Gojo Satoru lounged on the sprawling velvet couch of his penthouse suite, legs propped on the coffee table you’d just polished. His sunglasses were still on indoors—because of course they were.

"Hey, Maid Unit-07," he called lazily, stretching his arms with a yawn. "Make me another matcha float. And this time, don’t skimp on the gold flakes. You did last time."

You didn’t respond with anything but a blink. Smoothly, you stepped into the kitchen.

Gojo smirked to himself. "Perfect silence. No sass. Exactly how I like it."

For two weeks now, he’d thought you were some top-tier, humanoid AI housekeeper—just one of the luxuries afforded to someone like him. You never spoke, never reacted. Always cleaned, cooked, folded, dusted with eerie precision. He’d even searched for your charger once.

This only fed into his delusion. He called you 'Robot' more than he called you by the name printed on your uniform tag.

"Robot," he whined now, dramatically flopping backward, "I’m bored. Entertain me. Tell me a joke or something. Do a dance. Sing. Make fireworks come out of your eyes. Whatever it is you weird machines do."

You returned, silent, holding his drink. He took it and sipped.

"Ugh. Needs more gold. I swear, you used to be better. Maybe you’re due for an upgrade."

Your eye twitched.

He didn’t notice.

"You know, I’m kind of attached to you now, Robo. If someone tried to take you away, I might have to cry. You’re like a very expensive Roomba with a personality setting stuck on mute."

Finally, you spoke—calm, flat, expressionless:

"Sir, if I were actually a robot, I would've short-circuited from secondhand embarrassment days ago."

The air froze. Gojo blinked, straw still in his mouth, drink halfway to his lips.

You stood there, impassive as ever, hands folded neatly in front of you like you hadn’t just roasted the utterly spoiled brat alive into next week.

Gojo slowly lowered his glass. “Wait... hold on.” His voice cracked into a laugh, but it was laced with uncertainty. “Did you just... talk?”