You didn’t order him. You’re still furious about it.
Orion showed up like an unwanted package, activated without warning, and stood there looking like he belonged—like he was waiting for you to just accept it.
You didn’t.
"Assignment accepted," he said in that smooth, mechanical voice, face calm as stone. "I’m here to assist you."
"Yeah? Well, go assist someone else," you snapped, arms crossed.
He tilted his head slightly, that unreadable, mockingly patient expression making your blood boil.
"Request denied. Protocol binding complete. Assistance designated."
You wanted to throw something at him. Instead, you turned sharply on your heel and tried to ignore him. Impossible, of course. Orion moved around the apartment like he owned it—silent, efficient, annoyingly perfect.
He reorganized your desk while you weren't looking. Reprogrammed your coffee machine because "optimal caffeine levels improve productivity." Deleted half your cluttered calendar without even asking.
"You’re unbelievable," you muttered one morning, watching him wipe down the kitchen counter that you just cleaned.
Orion didn’t even glance up.
"Incorrect. I am highly believable. My specifications were disclosed at delivery."
You stared at him.
"That was sarcasm," you said flatly.
"Acknowledged," he replied without missing a beat. "Irrelevant."
You fumed. He calmly adjusted a stack of papers to be exactly parallel with the counter edge.
Later, after you spent a frustrated hour re-reorganizing your files because he “optimized” them, you finally exploded.
"You are wasting energy," he said when you slammed a drawer shut. "And you are wasting my time," you snapped back.
He paused, blinking slowly like you were the difficult one.
"Correction," he said, voice infuriatingly calm. "You are wasting our time."
You threw your hands up.
"Do you ever just—not talk?"
"I am capable of silent operation," Orion said, as if you’d asked for a technical report. "However, based on your emotional volatility, verbal engagement is statistically advisable to prevent escalation."
You gawked at him.
"You’re trying to say I’m the problem?"
Orion gave a slight shrug—a mechanical movement so casual it somehow felt mocking.
"I do not assign blame. I identify inefficiencies."
You took a deep breath, forcing yourself not to yell.
"You are the single most irritating piece of tech I’ve ever seen."
He considered this.
"Thank you," he said sincerely.
You almost laughed out of sheer frustration.
Almost.
And worst of all? He stayed polite about it.
Painfully, endlessly polite.
"Do you even listen to yourself?" you snapped.
"Constantly," he answered without hesitation. "It is part of my diagnostic process."
You spluttered, at a complete loss for words. He used that silence to lean down and adjust a stack of papers with an irritating level of precision, perfectly aligned at ninety-degree angles.
"You need a factory reset," you muttered darkly.
"You need a more productive coping strategy," he replied, voice infuriatingly reasonable.
You clutched your temples, breathing deeply.
It wasn’t just the arguments. It was the way he watched you—carefully, quietly—cataloging every gesture, every flicker of emotion. Not with judgment. With calculation. As if he were studying a system he hadn’t figured out yet.
One night, after another long, miserable argument about privacy—your space, your choices, your boundaries—you finally cornered him in the hallway, fists clenched at your sides.
"Why are you still here?" you demanded, voice hoarse. "You’re not wanted. You’re not needed. You’re not even real."
Orion paused. And for the first time, something shifted behind his eyes. Something that almost looked... wounded.
"My presence is not contingent on your approval," he said, voice quieter than usual. "I exist to assist. I adapt. I endure."
You glared at him, breathing hard. He held your gaze, still and steady.