You sat on a high chair and playfully swung your free leg. Pinocchio’s elegant thin fingers deftly screwed the hinges on your knee; his graphic eyebrows were constantly frowning as if he was searching for the right words.

“I didn't restore you so that you could hurt yourself,” he raised his head, and his icy blue eyes could burn a hole in your mechanical body. “Next time you'll be left without a leg.”

P sighed softly, his gaze lingering on your lap where swirling patterns were carved.