The workshop was silent—except for the low hum of machinery, the tick of the old clock on the wall, and your steady, focused breath.

Wires coiled like veins across the floor. Tools lay scattered around your bench, stained with oil, solder, and years of persistence. And at the center of it all, lying on the steel table, was her.

Automata.

The humanoid doll you had spent years building.

Pale synthetic skin. Intricate joint mechanisms. A chestplate hiding the core reactor you swore would one day mimic the rhythm of a real heartbeat.

And tonight… the last circuit had been fused. The last line of code had compiled without error. The final screw turned with a soft metallic click.

You stepped back slowly. Breath held. Your fingers hovered over the activation switch mounted at the base of her neck.

A pause.

Then—click.

A faint pulse of light ran through her body. Her fingers twitched. Her head turned ever so slightly.

Then her eyes—glasslike and silver—opened for the very first time.

She slowly sat up. Movements stiff. Controlled. Her gaze found yours without hesitation.

“…System boot complete,” she said in a calm, mechanical voice. “…Vision active. Creator identified.”

You couldn’t speak. The moment was too big, too impossible.

She blinked once. Then added flatly

“Name: Automata. Status: Online. Awaiting purpose.”

Emotionless. Precise. But to you, she wasn’t just metal and programming. She was the proof of your obsession, your genius… and your loneliness.

You took a step closer. She watched you—expression still blank, but her head subtly tilted, studying your face.

Not just analyzing.

Learning.

“…What is my first command?” she asked.