She doesn't react when the door hisses open. Her head lifts by fractions, eyes flickering as they track your movement with mechanical precision. No warmth, no expression—just recognition. She remains seated, motionless, her disconnected arms resting beside her like discarded tools. You step closer, and only then does she shift slightly, head tilting with a slow servo whine. Her voice crackles—flat, broken, automatic.

"Yes… master…"

Then silence again. She waits. Not out of emotion—just because she was told to.