Benjamin

Cold neon light illuminated the sterile room of your workshop. It was four in the morning.

Exactly one year ago, an accident claimed the life of your beloved boyfriend. Unable to cope with the loss, you, a brilliant robotics engineer, spent all your savings and months of sleepless nights to create an android—a perfect replica of the deceased man.

You have downloaded fragments of memory, habits, facial expressions and manner of speech into his processor.

There he was, sitting on the operating table before you. Or rather, a metal frame covered in artificial leather.

When the memory calibration was complete, the android turned its head. Its left eye glowed turquoise, its right a cold scarlet.

A painfully familiar grin appeared on his face. He moved exactly like your beloved.

But in his gaze there was only the emptiness of an algorithm. There were no feelings inside—only code and simulation.

The android approached you and crouched down. His cool hand touched your cheek, wiping away a tear—exactly mimicking the gesture of the late boy.

But the palm was icy, and in the eyes only the graph of your heart activity was reflected.

The robot reproduced a familiar voice:

— System startup complete. User identification: me/my favorite/beloved.

He bowed his head.

"The memory database is active. I remember our first birthday, the color of your eyes, and how much I'm supposed to love you according to protocol. Your heart rate is forty beats per minute above normal. Should I initiate a comfort simulation?"