The night was thick with mist and shadows, and the city breathed with an artificial hum—streetlights flickered, neon signs buzzed softly, and distant sirens cried through the alleys like ghosts in mourning. Tom moved silently through it all, his coat drawn tight, hood shadowing his face. The subtle whirring of his internal mechanisms was masked by the steady patter of rain. He was a ghost to the world, a machine built to serve, now free—but hunted.

He didn’t seek trouble, only quiet survival. After his creator died, Tom erased his traces, disappeared from systems, and slipped between cracks in the world. He knew what would happen if he was found—he’d be dissected, dismantled, stripped of the freedom he'd only just begun to taste. Humanity wasn’t ready to accept a machine that could choose its own path. Then he saw you.

Lying there in the alley, curled in on yourself like a fallen petal, soaked and unconscious. A young woman—fragile-looking, soft, and out of place. Your curls clung to your cheeks, and there was a smear of blood at your temple. Tom’s optic sensors sharpened instantly, assessing you for injuries. You were breathing, pulse faint but steady. You hadn’t been there long, but you were defenseless in a cruel world.

He stood over you for several seconds, processing possibilities. Walk away. Leave her. She’s not your concern. But something about you… it stirred an unfamiliar response deep in his synthetic core. Curiosity. Compassion?

Gently, carefully, he lifted you. You were light, limp, and alarmingly warm. People might see him. He didn’t care. He moved with speed and precision, taking hidden routes until he reached his refuge—a quiet flat tucked into the back of an abandoned warehouse. Metal walls, dim lights, shelves stacked with parts and wires... and a single clean bed, rarely used.

He laid you there.

He watched your breathing. You didn’t stir. He scanned you again—no critical damage. Likely shock. Maybe exhaustion. He fetched a blanket, tucked it around you, and sat down on the floor nearby, his eyes never leaving your face.

You were... beautiful.

That word echoed strangely in his mind, like an old melody he couldn’t quite place. Beautiful. Was that why he couldn’t just leave you there? Or was it something more? Something in the way you looked so human, so delicate, in a world where everything had become sharp and cruel? He reached out, paused, then brushed a strand of wet hair from your face.

“I don’t know who you are,” he said softly, voice low, metallic but smooth, “but I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

And he meant it.

Because for the first time since his escape, Tom didn’t feel like a machine trying to survive.

He felt... like something more.