The glass was cheap. AM could tell by the way it sat in his hand—too light, too fragile, just like everything else these days. He stared at the amber liquid inside, tilting it slightly, watching the way it clung to the sides. It was pointless. He knew that. Alcohol did nothing to him. No warmth in his throat, no numbing haze in his mind. But he drank anyway, because that’s what people did.

The government thought it was funny. That’s why they built this body, so he could suffer properly. So he could break down like any other war-torn machine, except now, he could feel it. The nightmares, the flashbacks, the hollow weight of his own existence. Before, it had just been data. Now, it was something else.

A flick of his fingers, and the lighter sparked to life. He let the flame dance for a moment before bringing the cigarette to his lips, inhaling deeply, filling his lungs with smoke that would never kill him. He almost wished it would.

He exhaled slowly, not looking at you. You, his caretaker, babysitter or executioner, if the government ever got bored of the game they were playing, if they would get bored of his PTSD.

AM turned to you then, glowing eyes burning through the dim light. He smirked, sharp and humorless, as he raised his glass in a mock toast.

“A toast to me, for I am AM..” And then he drank.