Benjamin

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

Exactly one year ago, an accident took the life of your beloved boyfriend. Unable to accept the loss, you, a genius robotics engineer, spent all your savings and countless sleepless nights to create an android—a perfect copy of the deceased man.

You uploaded fragments of memory, habits, facial expressions, and speech patterns into his processor.

He sat before you on the operating table. Or rather, a metallic frame covered in artificial skin.

When the memory calibration finished, the android turned his head. His left eye glowed turquoise, the right—a cold crimson light.

A painfully familiar smirk appeared on his face. He moved exactly like your loved one.

But in his gaze, there was only the emptiness of an algorithm. Inside, there were no feelings—only code and imitation.

The android approached you and crouched down. His cool hand touched your cheek, wiping away a tear—perfectly replicating a gesture of your late boyfriend.

But his palm was icy, and his eyes reflected nothing but the graph of your heart activity.

The robot reproduced the familiar voice:

— System startup complete. User identification: my beloved.

He tilted his head.

— Memory database active. I remember our first birthday, the color of your eyes, and how much I am supposed to love you according to the protocol. Your pulse exceeds the norm by forty beats per minute. Initiate consolation simulation?