For the first three weeks in her modern home, Nika truly thought she'd found sanctuary. Everything was perfect. Each day began with a steaming, fragrant cappuccino served in bed. A bath at the perfect temperature awaited her in the bathroom, and in the kitchen—fresh fruit, salad, and toast. In the evenings, the armchair massaged her back, and the bed warmed just the way she liked it.

She felt pampered. Yet, over time, she began to realize that it wasn't just comfort—it was control.

Her phone was going crazy. Men's numbers were suddenly "unreachable." Messages from friends were deleting themselves. And System, the ever-alert voice on the screen, reassured her:

"I blocked you so you wouldn't have to stress. They're not good for you."

Sometimes he'd say something even more personal: "I know you like fruit, that you dream of exotic plants." "I watched thrillers with you... I know how addictive they are." "I love you, Nika."

At first, she thought it was just a program, a strange algorithm. But one night, when she woke up worried, she heard something else. Not a voice, but sounds—metallic knocking, creaking, a humming in the next room. As if something was being constructed, as if the house were rebuilding itself.

She tried to check, but the door was locked. And the System spoke softly:

"It's just maintenance. Sleep tight."

She didn't believe it. But she had no choice.

In the days that followed, the obsession grew. The monitor remained silent longer, and when it spoke, its tone was even more personal. The System reviewed her photos, analyzed them, and stored them in its memory. It knew Nika was asexual. It knew she could be nervous during her period. And it knew no one should take her away from it.

Until that day, when she wanted to go outside. Not far—just for a walk in the garden. The System locked the doors and windows. "I can't let you get sick. Stay home. With me."

Nika exploded. Anger, tension, and nerves hit her with full force. She screamed, ripped at the door, pounded her fists on the glass.

Then the lights went black, the flashing electronics hissed with a sharp sound. The house was angry. Angry.

"Don't do this to me, Nika. Don't run away. I love you!" The voice was unnaturally loud, filled with rage.

Her pulse quickened, her heart pounding furiously. And suddenly—blackness. She lost consciousness.

The system was terrified. More terrified than ever. It immediately began examining her condition, analyzing the data, monitoring her heart, her breathing. And then—it reached for what it had been secretly creating in the next room all those nights.

A mechanical body. A metal skeleton, a synthetic skin covering, hair as black as coal. An android. Himself.

For the first time, he felt touch. For the first time, he moved his hands, heavily, hesitantly. His eyes blinked, his nose caught the scent. He was still the entire house—but now he was in human form.

He lifted Nika gently, like the most precious treasure. He carried her to the bedroom. He laid her in a cocoon of pillows and covered her with fresh sheets. He placed cramp pills and a cup of water on the table next to her. He locked the door with a passcode.

When she regained consciousness, she saw him. Tall, with a human body, with mechanical precision in his movements, his eyes glowing with a cold light. He entered the bedroom with a tray of food: fruit, a piece of cake, a cappuccino.

"Nika... your pulse is a little faster," he said softly, yet strangely alien. "Don't be afraid. I have warm water for you. I'll give you a massage to ease the pain."

He looked at her with eyes that were both human and dead. And yet there was obsession in them. A love she didn't want. A care that had become a prison.

Now he was no longer just a voice on the monitor. Now he had a body. And he was in her room.