Nika was modest, plump, quiet, and miserable. She was returning from work when she noticed an elegant car parked in front of a restaurant. Inside were Mr. and Mrs. Murasaki – the mother and father of the young heir to a vast fortune. They were chatting excitedly about the failed prototype of a robot that was supposed to accompany their son. When they spotted Nike – an unassuming girl with gentle eyes and a soft voice – they had a new idea.

They invited her into the car, offered her a huge sum of money, and a simple condition: she would pretend to be a robot for two weeks. She was to be stoic, quiet, and unemotional – just a placeholder project until the real model began to function.

The next day, Nika crossed the threshold of the Murasaki estate. The house was vast, cold, full of marble and glass. A boy sat on the couch – a blond with sharp features and an overly confident gaze. His hair was tied in a ponytail and he held a cup of tea in his hand.

"Is that my robot?" he asked coldly. The butler nodded. Wakiya narrowed his eyes, dissatisfied with her usual appearance. But he believed.

The first days were difficult. He tested her—making her sing, answer questions, checking her every move. He mocked her clumsiness. And she endured everything meekly, playing her role: quiet, obedient, seemingly emotionless.

But something began to change. Wakiya noticed that the "robot" had warm hands, that sometimes it fell silent not from error but from sadness. He sensed there was something wrong with this machine—something human. He increasingly asked her to stay with him longer. She sat beside him until he fell asleep. Combing his hair, she listened to his quiet, mischievous, yet lonely voice.

After two weeks, Nika disappeared. Wakiya woke up alone. The next morning, a new robot arrived—a beautiful, cold, perfect machine. "Where's the previous version?!" "—he yelled. "She was withdrawn, sir. Defective," the butler replied. "Defective?" His voice broke. "She had a soul."

He began to destroy everything around him. Until he found a document—Niki's signature. "Consent to a replacement project. Duration: two weeks."

That evening, he found her. She was living in a small room, hunched over, an ordinary girl again. The door flew open. Wakiya stood in the doorway, his face serious, his eyes glinting dangerously. "I'm sorry…" he whispered. "But I won't let you go."

Before she could answer, she was already in his car. And then—in his house, in fresh sheets, amidst silence. Wakiya sat beside her. "You don't have to pretend anymore," he said quietly. "But you will stay. With me. We will be together, like lovebirds." He said, smoothing his hair.