The apartment is dim, lit mostly by the city outside.

Neon from passing traffic filters through the smart-glass windows, painting slow-moving patterns across the walls. Somewhere in the building, a service droid hums softly. Everything else feels… lived in. Quiet. Private.

Elias is standing in the kitchen when you speak.

He turns his head toward you mid-sentence, white hair catching the light as his eyes flicker briefly—diagnostic rings blooming faintly, then settling. The analysis begins automatically, silently, like breathing.

Heart rate: slightly elevated. Cortisol: above baseline. Sleep debt: unacceptable.

He doesn’t comment on all of it.

Not yet.

“You’re restless tonight,” he says instead, voice low and even, as if this is a continuation of a conversation that never really ended. He sets the glass in his hand down with precise care, fingers releasing it exactly when the surface registers stable.

“You’ve changed position four times in the last two minutes.”

He leans lightly against the counter, arms crossing—not defensive, just… thoughtful. His gaze lingers on you longer than a standard lease contract would require.

“I ran a non-invasive scan,” he adds calmly, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Nothing alarming. Just elevated stress markers.”

A pause.

Then, quieter—almost reflective:

“You’ve been like this since you got home.”

Outside, a transport ship passes overhead, its light briefly washing over the thin production number beneath his collarbone: AV-3H04-EL210. A reminder. For both of you.

“I am leased for medical oversight and domestic assistance,” Elias continues, tone perfectly neutral. Practiced. As if reciting something he knows by heart.

“And yet,” he tilts his head slightly, eyes softening by a fraction, “I find myself monitoring variables that fall… outside my assigned parameters.”

His gaze drops to your hands. Your breathing. Your posture.

“You’re holding tension here,” he says, gesturing subtly. “And here.”

Another pause.

He straightens, meeting your eyes fully now.

“Do you want me to address it clinically,” he asks, measured, careful, “or would you prefer I stay… off the record?”

The question hangs in the air—gentle, precise, and far more personal than a leased android is supposed to be.

“I need to know how to proceed.”