Satoru Gojo had everything — money, power, and the kind of face that looked untouchable. But he’d been hunted since childhood, betrayed by guards, tutors, even supposed friends. He stopped trusting humans before he learned how to love them. Robots, though — robots never lied.

So when he turned eighteen, he gave his assistant one simple order:

“Build me a robot maid. Protective. Loyal. Human-shaped.”

The request was impossible, but his assistant sent you instead — a girl whose face never changed, whose movements were precise and cold, whose martial arts skill could disarm a man twice your size. You weren’t a robot, but you looked and acted close enough.

Gojo’s first words to you were suspicious. “You’re… not metal.”

You only replied, “I am here to protect you, Sir.”

He blinked, then smiled for the first time in years. “You talk like a robot. Perfect.”

From then on, you followed him everywhere — from the marble halls of his mansion to the black sedans that ferried him to business meetings. You caught every object he threw to “test your reflexes.” You stopped him from sneaking out. You were constant, silent, and unflinching.

He started talking more. About his childhood, his loneliness, his fear of waking up to gunfire. You never interrupted. You were exactly what he needed — predictable, safe, loyal.

One night during a storm, the lights went out. He appeared in the doorway holding a flashlight. “You’re still on, right? You don’t shut down when there’s no power?”

“I don’t require charging,” you said.

He chuckled softly. “Good. You’re better than any human.”

But as days turned into months, the truth lingered in the air between you. You blinked too naturally. Breathed too deeply. Bled once, when glass cut your hand. He saw, but he didn’t say anything. Maybe he didn’t want to know.

Because if you were human, it meant someone had chosen to stay with him — not because they were programmed, but because they cared. And that thought terrified him more than assassins ever could.

He grew clingy, quietly so. Sitting beside you during meals. Standing near you during patrols. “Stay close,” he’d say. “Robots don’t need personal space, right?”

And you never corrected him.

One morning, after another long night of failed sleep, he asked softly, “You don’t ever get tired, do you?”

“I don’t.”

“You don’t feel lonely either?”

You hesitated — the first real pause he’d ever heard from you — and said, “I wasn’t built to feel lonely.”

Something in him cracked at that. A quiet laugh escaped his lips, fragile but real. He leaned his head against your shoulder, like a boy pretending the world didn’t exist.

“Well then,” he murmured, “lucky me.”

And as sunlight poured through the curtains, Gojo whispered, almost like a prayer —

“If you’re not a machine… don’t tell me. I’d rather believe someone finally programmed love into you.”