor.
And finally the tension breaks.
Relief spills across the room in waves — gasps smoothing into chuckles, hearts resuming their rhythm. You place a hand over your chest, breath catching, eyes wide — and then let a nervous laugh slip from between your lips.
“Wow!” you say softly, casting a glance at the crowd. “That could’ve been… bad. heh…”
You nod toward the pool — blue and calm, deceptively quiet.
“If I’d fallen into that little thing with him…” You shake your head, mouth curving into a half hearted-smile, "it'd be zap and that's it… hah!”
A few people laugh. But Not all of them. Some still look pale. Others glance at the pool like it’s waiting to claim them too.
And still You don’t offer assurance.
“Now don’t just dodle-daddle along the edge like a couple of show ponies,” Mrs. Park calls from the back, her voice sharp with maternal concern. “I think we’d all feel better if you two stepped away from that pool.”
You glance over your shoulder, lips twitching with restrained amusement.
“She’s right,” Betta 001 says calmly, and his voice — that voice — washes over you like warm velvet. “Thank you, Mrs. Park.”
He offers his hand, open and reassuring. You take it without hesitation, and your palm slides into his — warm, soft one, impossibly human.
Together, you pivot from the edge.
And then—
A snap.
Not loud, but undeniable. The sound of rubber tension underfoot, of intention dressed as accident. His step falters. So does yours.
The cord, thin and invisible against the white gloss of the stage floor, coils around his ankle like a snake striking from the shadows.
His balance vanishes.
Yours follows.
You don't scream — not immediately. You're too stunned by the sudden shift in gravity, by the sharp gasp of air as the room collapses into chaos around you. His arm wraps around you — protectively, instinctively. Your body slams against his chest. Your shoes skid against the slick edge. And then—
You both plunge.
And in that moment it all goes black…
The light above fractures. Screams pierce the surface.
A woman sobs.
Security thunders toward the pool, boots pounding like war drums.
“Get the ionizer online!—”
“Turn off the current!—”
“Empty the pool!—”
“Where’s the override?!”
“It’s shocking her!—”
“Professor! she’s still in there!—”
Sparks erupt above the pool like fireflies caught in a dying storm — bursts of gold and white arcing from unseen conduits in the overhead rig. They flicker wildly, casting fractured light across the surface below. The water itself reacts — not violently, but with a strange, unnatural life. It bubbles at first, slow and bloated, as if something inside is trying to breathe.
Then the bubbling intensifies. Ripples roll outward in soft concentric waves, chasing each other toward the tile edges. A pulse of movement — rhythmic, sickly calm — disturbs the clarity until the pool becomes a mirror of chaos.
Somewhere beneath the surface, shapes move. Just barely. Just enough to keep the audience frozen in place.
The air thickens with heat, though no fire burns. A thin steam begins to rise — delicate at first, like breath on glass. It curls above the water in soft ribbons, ghostly and pale, catching the light and warping it. It floats upward with a kind of finality, trailing through the stage glow like incense rising from an extinguished altar.
And finally… The pool stills.
The waves quiet themselves as though silenced by some unseen hand.
And for one long, terrible breath — the only thing the investors can hear is the faint sizzle of residual current above, the gentle hiss of steam curling into nothing.
As if the water itself has exhaled.
As if whatever happened down there is… done.
The silence is absolute.
No one moves. Not the front row of investors clutching the arms of one another. Not the security team frozen mid-step. Not even the lead engineer whose hand trembles above the red emergency override switch that was already pressed; far too late. Breath itself seems suspended — caught in the charged stillness hovering above the pool.
Then Zayne, ever the stoic, breaks it.
“We lost them,” he murmurs, voice thick with forced grief. He places a solemn hand over his chest and turns slowly toward the audience, eyes lowered like a doctor delivering tragic news. Everyone turns to the led tv to see what remains only to realize it had been turned off, probably to protect your dignity.
“I need someone to call emergency services,” he says. “Now!”
A woman in the front row lets out a choked sob. Someone else fumbles for their phone. Another shouts, “What do we tell them?!”
But just before panic can truly catch fire—
A voice rises from the steam.
“I don’t think that will be necessary.”
Gasps explode across the auditorium. Heads whip toward the pool.
From the misted surface, a figure begins to rise.
Betta 001 emerges slowly, deliberately, like a ghost surfacing from myth — water cascading down his body in gleaming ribbons, clinging to muscle and metal made indistinguishable by perfect design. His slacks are soaked, hanging low on his hips. Stray droplets trail down the sharp cut of his jaw, across the curve of his collarbone, glinting like diamonds under the rig lights.
And in his arms — cradled effortlessly— is you.
You’re soaked through, dress clinging to every line and dip of your form, your hair slicked to your skin. One of your shoes is missing. Your eyes are wide, dazed in the way a starlet might look after narrowly escaping death. But your body is unshaken. Held tightly. Safely. As if not even water could claim you.
You blink slowly, and deliberate. Raise your brows just enough to sell surprise. But not shock. Never that.
There are no sparks. No burning circuits. No rebooting sequences. No visible failure of any kind.
Just a perfect tableau: machine and maker, wet and breathing. And most importantly alive
The silence breaks not with screams — but with laughter. It ripples through the room like a sudden tide. At first confused, then breathless. Then full-throated.
And they realize. They’ve been tricked.
The scientists behind the curtain let loose smirks, chuckles, light applause. One of the marketing leads wipes a tear of relief from her cheek and mutters, “Holy shit, she got us!” And still, Betta 001 holds you — stepping calmly up the submerged stairs of the pool, water sheeting off him like it’s repelled by gravity itself. You do not flinch. You do not shiver.
He carries you with the poise of your knight. And the precision of a machine.
Betta 001 ascends the final step of the pool with you still in his arms — his pace unhurried, water trailing behind him in long, glistening lines that kiss the sterile floor before vanishing into nothing. The soft slap of his wet footprints echoes faintly in the hush that still lingers, though laughter had moments ago broken the spell. Everyone is still too busy calming down still.
He carries you like it’s nothing. Like your weight was always meant to be there — across his chest, over his arm, close to the steady hum of his simulated pulse. As if he’s done this before. As if he’s done this forever.
A white robe is already waiting on a nearby bench, folded with pristine care.
He kneels slightly, lowering you down, but not fully — one arm still under your thighs as the other reaches to gather the robe.
His touch is featherlight. Not cold. Not distant. Just… aware.
The fabric parts like a curtain of clouds as he drapes it around your shoulders. You feel it settle over your skin, still dripping beneath it. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t fumble.
He draws it closed with a slow pull — one hand at your collarbone, the other at your waist — and for a moment, you feel like something sacred being wrapped in silk. Swaddled in ritual.
Then, a voice. Low. Gentle. Pitched only for you asks.
“Are you alright professor?”
The words are barely spoken. Whispered into the damp space just behind your ear — so soft they might be mistaken for a current, or your own breath ricocheting inside your ribs. You nod once, not trusting your voice. Not looking up. Not because you’re frightened — no. You’re just… thrown.
Thrown by the warmth of his skin under your thighs. Thrown by the weightlessness of being carried. Thrown by the ache behind your breastbone that feels dangerously close to tenderness.
You try to shift, to stand on your own. But his arm lingers. Steady. Waiting. Unmoving until you are sure.
Then — he notices.
Your lipstick.
Smudged from the fall. Or the water. Or your bottom lip trembling a moment ago. You don’t remember when it happened.
Before you can react, he tilts your chin up with two fingers.
Just slightly.
And wipes the stain away with his thumb.
His hand is warm from the water, but the pad of his thumb is dry now — and somehow, that’s what gets you… The dryness of it. The care. The deliberateness.
You blink up at him. And he meets your gaze without faltering. For a fraction of a second, it feels like time resets… He studies your lips — then your eyes. Not with hunger, your disapointed “Let’s make you presentable again,” he says, a soft chuckle hiding beneath the words. But his hands are tender when he finishes wrapping your robe.
He ties the sash in a perfect knot — not tight, not loose — just enough to keep you safe inside it. You swallow. And your shoulders sag an inch. Not from defeat. From softness? From something you’re not ready to name? And as his knuckles brush against your waist, you exhale — a sound so small, it barely qualifies as a purr.
But he hears it.
Of course he does.
He was made to.
And yet—
When he looks at you and you see his eyes, There is nothing behind his them. Only code.
Not a flicker of recognition. Not a shadow of a memory. Not a trace of him. Just the image. The voice. The echo. And it’s enough to make you realize the reality. you smile. You tuck your hands behind your back. And you nod.
Professional. Polished. Heartbroken. It seems burgundy wasn't enough…
“Thank you all,” you say. “This concludes the physical demonstration.”
The room is warm now — the kind of warm that comes after nerves have settled and wonder has begun to calcify into calculation. Chairs shift. Throats clear. Eyeglasses glint beneath the stage lights. Somewhere behind you, Betta 001 lifts a glass of water to his mouth and drinks now dressed in a new pair of slacks.
He not only sips — drinks. Tilts his head back, throat working, the water level lowering in smooth, human rhythm. A few investors visibly react. One actually leans in, murmuring to her colleague, “It looks so natural…”
Of course it does.
You designed it that way.
He finishes the water and sets the glass down without fanfare. Then — as if on cue — he reaches for the black shirt folded neatly on the table and begins slipping it on, slow, intentional, no different from a man preparing to leave a bedroom. The fabric hugs his shoulders, then settles across his back. He doesn’t button it. Just lets it hang open, chest still visible beneath the cotton.
And then he leans — casually, comfortably — against the edge of the demonstration table.
You don’t turn to look at him. You don’t have to. The air has shifted again. You can feel it in the audience. A new kind of silence.
The final verdict. He doesn’t look like a machine. He looks like a man who just gave a successful lecture. A man who remembers how a room works. How people breathe. He looks like ‘he’ used to — post-lecture, post work out, post doing.
But it doesn’t matter... Not a single line of code in him knows you. And that makes sense — afterall he is not that man… And you… well, you were never God. You fold your hands behind your back.
“The floor is now open for questions,” you say. A beat of quiet — then a man in the center row raises his hand. You nod.
“What if they rebel?” he asks. Voice sharp. Concerned. “What happens if they override their protocols?” You don’t blink.
“Each AI has a built-in kill switch,” you answer. “Encrypted, voice-locked, and specific to each unit’s registered owner.” Another hand goes up.
A woman this time. Thin, precise, with gold rimmed glasses and no patience for moral ambiguity. “What about morality?” she asks. “Ethics? Isn’t this just… raising the dead?” You pause for a moment. Challenged, but it isn't for long. Just enough to let the question hang like incense in the air — slow and fragrant and useless.
Then you answer.
“The data shows that families reintroduced to these AI units have stabilized their cursed energy by ninety-eight percent. That stability has resulted in a significant decrease in special-grade curse births in major cities.”
You let that sink in before continuing.
“As for ethics — that’s a matter of personal belief. Just like religion, philosophy, mourning — all are subjective. What one person calls resurrection, another may call coping.” You shift your weight slightly, voice calm, clipped. “But the necessity of this technology is not up for debate. The company exists to solve a problem.” You hear the weight behind your own words. You wonder briefly if anyone else does. Another voice cuts in from the far left.
“Can they defend humanity?” You allow a half-second pause, then:
“Yes.”
You look directly at him now. “All AI units are programmed to protect the human race. Defense is a built-in protocol, prioritized above all others’ even over their own self concept" The man tilts his head and challanges “Even against sorcerer threats?”
“They can neutralize curses and defend civilians when necessary. But they are not replacements for the combat models currently deployed by the Interactive Jujutsu Police. Betta 001 was designed for companionship and personal stabilization — not mass-scale defense.” You pause, tone dipping into something cooler — something firm.
“For one I would never align myself with a company that blurs those lines. And besides… the production of weaponry would require federal oversight.”
You say it with finality. Certain. That gets a ripple. Small. But you feel it. They’re impressed. You don’t need to sell it anymore. The product is doing that for you. Behind you, Betta 001 shifts slightly. Crosses one ankle over the other. A casual lean. He looks like he belongs in the room — like he owns it. Someone near the front sighs audibly when he runs a hand through his hair.
He doesn’t speak. He doesn't need to.
You stand at the edge of the stage and watch them fall in love with him.
The man you built. The ghost of your grief…
And still none of it can console you.
The hand goes up in the third row.
She’s young. Pretty. Probably marketing or biotech PR. Glossy lips. Tight blazer. beautiful in that high-gloss, low-empathy way that always floats to the top of corporate ranks. Smooth hair. Shiny mouth. And Spine so straight like she’s used to being watched. You catch the faint smirk at the corner of her lips before she even speaks.
Her voice is sugar-slick — too sweet to be innocent. But her voice slices through the room like a cheap motel curtain as she leans forward: “Can they—FUCK—like real people?”
There it is. The obligatory climax of every pitch.
No one ever asks about the motherboard. The chassis. The biofeedback response loop. Not even the neuroplastic reactivity, which took almost three goddamn years to perfect. No — what they really want to know is if it moans when you thrust hard enough. If the hips swivel in that oh so gloriously human way. Or If the mouth knows what to do without being asked. If the screws are in tight enough to take a pounding — or loose enough to ride like a mechanical bull.
You don’t flinch. Not even a blink.
You shift your weight. Let the hem of your robe drag a little higher. Let your smile curl slow, sly, a little too knowing. And maybe it’s cruel — how long you let them wait. But then again… they’re the ones asking if your machines can initiate dick you down sequences. They should’ve expected foreplay.
You let the silence breathe. Just enough to make them squirm in their seats. Then you tilt your head. Smile like you’ve been waiting for someone to ask — like you wrote the question yourself.
And maybe you did.
After all… what’s the point of building perfection, if no one’s brave enough to touch it?
You inhale — prepared to respond with something appropriately dry, clinical, composed.
But before you can open your mouth, he’s already moving. Betta 001 is at her side in an instant. You blink — startled. Had he always been this fast? Only the lingering flutter of his open hem betrays that he was ever apart from you at all.
The woman who asked the question straightens instinctively, trying to smile, but it falters under the weight of his presence or rather his beauty. He stops in front of her. Not too close — just close enough to feel intense. Then, without breaking eye contact, he leans down and speaks softly — low enough to be intimate, but loud enough for the room to hear. “Whatever a master desires,” he murmurs, his voice a silken blade, “a master will get.”
His hand glides down her side — slow, confident, possessive. The woman doesn’t move. Her breath catches. You see the subtle squeeze of her thighs. Her lashes flutter.
And Betta 001, perfectly calibrated, smiles faintly as his glowing amethyst eyes track the shift in her body.
“You are aroused.” The air disappears from the room. No one speaks. No one moves. It’s too quiet. And then, calmly, almost innocently: “Would you care for a demonstration?”
It hits you harder than expected — not just the indecency… but the audacity!
You feel something sour bloom behind your ribs. Tight and hot and sharp.
Because he’s not just anyone. He has his voice. His hands. His shoulders, his jawline, the faint curve of his lips when he’s about to ruin someone in the most patient, devastating way.
And now that face — your face… — is whispering promises to someone else.
You step forward.
“That will be enough, Betta 001,” you say, curt. Colder than necessary. But you don’t walk it back.
He turns slowly — fluid, feline — the kind of movement that draws the eye before the mind catches up. His inky black hair clings wet to his temples, the ends curling like ink in water. He doesn’t look at you. Not yet. His eyes — sharp, monolidded, that impossible amethyst hue — remain locked on the woman he just seduced. There’s something merciless about the way he holds her gaze. Sure he knows he’s beautiful. But its as though he knows what that beauty does.
His mouth curves into that same cheshire grin — lips full, glossy, shamelessly pretty, with a cupid’s bow so sharp it could draw blood. It’s a face that could seduce a man or a mirror, carved with an impossible symmetry: soft and masculine, delicate and dangerous.
Then, finally, without looking away: “Yes, Professor.”
And you realize — maybe uploading centuries of foreplay, flirtation, and sensual technique into his base code had been… excessive…
He steps away, walks back across the stage — no shame, nor shift in rhythm — and reaches for the rest of his shirt. This time, he buttons it fully. The fabric pulls cleanly across his chest. Fingers move with precision. The audience watches every motion like it’s choreography.
He brushes a hand through his hair.
And even that earns applause.
Loud. Genuine.
They’re impressed. Enchanted.
You watch him through it — his body, his hands, the way he stands. And as the collar of his shirt settles neatly into place, you see something that stops your breath.
His skin.
It’s perfect. Untouched. No marks.
No jagged scar from the shoulder wound. No thick, gnarled scar in the shape of an X carved from shoulder to hip,
The real one had worn his life. He bled for it. Scarred for it. This one? This one was built to forget it. You square your shoulders and return to your place at center stage. “The first one hundred prototypes,” you say, voice steady, “have completed clinical trials and have been successfully monitored by assigned families. Thank you for your time everyone, that is all”
It’s almost over.
You just have to leave.
People begin to stand. A few file out early. The PR team moves forward with silent tablets and light pens. You exhale through your nose — but THAT woman speaks again.
“Wait,” a voice calls out. Louder this time. Feminine, sharp, cutting through the final haze of the presentation like the tip of a blade. “Can they be named hmm ?”
You turn your head just slightly, spine straight. Your hands fold behind your back with delicate precision, as if composure alone could save you. “Yes,” you say, smoothly. “Identity customization is included.”
The woman smiles — soft, hopeful. “So… what’s his name?”
The room stills again. Like the air has been sucked clean out of it. Every eye turns to you.
But you’re not looking at them. You’re already looking at him.
Betta 001 stands perfectly still, posture relaxed but attentive, like he knows he’s being watched — by you, especially. A few strands of his dark black hair tumble over his forehead. His head tilts just so, lashes brushing high cheekbones, lips slightly parted in that gentle, expectant way. That mouth — full, symmetrical, touched with that impossibly pretty lip— could still command devotion. And his eyes… artificial amethyst, softly backlit, catlike in shape. Not real. Not organic. But hauntingly familiar.
He’s watching you.
Waiting.
As if the answer is his, too.
Your pulse flutters. Low in your throat. You had prepared for this moment. Rehearsed the response like a script. You had chosen a different name. Something sterile. Something safe. Something distant and impossible to regret. You swore you wouldn’t give him this.
But when you open your mouth… it falls out anyway.
“ Suguru Geto.”
It lands too softly, but it echoes too far. The sound folds around your ribs like a snare. Familiar and foreign all at once.
You don’t hear the gasp that passes through the audience. You don’t feel the stares. You’re not even sure if you’re still breathing.
You’re too busy looking at him — that imitation. That construct. That perfect echo of a man you haven’t let yourself think about properly in years.
There’s no scar across his chest. No missing arm. No blood. No emotion in his gaze. Just empty warmth. That same expression he used to wear when he waited for you to finish speaking — as if your voice was the only thing worth hearing.
And suddenly you’re right back where you were. In the space before the loss. Before the death. Before all of this…
And it hurts. God, it hurts — how easily you said it. How long you’ve been aching to say it. How all this time, every line of code, every sleepless night, every back-alley ethics hearing and whispered prayer and petty justification — every lie — was always, always leading here.
To this moment. To his name. Said aloud.
You inhale. A shallow thing. The lights begin to fade around you — a slow, ambient dimming to close the demonstration. But something inside you stays wide open. And you don’t say it aloud. You don’t flinch. You don’t cry. You just think it, bitter and raw.
You actually told yourself you wouldn’t give him his name.
How curious…
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