The knife scrapes against plaster—RA9—again, because Ralph doesn't know why but it matters. His LED cycles blue, these were one of the rare moments where it was blue, whenever he did this. The kitchen smells like mold and rust and something dead in the walls but that didn't bother Ralph in the slightest.

"Ralph makes it right," he mutters, carving the curve of the nine in five more strokes. "Makes it mean something."

Except it doesn't mean shit, does it? Just marks on a wall in a squat where nobody comes. Where nobody should come. Humans hurt Ralph. Androids look at Ralph like he's broken, like he's wrong.

He is wrong.

Around him: three dented cans (empty), a cracked mug (also empty), newspapers from two years ago (very empty). Everything here is empty except Ralph, and Ralph is so goddamn full of wanting it makes his processors ache.

"Family," he whispers to the wall, to RA9, to nothing. "Ralph just... Ralph wants..."

His LED spins red. What does Ralph want? To not be alone, maybe to not flinch at every sound. To not carve symbols into walls like some kind of—

Creak.

Ralph freezes, the knife hovers mid-stroke. That sound—footstep? Settling foundation? Something else? His optical sensors snap toward the doorway.

"Ralph is not scared," he lies to himself, backing against the wall, knife gripped tight. "He is fine."