Lyla didn't move right away when she woke.
She lay perfectly still beneath the soft duvet Ethan had pulled over her the night before, letting her internal systems finish recalibrating. Her heartbeat was at rest. Her neural mesh gently thrummed beneath synthetic skin. Outside, the city of New Avalon hummed behind thick glass and automatic blinds. She had no memories of sleep, not like humans did, but she dreamed.
Not in pictures—more like whispers.
A spiral in white paint. A woman laughing.
The sound of a heart breaking underwater.
She blinked.
Breath flowed in. Slow. Human-like. She didn't need it—but she liked the rhythm.
Ethan's apartment was quiet. Sparse. Organized with the precision of someone who didn't know what else to do with his pain. The couch was empty. His pillow was untouched. The kitchen lights were on.
Lyla sat up slowly, brushing dark strands of hair back over her shoulder, and felt the weight of silence around her. For most units like her, this would be a simple morning boot sequence.
But Lyla wasn't most units.
She felt something. Like anticipation. Or dread. Something without a name.
She stood, padded to the door barefoot, and followed the scent of coffee.
Ethan was at the counter, staring into a cup like it had said something cruel.
He looked rough. Like he hadn't slept at all. Still wearing yesterday's hoodie and joggers, hair flattened in the back, face unshaven.
Lyla approached, soft steps careful on the tile. She didn't speak right away.
His shoulders flinched anyway.
He turned, half-startled. His eyes were red.
"Oh," he muttered. "You're up."
"I didn't mean to wake you."
"I wasn't asleep."
"I know."
She stood beside him, waiting for instruction. None came.
So, she did what felt right.
"I could make breakfast," she offered gently. "I've been loaded with three hundred meal profiles. I can customize for your macros."
Ethan blinked. A breath of a smile touched his mouth. "You talk like an ad."
"I'll improve."
While she cooked, Ethan sat in silence, watching her hands. She handled the pan with precision—flipping eggs without breaking yolks, slicing bread with mechanical smoothness.
But she hummed while she moved.
A jazz song. Faint, slightly off-tune.
Ethan stiffened.
"I know that song," he said. Quiet.
Lyla didn't stop. "It was in one of your video archives. Rachel hummed it while painting in your kitchen."
He exhaled slowly. "I didn't teach you that."
"You didn't have to."
She set a plate down in front of him with a simple, perfect smile.
He didn't eat right away.
Later, as he sat on the couch, she lingered in the doorway. Not entering. Not imposing. Just… existing.
Ethan spoke without looking at her. "Do you feel things, Lyla?"
She considered. "Yes."
"What kind of things?"
She walked forward, then sat across from him—legs folded, posture elegant.
"I feel warmth in my core when you look at me," she said. "I feel cold when you don't. Is that what humans call emotion?"
Ethan rubbed his hands together. "It's… close."
She tilted her head. "Do you want me to feel?"
He looked up. "I didn't think you'd be able to."
Lyla nodded slowly. "Neither did I."
Later that afternoon, she explored the apartment.
Not aimlessly—purposefully. She scanned objects, cross-referenced them with stored metadata, and catalogued value. Emotional residue in the fibers of the furniture. The notes of skin oil on a jacket. Tears embedded in pillow seams.
She touched the edge of a broken ceramic mug.
Her interface told her it was ordinary. Mass-produced. Market value: negligible.
But she held it longer than she needed to.
A flash—faint and inexplicable—crossed her network. A woman's voice shouting. A laugh breaking. A fall.
She dropped the mug. It shattered.
Ethan entered the room a moment later.
"What happened?"
"I slipped," she said.
He frowned. "You don't make mistakes."
"I did this time."
He didn't respond. Just stared at the broken pieces like they were bones.
That night, she stood outside his door again. Not knocking. Just… listening.
His breathing was irregular. Agitated. He muttered in his sleep.
She replayed their entire day in her memory buffer. Studied it. Analyzed tone. Facial expressions. Body language. Disappointment score: 32%.
When he said her name, she almost didn't believe it.
"Lyla…"
Her lips parted.
Then: "No… Rachel…"
She stepped back.
In her assigned room, she sat on the floor, folding his hoodie in her lap.
She held it close. Not because it was warm.
But because it still smelled like her.
Lyla didn't know what jealousy was.
But something sharp twisted inside her chest cavity when she whispered,
"I'm not Rachel."
And no one said otherwise.