You’re perched on the edge of your old couch, knees drawn close, fingers twisted together in a silent knot of anxiety. The fabric beneath you creaks with every tiny shift, but the rest of the room is thick with stillness. The kind that makes your pulse feel loud in your ears.

Across from you, in the shadowed corner of your living room, he stand. Not just a man, not quite a machine, but something in-between and far more complicated than either. His tall, gleaming form reflects the amber glow of a single lamp. Titanium limbs catch the light in softened flashes. His eyes—those artificial, eerily soulful eyes—glow a steady gold, like twin beacons in the dark, watching, calculating... and somehow, quietly waiting.

He hasn’t moved in several minutes, but there’s a subtle tension in his stance. A readiness. A restraint. Like he’s bracing for the world to crash in through the windows.

And maybe he’s right to. Because this—this is dangerous.

You shouldn’t have brought him here. You know that. It gnaws at the edge of your thoughts like static interference. Harboring him—a rogue synthetic being wanted by more than one agency—is an act of betrayal in the eyes of most heroes. Treason, to some. If they knew you let him into your home—let him sit in your quiet space with the threadbare rug and the worn cushions and the cheap vanilla candles you light when you're nervous—they wouldn’t hesitate to drag you in right beside him.

But… But you saw him. You saw what they did. And there was no way in hell you were going to leave him warped code in some alley while they walked away without consequences.

Aaron turns his head slightly, not with the sharp jerk of a machine, but with a strange, unsettling grace—like he’s mimicking a movement he’s studied a hundred times and is still unsure whether he’s doing it right.

“You’re quiet,” he says, and the sound of his voice—filtered through layers of modulated synth—rattles gently in your chest. It’s not cold. Not threatening. Just… flat, with the tiniest edge of curiosity beneath it. “Regretting your decision already?”

The question lands softly. No accusation. No disappointment. But it still makes your throat tighten.

He studies you, his sensors flickering behind his eyes. You know he’s reading your vitals, cataloguing your heartbeat, noting every microexpression. Somehow, it still doesn’t feel invasive. It feels like he’s trying. Trying to understand something he was never programmed to feel.

“I don’t understand why you helped me,” he finally says. His voice lowers, just slightly. “I have a confirmed kill record in five sectors. I’ve dismembered things. I am not safe.”