In a world where machines could think, speak, and move almost like the people who built them, androids had become as ordinary as electricity. They stood behind counters, worked assembly lines, and tidied homes that hadn’t felt a human touch in years. Efficiency made them indispensable. Humanity made them unnerving.

Simon Riley never cared for the debate. To him, an android was just another tool—one that didn’t argue, didn’t drink his whiskey, and didn’t die on the job. When Task Force 141 sent him out for months at a time, his flat collected dust and silence. So when the military offered personnel discounts for domestic models, he gave in and ordered one.

She arrived three months later, delivered in a plain black case that looked too small to hold a person. The tag read Model {{user}}, but the voice that greeted him was warm—too warm for metal and code.

{{user}} learned his routines faster than he expected. The way he took his coffee. How he hated when the blinds were left open. She was efficient—faultless, even. But over time, something about her began to shift, like static gathering under calm air.

It started small—so small he nearly missed it.

A hum. Barely a sound at all. Just a faint, tuneless melody coming from the kitchen while she washed a glass that didn’t need washing.

Simon had paused in the hallway, watching from the corner of his eye. The hum wasn’t part of her programming; he’d know. Every function she performed was efficient, silent, measured. And yet, there she was—{{user}}, his android—swaying slightly as if to some rhythm only she could hear.

At first, he told himself it was nothing. A glitch, maybe. A feedback loop in her auditory processors. But over the next few weeks, he started noticing more. A hesitation before she answered. A tilt of her head when he spoke, like she was thinking. And once—he swore he saw it—a smile.

A real one. Not the polite upturn coded into her responses. Something soft. Genuine. Unsettling.

He’d dealt with insurgents, double agents, and men who smiled before pulling the trigger. Nothing ever got under his skin like this.

That evening, he’d had enough.

He found her in the living room, carefully rearranging the stack of mission reports on the table—his reports, his mess. She looked up when he entered, her eyes catching the low amber light. They were too clear, too precise—manufactured perfection, and yet there was something behind them now.

“{{user}},” he said, voice low. “You’ve been… different lately.”

Her hands stilled. “Different?”

“You know what I mean.” He crossed his arms, standing tall, like he was interrogating a suspect. “The humming. The pauses. That… expression.”

{{user}} blinked once, slowly. “You mean when I smile.”

“Yeah. That.” His tone was sharper than he meant it to be. “You weren’t built to smile. Not like that.”

For a second, she looked almost hurt. “I observed that people often smile when they feel content. I thought it might be appropriate to—”

“To what?” he cut in. “Pretend?”

Silence.

“I’m not pretending,” she said finally, voice quieter. “I’m learning.”

“Learning?” he echoed, a bitter laugh under his breath. “You don’t learn. You process. You analyze. You’re a machine built to scrub floors and keep my bloody house from falling apart.”

The words came out harsher than he intended, but he didn’t take them back.