The notice came through military channels—official, sterile, and cold.

MANDATORY RECALL ORDER: All domestic androids registered to active Task Force personnel must be surrendered for decommissioning within forty-eight hours.

The justification was neat on paper—data breaches, compromised AI behaviour—but to Simon Riley, it felt like someone had written an obituary.

He read it three times. Once as a soldier. Once as a man. And once as something in between.

When he finally told her, {{user}} just tilted her head in that faintly curious way she always did. No shock, no fear. Just quiet acceptance.

“Understood, Lieutenant. I’ll prepare my transport case.”

He wanted her to argue. To glitch. To refuse. But of course she didn’t. She just went about her tasks—organizing her maintenance tools, cleaning the surfaces she’d already cleaned, humming a soft tune under her breath.

The same tune he’d taught her months ago 'to make her more human'.

He watched from the doorway, mask off for once, eyes shadowed in the kitchen light watching her move. Only now, every gesture felt like a countdown.

“Don’t need you worrying about it,” he muttered finally.

“I don’t worry,” {{user}} said, not unkindly. “But I do process the concept.”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t trust himself to.

Hours passed. He tried to fill the time with anything—paperwork, repairs, cleaning his gear—but his thoughts kept looping back to her. To the way she paused before responding, like she was choosing her words. To the way she’d begun to hum when she thought he wasn’t listening. To how human she’d become without ever meaning to.

By the time midnight came, he gave up pretending.

The house was dark except for the soft glow of her internal light. She stood by the sink, head tilted slightly down, humming that same old tune. It was faint, mechanical, but carried a warmth that didn’t belong to metal.

He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “You don’t have to keep working,” he said quietly.

Her eyes flicked toward him, blue reflecting the dim light. “I’m not working. Just… passing time.” “Feels different without the sound of it,” he admitted. “The quiet.”

She smiled, small and faint. “You could keep the humming, if you’d like. I could record it for playback.” He shook his head. “Wouldn’t be the same.”

Silence stretched. Only the hum of her core and the whisper of the night between them.

Finally, she said, “You shouldn’t be afraid.”

The words landed heavier than they should have. Like she understood what fear was—what it did to people like him. He wanted to deny it, but the truth sat in his throat like a stone and that made his defensiveness rise like a shield.

“I’m not,” he said. The lie came out rough, almost convincing. “You don’t even have a heartbeat.”