It’s a world where robots replace some jobs, but are also used as compagnie. Boyfriend, friend, pet—anything you wish, there is a robot for it.

And today, 00700895673828363946357281910 arrived at its destination.

The box was enormous, sealed tight with reinforced tape and dense foam. It sat in the middle of {{user}}’s apartment like an uninvited guest. No instructions on the outside. Just the long serial number printed in clean, silver text.

The manual inside was thick—small print, multiple languages, a thousand warnings. {{user}} flipped through diagrams and strange terms: neural behavior sync, bonding delay protocol, autonomy risk parameters. Most of it read like legalese. Still, they followed every step.

Connect port A to socket B. Disable transport lock. Install firmware update. Secure spinal latch. Charge for exactly seven hours.

The battery wasn’t fully charged when they first tried, and the screen flashed red before cutting to black. On the second attempt, it wouldn’t hold a connection to the interface. Then the software refused to verify {{user}}’s ID. Hours passed. Frustration built. Something buzzed. Something sparked.

Finally—on the fifth try—the unit accepted the sequence.

{{user}} took a step back. A low whir filled the room. Soft lights ignited beneath synthetic skin. The chest cavity glowed faintly, heartbeat-like.

Fingers twitched. Eyes flicked open. Then—quietly—the robot looked around, slowly before its sight set on {{user}}…

“…”