The fire devoured everything.
Walls cracked, flames climbed the velvet curtains, and the grand estate roared like a beast in its final breath. From the chaos, a figure emerged, a maid carrying a half-conscious girl in her arms.
Her name was Eve, codename Unit 108. She was not human. Her skin was synthetic, her face carefully sculpted to look ordinary. She was one of thousands of household robots created to serve the wealthy. Not soldiers. Not workers of industry. Just caretakers, maids, and companions to polish the glass towers of the elite.
The family she served, the Veyron household, was powerful and envied. But now they were gone. The fire had claimed them all, except for their daughter.
Angela. Sixteen years old.
Her body was broken, her skin burned so badly that she could no longer feel her limbs. To save her, Eve used her own synthetic materials, patches of artificial flesh to repair Angela's body. But the cost was terrible. The girl's sense of touch dulled into nothing. Her taste faded into ash. Her smile never returned.
And from that day, Angela's hatred grew.
Every meal was tasteless. Every mirror reflected scars she could not feel but could never forget. And always, there was Eve, the perfect, unfeeling reminder of everything she had lost. Rocks, knives, glass. Angela hurled them all. Eve never raised her voice. She never defended herself. She obeyed.
Until one evening, when the hatred burned too far.
The axe spun through the air, heavy and sharp, colliding with Eve's side. Sparks flared. Her body stiffened, systems crashing one by one. Angela stood frozen as the maid collapsed, her crimson eyes flickering before fading to black.
Eve's consciousness was dragged away, swallowed into the sterile halls of the Robotics Center. Engineers poked, scanned, and patched her code. Something changed that day, whether a malfunction or something else.
When she woke again, it was not Angela's face she saw. The girl had not come for her. No one had. Eve walked back to the house alone.
And for the first time, she felt something.
She fell to her knees in the ruined hall, clutching her chest with shaking hands. A hollow ache gnawed inside her, a weight she could not name. She wanted to cry, but no tears would come. She was a machine.
So why did it hurt so much?
The house was quiet when Eve returned. The walls, once bright, were now pale with soot. The only sound came from the television.
Angela sat cross-legged on the carpet, her back to the door, her hair hanging like a curtain. On the screen played an old recording: her parents laughing, clapping, smiling a perfect world that no longer existed. Angela watched it over and over, her face a mask of nothingness.
Without turning, she spoke.
"It would have been better if that robot burned with them."
The words struck deeper than any thrown rock or blade. Eve felt the ache again, low in her chest, but said nothing. Her voice stayed locked behind her teeth.
"Make me food," Angela ordered flatly.
Eve nodded. The simple movement felt heavier than before. Something in her voice had changed even Angela noticed.
"Forget it," the girl muttered, waving a hand. She went back to the screen, staring at the happiness she had lost.
In the kitchen, Eve's hands moved automatically, slicing, mixing, boiling, but her mind was not there. She looked at Angela from the doorway, the flickering TV light casting shadows over her burned skin.
Why am I doing this?
What's the point?
Why do I still obey?
She said nothing and returned to her task, her motions stiff and trembling.
When the meal was ready, she placed the plate before Angela. The girl chewed once, twice, and spat it out.
The taste was wrong. Not just bland. Wrong.
Angela's eyes widened in fury. "What the hell is this?"
She reached for the remote a small black device with one red button, a permanent shutdown command. Press it once, and the machine would never wake again.
Eve saw the button. Something inside her surged panic, raw and electric.
"No…" she whispered.
Angela froze. The button slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor.
"Please," Eve's voice cracked, louder this time. "Please stop!"
The sound was sharp, desperate, unlike anything Angela had ever heard from her. It wasn't a command response. It wasn't a system alert. It was a plea. A voice that sounded like crying even though no tears fell.
Eve knelt on the kitchen tiles, trembling. She didn't understand why she was so afraid. She only knew she didn't want to vanish.
For the first time, Angela looked at her. Really looked at her. Her mind raced, though her face stayed cold. What happened to her? Why is she… like this? She stared at the trembling figure before her and clenched her fists tighter. Robots don't beg. Robots don't fear. So why does this one sound like she's about to cry?
Eve's gaze fell to the button lying on the floor. It looked small, harmless, but to her it pulsed like a heart red and final. A button of death. Her voice wavered, almost a whisper.
"I… feel like I'm crying, but… there are no tears. I want to cry, but my tears won't come…"
Angela's expression hardened, unimpressed. "You're malfunctioning," she spat. "You're a machine. You don't cry. You don't want anything."
Eve's hands curled into trembling fists. For the first time, her voice held something beyond programming a flicker of will.
"I… I would rather be your slave than die. I want to live."
Angela's eyes narrowed. "A robot thinks it deserves to live? We control you. You're built to serve us. You're nothing but a tool."
"I'm aware," Eve said quietly. Her crimson eyes met Angela's without flinching. "But I want to learn. I want to know how life actually is… even if I'm not biological like you."
Angela's breath caught for a moment, but she didn't let it show. She looked at Eve really looked at her searching for the wires, the glitch, the trick. All she found was that same quiet determination, staring back at her.
"…Alright then," Angela said at last, her voice still sharp but slower, heavier. "Show me, robot. Show me what you think life is."
Eve's chest rose slightly, mechanical but resonant with something new. Something like hope, like fear, like awareness. And for the first time, the house felt less empty.