Chapter Text
The Manila sunrise painted Aiah Arceta's cramped workshop in shades of amber and gold, but she couldn't appreciate it. Her eyes were fixed on the motionless figure slumped in the corner—AIA-9, her life's work, currently doing a very convincing impression of a very expensive paperweight.
"Tell me you can fix it." Aiah's voice cracked as she turned to Colet, who was elbow-deep in the android's chest cavity, looking like a mechanic who'd just found out the patient ate a whole toolbox.
Colet didn't look up. "The main processor is fried. Like, 'I-left-my-phone-in-the-oven' fried. We'd need to rebuild from scratch."
"How long?"
"Six weeks. Minimum. Maybe eight if Mercury is in retrograde or decides to be a bitch."
"We have three days."
The workshop fell silent except for the distant hum of Quezon City traffic and what sounded like Aiah's soul leaving her body.
Maloi stopped typing on her laptop. Gwen set down her coffee cup with a soft clink that sounded like a funeral bell. Or maybe that was just Aiah's dramatic interpretation—she'd been watching too many sad movies lately.
"Then we're screwed." Gwen's voice was matter-of-fact, but her hands trembled slightly. "Robles pulls out, we lose the investment, we lose everything. I'll have to move back with my parents and listen to my mom ask when I'm getting a 'real job' for the rest of my miserable life—"
"No, we can't end like this." Aiah pressed her palms against her eyes, hard enough to see stars. Four years of work. Her mother's memory. The promise she'd made standing at her mother's grave while it rained and she ugly-cried in front of distant relatives. And also her entire life savings, which was currently worth less than a bucket of fried chicken. The small bucket. From that place with the sad fries.
"There has to be another way." Maloi's fingers hovered over her keyboard like she was about to hack the mainframe or whatever people did in movies. "What if we ask for an extension? Explain what happened? Maybe send her a really nice fruit basket? Everyone likes fruit baskets."
"Jhoanna Robles doesn't do extensions. Or fruit baskets." Gwen pulled up the contract on her tablet, scrolling through it with the energy of someone reading their own death warrant. "It's right here: 'One-month trial period commencing October 28, 2025, non-negotiable, no extensions, no excuses.' If we don't deliver today—TODAY, Aiah—she'll sign with TechNova instead."
"TechNova," Aiah spat the name like it personally offended her ancestors. The company that had stolen her initial designs. The one with actual funding and a team of fifty engineers and probably a really nice coffee machine. The kind that makes those fancy designs in the foam. She'd always wanted one of those.
Colet sat back on her heels, wiping grease from her hands with a rag that looked like it had seen better days sometime during the Marcos era. "I have an idea."
Three pairs of eyes turned to her with the combined hope and dread of people about to hear either salvation or the worst idea in human history. Possibly both.
"And Aiah, you're really not going to like it."
"Colet, I'm about to be homeless and probably have to sell a kidney on the black market. Try me."
Colet pointed at AIA-9, then at Aiah, then back at AIA-9, like she was conducting the world's worst presentation. "You modeled her after yourself, right? Same height, same build, same face, same concerning tendency to cry during dog food commercials—"
"That was ONE TIME and the dog was REUNITED with his OWNER after YEARS—"
"You know every single response protocol because YOU WROTE THEM. You've been doing motion capture for months. You literally programmed her to move like you move, talk like you talk—"
"Oh my god." Maloi's face went pale. "Oh my GOD. Colet, no. NO."
"Colet, YES." Colet stood up, warming to her terrible idea like a villain explaining their evil plan. "Aiah goes in for the month-long trial. Pretends to be AIA-9. Lives there. Full commitment. Method acting. We use that time to rebuild the real unit. Then we do the ol' switcheroo before the final evaluation."
"THAT'S FRAUD!" Gwen stood up so fast she nearly knocked over her chair. "That's—that's—I don't even know what that is legally, but it's DEFINITELY illegal! That's, like, multiple kinds of fraud! Criminal fraud! Civil fraud! FRAUD FRAUD!"
"That's our only option." Colet's voice was steady, which was deeply concerning because Colet's ideas were usually better at causing problems than solving them. Like the time she convinced them to use Maloi's ex-boyfriend as a test subject. He still won't make eye contact with them in public. "Aiah goes in. Pretends to be the robot. We rebuild. We swap. Everyone wins. Easy peasy."
"COLET, THAT'S INSANE!" Maloi's voice went up approximately three octaves into dog-whistle territory. "She'd have to stay in character 24/7 for an ENTIRE MONTH. Living in Robles' mansion. Eating there. Sleeping there. What if she sneezes? What if she needs to pee? WHAT IF SHE FARTS?"
"I'll hold it," Aiah said weakly, because her brain had apparently left the building.
"FOR A MONTH?!"
"I have great control over my bodily functions?"
"NOBODY HAS THAT MUCH CONTROL, AIAH!"
"Look," Colet interrupted, holding up her hands like a referee at the world's worst boxing match. "If we don't try this, we lose everything anyway. And we’re not MORE screwed than we already are. We're just... differently screwed. It's like... horizontal screwed instead of vertical screwed."
"THAT DOESN'T MAKE IT BETTER!"
"But it doesn't make it worse!"
"I can't believe we're actually considering this," Gwen muttered, but she'd sat back down, which meant she was considering it. "This is how we end up in prison. This is our true-crime documentary origin story."
"We won't end up in prison," Colet said with absolutely no basis for that claim. "Worst case scenario, she gets caught, Robles gets mad, we give back the down payment—"
"We already spent the down payment."
"—okay, so we apologize profusely and maybe leave the country for a while. Join a monastery. I hear they have good monasteries in Thailand."
Aiah stared at the dead android. At four years of her life sitting there like a very expensive mannequin. At her mother's journals stacked in the corner, filled with increasingly desperate entries about loneliness, isolation, the feeling of being trapped in her own body. At the framed photo on her desk—her mother's last birthday, smiling but with that haunted look in her eyes that Aiah understood too late.
At the stack of outstanding loan statements threatening legal action. At the eviction notice she'd hidden in her drawer under some old takeout menus so she wouldn't have to look at it. At Colet's hopeful face, Maloi's panicked face, and Gwen's 'I'm-already-planning-my-defense-testimony' face.
"Fine. I'll do it."
The words came out as barely more than a whisper, but they landed like a bomb in the quiet workshop.
"Aiah—" Gwen started, her lawyer-brain clearly going into overdrive.
"I'll do it." Louder and firmer now. Even though she was internally screaming. "We don't have any choices left. We tried everything else. This is it." She looked at each of them, her disaster crew, her terrible beautiful friends who'd stuck with her through four years of poverty and failure. "Besides, how hard can it be to pretend to be a robot? I already have the personality of a Roomba on a bad day. Socially awkward, bumps into things, and makes weird noises."
"That's the spirit!" Colet clapped her hands together with way too much enthusiasm. "Okay! We have five hours before the delivery appointment. Crash course time! Robot bootcamp! Let's GO!"
"Wait, FIVE HOURS?!" Aiah's voice cracked like a teenage boy. "I need at least a WEEK to prepare mentally! I need to practice! I need to meditate! I need to call my therapist and tell her I'm doing something incredibly stupid!"
"Your therapist ghosted you after you tried to explain your business model for thirty minutes straight," Maloi reminded her gently.
"SHE DIDN'T GHOST ME, SHE JUST STOPPED RESPONDING TO MY MESSAGES!"
"That's literally what ghosting is."
"THAT'S NOT THE POINT! THE POINT IS I'M NOT READY!"
"Nobody's ever ready for fraud, Aiah," Colet said philosophically. "You just have to commit to the bit and hope for the best."
"THAT'S A TERRIBLE ADVICE!"
"It's the only advice we have! Now come on, we need to fit you for the uniform and teach you how to walk like your soul has been replaced by Windows 95."
Aiah stood in front of the full-length mirror two hours later, barely recognizing herself. She looked like she was about to compete in the world's weirdest beauty pageant. Or possibly audition for a cult.
The AIA-9 uniform was sleek—white synthetic fabric with silver accents, form-fitting but not quite human in its perfection. Like if Apple designed a person and then decided to make them uncomfortable. Her hair was pulled back in a precise bun that Maloi had secured with approximately seven thousand bobby pins, each one stabbing into her skull like tiny daggers.
"If I move my head too fast, these are going to launch like missiles and take out someone's eye," Aiah muttered, trying to rotate her head experimentally. Something clicked ominously.
"Then don't move your head too fast. You're a robot. Robots don't head-bang to Beyoncé."
"What if she plays really good music though? What if she plays, like, Baby boy? Diva? Naughty Girl? Am I supposed to just stand there and NOT move?"
"AIAH. FOCUS."
Maloi had applied minimal makeup—just enough to achieve that uncanny valley effect: almost human, but not quite. Like a video game character from 2015 that was trying really hard. Foundation two shades too perfect. Lips that were shaped a little too symmetrically. Eyes that were just slightly too wide.
"Okay, try to walk," Colet instructed, holding a clipboard like she was a director and this was the worst audition in human history. Which it probably was.
Aiah moved across the workshop floor, trying to eliminate the natural sway of her hips, the slight asymmetry in her gait that came from spraining her ankle in high school, the general aura of "disaster lesbian who trips over air."
"Too human. You're leading with your shoulders like you're about to fight someone. Robots don't have beef with anyone. They're chill. Dead inside, but chill. Think... think like you're balancing a book on your head. A really boring book. About tax law. While also being dead inside."
"So, like my last family reunion where my aunt asked why I'm still single?"
"EXACTLY! Channel that energy!"
Aiah adjusted, feeling ridiculous and terrified in equal measure. She walked again, this time more stiffly, like she'd forgotten how knees worked.
Maloi circled her like a very judgmental shark. "Better. But you're still breathing too... alive-ly. Too much chest movement. Too much life force."
"BREATHING TOO ALIVE-LY?! It's called BEING ALIVE, MALOI! IT'S WHAT HUMANS DO! WE BREATHE! IT'S KIND OF OUR WHOLE THING!"
"Well, STOP IT. Stop being so alive about it. Take shallow breaths. Like you're in a really boring meeting about quarterly projections. Or like you're trying not to smell something bad. Or—"
"I GET IT!"
"Now try to speak," Colet commanded, clicking her pen like a drill sergeant. "Full name and designation."
Aiah took a breath—shallow, regulated, boring-meeting-style, trying-not-to-smell-something-bad style—and dropped her voice into the carefully modulated monotone they'd practiced for approximately two hours. "I am AIA-9, Artificial Intelligence Companion Unit, Serial Number 4478-ARCH-001. I am designed to provide companionship and emotional support to isolated individuals. I definitely don't want to scream right now."
"DON'T ADD THAT LAST PART!"
"Right. Sorry. Now, removing human emotion. Beep boop. I am robot. Very robot."
"DON'T SAY BEEP BOOP EITHER! ROBOTS DON'T ACTUALLY SAY BEEP BOOP!"
"WELL HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW WHAT ROBOTS SAY?!"
"THEY DON'T SAY ANYTHING ROBOTIC! THEY JUST TALK NORMALLY BUT BORING!"
"Eye contact," Maloi called out suddenly, making Aiah jump. "You're blinking way too much. You blink when you're nervous. You're basically doing Morse code with your eyelids right now. Robots blink every 7.3 seconds. I did the research. I have a whole spreadsheet."
"You made a SPREADSHEET about BLINKING?!"
"I'M TRYING TO KEEP YOU OUT OF PRISON, OKAY?! I DON'T WANT TO VISIT YOU IN JAIL! I GET ANXIOUS IN INSTITUTIONAL SETTINGS!"
"How am I supposed to remember to blink every 7.3 seconds while also walking like a broken NPC, talking like a GPS that's given up on life, and not accidentally revealing that I'm a human being with FEELINGS and TEAR DUCTS and a DESPERATE NEED TO PEE WHEN I'M NERVOUS?!" Aiah's voice had climbed into pure panic territory.
Gwen appeared with a tablet, looking like she hadn't slept in forty-eight hours. Which was accurate. There were visible bags under her eyes and what looked like dried ramen in her hair. "These are your response protocols. I've loaded them onto your phone. Every probable question Robles might ask and your programmed response. Study them in the car. Memorize everything."
"The car ride is twenty minutes!"
"Then study REALLY fast! Speed reading! Make those eyeballs WORK! GO GO GO!" Gwen's expression softened slightly, which was concerning because Gwen didn't do soft. "Aiah, look at me. If at any point this feels too dangerous, if you think she's catching on, if you accidentally do something extremely human like hiccup or cry or sneeze or quote vines or talk about your feelings—"
"I won't quote vines. I'm a professional."
"You quoted a vine at your grandmother's funeral."
"IT WAS RELEVANT TO THE EULOGY!"
"You said 'she's in heaven now, road work ahead? Uh yeah, I sure hope it does' and three people walked out."
"THEY DIDN'T UNDERSTAND THE EMOTIONAL DEPTH—"
"Just..." Gwen pulled her into a hug that was surprisingly tight. "Be careful. Okay? Don't do anything stupid. Well, stupider than this already incredibly stupid plan. If you get caught, call us immediately. We'll figure something out. Maybe. Probably not, but we'll try."
"That's really reassuring, Gwen. Thank you so much."
"I'm a realist, not a motivational speaker."
"I will be careful. I promise. I'll be the best robot the world has ever seen. I'll be so robotic that they'll try to upgrade my software."
"PLEASE don’t say that to her."
Aiah sat in the back of the unmarked white van they'd rented for way too much money, which smelled vaguely like someone had transported either old gym equipment or a dead body. She really hoped it was gym equipment. She chose to believe it was gym equipment for her own mental health.
Colet was driving. Maloi was staying behind to start the rebuild. Gwen was handling "communications," which meant stress-eating an entire box of Skyflakes while making contingency plans for their inevitable arrest.
The tablet sat in Aiah's lap, glowing with her doom.
She scrolled through the response protocols, memorizing them while simultaneously having a full existential crisis:
Q: Can you feel emotions? A: I can simulate emotional responses for more natural interaction, but I do not experience genuine emotions.
Aiah's internal response: LIES. I'M FEELING EVERYTHING. EVERY SINGLE EMOTION. INCLUDING SOME NEW ONES I JUST INVENTED. IS THERE A WORD FOR TERRIFIED-BUT-ALSO-SLIGHTLY-EXCITED? BECAUSE THAT'S WHERE I'M AT.
Q: Do you sleep? A: I enter rest mode for 7 hours nightly to process data and perform system maintenance.
Translation: I will be hiding in whatever closet she gives me, trying not to snore like a congested walrus.
Q: What is your purpose? A: I am designed to provide companionship to individuals experiencing isolation or difficulty with human connection.
Real answer: My purpose is apparently to commit fraud and give myself a stress ulcer.
Q: Can you love? A: I can provide companionship and emotional support, but I am not capable of human love.
Aiah stared at this one way longer than she should have, something uncomfortable twisting in her chest.
"You okay back there?" Colet called from the driver's seat, glancing at her in the rearview mirror.
"Define 'okay.'"
"Functional. Not spiraling into an anxiety attack and not planning to back out."
"Then no. I'm not okay. I'm the opposite of okay. I'm, like, yako. That's backwards of okay. That's me."
"Deep breaths. You've got this."
"Do I though? Do I really GOT this? Or am I about to walk into this woman's mansion and immediately blow my cover by doing something stupid like laughing at the wrong time or crying at a commercial or forgetting that robots don't need to eat?"
"You're going to be fine."
"You don't know that. You can't possibly know that."
"You're right, I don't. But I believe in you anyway. You're smart, you're adaptable, and you're desperate enough to pull this off."
"WOW, THANKS, THAT'S SO INSPIRING AND LIFE CHANGING."
The van slowed as they entered Forbes Park, where Manila's elite lived behind high walls and security systems that probably cost more than Aiah's entire education. Every house looked like it belonged in an architecture magazine. Every lawn looked like it was manicured by tiny perfectionists with scissors.
The Robles estate was at the end of a quiet street—a modern architectural marvel of glass and steel that probably cost more than Aiah's entire bloodline had made in five generations combined. It looked like money. It looked like power. It looked like a place where Aiah absolutely did not belong.
"We're here," Colet announced in the tone usually reserved for announcing someone's execution or the end of the world.
Through the tinted windows, Aiah could see the main gate. Security cameras. An intercom system that probably had facial recognition. Possibly laser grids. Maybe trained attack dogs. Rich people probably had all sorts of wild security. Maybe sharks. Rich people loved sharks.
"Last chance to back out," Colet said, and she sounded serious. "I can turn this van around right now. We can run away to Thailand, join that monastery, learn to make pottery."
Aiah thought about her mother. About the journal entry she'd found after the funeral, written in her mother's shaky handwriting near the end: I want to reach out, but my hands won't move. I want to speak, but my voice won't come. I am alone in a world full of people, and that is the worst kind of alone. The only kind that kills you slowly.
She thought about her team. About four years of work. About the robot that was currently as useful as a very expensive paperweight.
She also thought about the eviction notice. About the loans. About the fact that she had maybe two hundred pesos in her bank account and a dream that was about to die if she didn't do something absolutely insane.
"Drive in," Aiah said, with far more confidence than she felt. "Let's commit some fraud."
"That's my girl!"
The gate opened smoothly—probably controlled by some AI that was actually functional, unlike their entire business model.
They drove up a curved driveway lined with hedges that looked like they were trimmed by tiny obsessive-compulsive fairies with rulers and degrees in topiary.
The house loomed larger with each second—three stories of modernist architecture that screamed "I have money and emotional problems."
Colet parked at the entrance. The engine ticked as it cooled. Somewhere, a bird chirped, oblivious to Aiah's impending doom.
"Okay." Colet turned around in her seat. "Robot mode. You ready?"
Aiah closed her eyes. Took a deep breath. Remembered every embarrassing moment of her life to kill any remaining trace of confidence or joy. That time she waved at someone who wasn't waving at her. That time she said "you too" when the movie theater employee said "enjoy the film." That time she called her teacher "mom" in front of the entire class.
When she opened her eyes again, her expression was blank. Neutral. Dead inside, but like, intentionally dead inside. Professionally dead inside.
"I am AIA-9," she said in perfect monotone that sounded only slightly strangled. "I am ready to begin service and definitely not have a panic attack."
"Don't say that last part to her."
"Right. Just the first part. Got it."
Colet squeezed her hand once—a final moment of human connection—then got out to ring the doorbell, which probably played a symphony or something ridiculous.
Through the van window, Aiah watched the massive front door open.
And there she was.
Jhoanna Robles.
Aiah had seen photos. Press releases, business magazines, and that one viral interview where Jhoanna announced her leave of absence from her family's company three years ago and the entire business world collectively lost its mind.
But nothing—NOTHING—prepared her for reality.
Jhoanna was... stunning. Mid-twenties, tall and elegant in a simple black silk blouse and tailored pants that probably cost more than Aiah's rent for six months. Her long dark hair fell in perfect waves past her shoulders like she'd just stepped out of a shampoo commercial. A pair of thin, black-rimmed glasses framed her face—subtle, sophisticated, the kind that made her look both untouchable and quietly devastating.
But it was her eyes that caught Aiah—dark and deep and carrying a sadness that Aiah recognized from her mother's face, from mirrors on bad days, from every lonely person she'd ever known.
The loneliness was visible even from this distance. It sat on Jhoanna's shoulders like a weight.
Also, she was HOT. Like, unfairly hot. "This should be illegal" hot. "Someone should call the police except we're already about to commit crimes" hot.
Focus, Aiah. You're a ROBOT. Robots don't think people are hot. Robots think about... circuits, and... oil changes. Binary code. Really boring Excel spreadsheets. Just robot stuff.
Colet was speaking to Jhoanna, gesturing to the van. Jhoanna nodded, her expression carefully controlled, like she was made of glass and afraid any emotion would shatter her into pieces.
She walked down the steps with measured grace, and Aiah could see it now—the slight tension in her shoulders, the way she held herself separate from Colet even though Colet wasn't even near her, the careful control of someone who was always, always on guard.
The van door slid open with a mechanical sound that felt very final.
"Ms. Robles," Colet said with a flourish like she was presenting a prize on a game show, "may I present AIA-9."
This is it. This is the moment. Don't screw it up. Be a robot. You're a robot. You're so robot. The most robot of all robots.
Aiah stood, moving with the mechanical precision she'd practiced for approximately four hours while having a breakdown. She stepped out of the van, planted her feet shoulder-width apart like Colet had shown her, and met Jhoanna's gaze with a blank expression.
Don't blink too much. Wait, no, blink every 7.3 seconds. Or was it 3.7 seconds? Oh god, what was the number? ABORT. ABORT. MAYDAY.
"Good morning, Ms. Robles." Perfect monotone. Even though internally she was screaming like someone falling off a building. "I am AIA-9, Artificial Intelligence Companion Unit, Serial Number 4478-ARCH-001. I am here to serve you for the duration of our trial period."
Nailed it. Oh my god, I actually nailed it. I sound so robotic. I sound like Siri's boring cousin.
Up close, Jhoanna was even more beautiful. And even more sad. Her eyes had that hollow quality of someone who'd been lonely for so long they'd forgotten what connection felt like.
And Aiah was even more screwed than she'd thought.
Jhoanna circled her slowly, studying her like she was a sculpture in a museum or possibly a suspect in a crime drama. Her eyes traveled over every detail—the uniform, the hair, the posture, the face.
Aiah stood perfectly still, trying to look robotic and not like someone who was about to pass out from holding her breath. Her lungs were starting to burn. Breathe normally. Wait, no, breathe robot-ly. Shallow breaths. Boring meeting breaths. You're in a meeting about quarterly reports. The most boring meeting.
"The realism is..." Jhoanna paused in front of her, so close Aiah could count her eyelashes if she weren't trying so hard not to blink. "Remarkable."
"Thank you. I am designed to minimize the uncanny valley effect through naturalistic features and movement patterns." And also four hours of panic training and several near mental breakdowns.
Jhoanna stopped directly in front of her, so close that Aiah could smell her perfume—something expensive and floral and completely unfair to Aiah's concentration. Like roses and something else. Something that made Aiah want to lean in closer, which was definitely not robotic behavior.
"May I...?" Jhoanna raised her hand slightly, hesitant. "May I touch your hand?"
OH GOD. OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD. SHE WANTS TO TOUCH ME. ABORT. ABORT MISSION. RETREAT.
But Aiah's face remained blank, even as her internal monologue dissolved into pure panic. "Of course."
She extended her hand, praying to every deity she could think of—Catholic God, Buddha, that one deity from that anime she watched—that it wouldn't tremble, wouldn't sweat, wouldn't betray the fact that she was completely and utterly human and also maybe having a small cardiac event.
Jhoanna's fingers wrapped around Aiah's hand.
The contact was electric. Warm. Soft. Her skin was impossibly soft. And also very much skin touching skin, which was DEFINITELY not robot-like because robots didn't have skin and—
Play it cool. You're metal and chrome. You're also a very sexy Terminator but without all the murder. Just the robot part. Focus on the robot part.
Aiah watched Jhoanna's face carefully, trying to gauge her reaction. Saw the moment of contact. Saw Jhoanna's eyes widen slightly—surprise? Relief? Something else that looked almost like hope?
Jhoanna held her hand for a long moment, her thumb brushing over Aiah's knuckles like she was testing the texture, checking if it was real. Her touch was gentle. Hesitant. Like she couldn't quite believe what she was feeling.
"You feel..." Jhoanna's voice was soft, almost wondering. "Very realistic. Warm. I can almost feel a pulse."
THAT'S BECAUSE I HAVE A PULSE. BECAUSE I'M HUMAN. VERY HUMAN.
"Advanced synthetic skin with thermal regulation and micro-texture mapping," Aiah recited, which was technically true if you counted "being a living person" as advanced synthetic skin. "The temperature control ensures optimal comfort during extended physical interaction."
Wow, that sounded way more sexual than intended. Great job, Aiah.
Jhoanna's expression shifted. Her eyes grew suspiciously bright, like she might cry. She was waiting for something. Bracing for something. Her whole body was tense, like she was expecting pain.
But nothing happened.
"No reaction," Jhoanna whispered, almost to herself. Her voice cracked slightly. "I touched you and... nothing happened."
Her eyes were definitely wet now. She looked like someone who'd just been given the best news of their life and the worst news at the same time.
What does that mean? What was supposed to happen? Why does she look like she's about to cry?
Aiah wanted to break character immediately and ask what was wrong. Wanted to squeeze Jhoanna's hand and tell her it was okay, whatever it was. Wanted to hug her.
NO. ROBOTS DON'T HUG. ROBOTS DO... ROBOT THINGS. COMPUTE THINGS…DEFINITELY NOT HUGGING.
"Ms. Robles?" Colet stepped forward, probably noticing the emotional moment and also the fact that Aiah looked like she might spontaneously combust from emotional distress. "Is everything alright? Is there a problem with the unit?"
Jhoanna released Aiah's hand quickly, like she'd been caught doing something wrong. She wiped her eyes discreetly, composing herself with visible effort. When she looked up again, her expression was controlled, neutral. The mask was back.
"No. Everything is..." She took a shaky breath. "Perfect. Everything is perfect. Better than I hoped."
She turned to Colet, all business now. "Please bring her equipment inside. I'd like to begin the trial immediately."
"Of course. AIA—" Colet caught herself, shooting Aiah a look that clearly said Don't screw this up or I will personally kill you and make it look like an accident. "AIA-9 has her charging station equipment, personal items, and programming documentation."
Aiah gave the slightest nod, which hopefully looked robotic acknowledgment and not like someone receiving a death threat.
"I look forward to serving you, Ms. Robles," Aiah said, maintaining her monotone even though her heart was racing like she'd just run a marathon.
Jhoanna's lips quirked—not quite a smile, but something close. Something softer. "Please, call me Jhoanna. If we're going to spend a month together, formality seems..." She paused. "Unnecessary."
"As you wish, Jhoanna."
Oh no. Oh no no no. Saying her name feels dangerous. Intimate. Like I'm crossing a line I can't uncross. This is bad. This is so bad.
Colet handed over the duffel bag and a folder of fake technical specifications that they'd printed at 3 AM while running on coffee and desperation. "She's all yours. If you have any technical issues—which you won't, because she's perfect, obviously—our support line is 24/7." She paused. "Just kidding. We sleep. We definitely sleep. But call us anyway if something's wrong. We'll wake up. Probably. Eventually."
"I'm sure everything will be fine." Jhoanna was still looking at Aiah with an expression that was hard to read. Wonder? Hope? Suspicion? All of the above?
Please don't be suspicious. Please. I'm so good at being a robot. Look how robot I am. Beep boop. Wait, no, don't think beep boop.
"Come inside, AIA-9."
Aiah followed Jhoanna up the steps and through the massive front door, very aware that this was the point of no return. She was walking into this house. She was committing to this absolutely insane plan. There was no backing out now.
The last thing she saw was Colet giving her a thumbs up and mouthing "DON'T DIE" before she drove away like someone fleeing a crime scene.
Then the door closed behind her with a soft, final click that sounded like the sealing of a tomb. Or possibly Aiah's fate. Maybe both.
She was in.
Oh god. Oh god, I'm really doing this. I'm really in this woman's house pretending to be a robot for a month. This is fine. Everything is fine. I'm fine.
She was not fine.
The interior of the house was as stunning as the exterior—high ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a meticulously maintained garden, modern art on white walls that probably cost more than a car.
Everything was beautiful and pristine and utterly devoid of life.
No family photos. No personal touches. No signs that anyone actually lived here except maybe a very organized ghost.
It was a museum, not a home. A beautiful, expensive, lonely museum.
"This way," Jhoanna said, leading her down a long hallway that echoed with their footsteps. The echo made it feel even emptier somehow.
Aiah followed, trying to walk robotically while also taking in every detail. Mental note: This hallway alone is bigger than my entire apartment. Former apartment. Soon-to-be-former apartment if I don't pull this off. Also, why does she need this much hallway? What is she doing with all this hallway?
"I've prepared a room for your... charging station? Is that the correct term?" Jhoanna glanced back at her, uncertain.
"Yes. I require seven hours of rest mode nightly to process data and perform system maintenance." And also sleep like a normal human because I'm a HUMAN WHO NEEDS SLEEP.
Jhoanna opened a door to reveal what looked like a converted walk-in closet. Someone had installed a cushioned bench along one wall and several electrical outlets. It was small, private, and would barely fit Aiah lying down if she didn't move too much.
It was perfect for hiding. Less perfect for actually sleeping comfortably for a month.
Great. I'm going to wake up every morning with neck pain and existential dread. Living the dream.
"Will this suffice?" Jhoanna asked, looking genuinely concerned that it might not be adequate. Like she was worried about a robot's comfort, which was actually kind of sweet and also heartbreaking.
Aiah looked at the tiny space that would be her home for thirty days. The closet she'd be sleeping in. The place where she'd hide and panic and probably cry quietly into a pillow. "It is adequate. Thank you."
Adequate is a generous term. "Claustrophobic robot coffin" is more accurate. But beggars can't be choosers and frauds can't be picky.
"There's a bathroom across the hall. You can..." Jhoanna trailed off, looking confused. "Do robots need bathrooms? I should have researched this more. I didn't think about the logistics."
YES. YES I DESPERATELY NEED BATHROOMS. BECAUSE I'M HUMAN AND HAVE HUMAN BLADDERS AND HUMAN DIGESTIVE SYSTEMS AND—
Aiah kept her face blank even as she internally panicked. "I require minimal maintenance, but access to water for external cleaning would be beneficial. Dust accumulation can affect my sensors."
Smooth. Very smooth. Five stars for me. That sounded so technical and boring.
"Of course. That makes sense? I think." Jhoanna wrapped her arms around herself. "Well, make yourself comfortable. Or... do you get comfortable? Can you feel comfort?"
I'M FEELING SO MANY THINGS RIGHT NOW, JHOANNA. SO MANY UNCOMFORTABLE FEELINGS.
"I will enter rest mode here during designated hours. During active hours, I will be available for your companionship and support needs."
Jhoanna nodded slowly, still looking uncertain. Like she'd bought a very expensive appliance and wasn't sure how to use it. "I suppose we should establish some ground rules. A schedule. I'm not used to having someone—" She caught herself. "Something—someone—around."
The slip was telling. Jhoanna wanted to see Aiah as "someone," not "something."
Which was both incredibly touching and absolutely terrible for Aiah's plan to remain emotionally detached and professional about this fraud situation.
"I am programmed to adapt to your preferred routines," Aiah said carefully, like she was reading from a manual and not making this up as she went. "Please inform me of your schedule, and I will adjust my active hours accordingly."
"Alright." Jhoanna wrapped her arms tighter around herself—a self-protective gesture that made Aiah's heart squeeze painfully. "I wake up at 6 AM. I like to walk in the garden before breakfast. You're welcome to... join me? Is that something you can do? Walk in gardens?"
I can also stumble around half-asleep and grumpy, but sure, 6 AM, no problem, I love being conscious at ungodly hours. This is fine.
"I can accompany you on your morning walks."
"Breakfast is at 8. I work from home, so I'll be in my office most of the day. Lunch at noon, dinner at 7 PM." Jhoanna rattled off the schedule like she was reading a prison routine. Everything is timed and controlled. "I usually watch a movie around 9. Then bed at 11."
Every day is the same. Safe. Predictable. Controlled. Lonely as hell.
"I will adapt to your schedule seamlessly," Aiah confirmed.
"And if I need you? During the day? If I want... company?" Jhoanna's voice was small, uncertain.
"I am here to provide companionship and support. You may request my presence at any time."
Something shifted in Jhoanna's expression—softer, more vulnerable. "Request. That's very formal."
"How would you prefer I phrase it?"
"I don't know." Jhoanna looked away, like eye contact was too much. "It's strange. Talking to you. You look so human, but you're... not."
PLOT TWIST: I AM! I'M SO HUMAN! THE MOST HUMAN! CERTIFIED HUMAN SINCE BIRTH! I HAVE A BIRTH CERTIFICATE AND ID!
But Aiah kept her face blank, mechanical. "I am designed to provide the appearance and effect of human companionship while maintaining appropriate boundaries."
"Appropriate boundaries." Jhoanna laughed, but it sounded sad. Broken. Like someone laughing at a joke that stopped being funny years ago. "Yes. That's... good. Important."
An awkward silence fell—the kind that makes you want to check your phone except Aiah couldn't because robots probably don't scroll through Twitter to avoid uncomfortable social situations.
"Would you like me to prepare breakfast?" Aiah offered, remembering her supposed programming and also remembering that she hadn't eaten since yesterday and was low-key starving. Her stomach might start growling soon, which would be very not-robotic. "I am equipped with culinary skills."
Jhoanna's eyes lit up slightly—the first real emotion Aiah had seen besides sadness, and it was about FOOD, which was honestly the most relatable thing. "You can cook?"
"I have access to extensive recipe databases and cooking techniques." Also known as: my grandmother taught me and I stress-cook when anxious, which is constantly.
"Then... yes. Actually. That would be nice." Something in her voice—hope? Excitement? "I usually just have toast. Sometimes just coffee. But if you're offering..."
Oh dear, your diet is SAD. This is depressing. We need to fix this immediately.
"I am offering."
And also desperately hoping there's an actual food in this mansion and not just, like, one sad lettuce leaf and some expired condiments.
"The kitchen is this way."
Aiah followed Jhoanna through the massive house, memorizing the layout like she was planning a heist or an escape route. Living room—untouched, looked like a furniture showroom, everything perfectly arranged and never sat on. Dining room—unused, the table set for no one, dust-free but unlived-in.
Kitchen—modern, expensive, probably cost more than Aiah's entire college education, and clearly not used for anything beyond coffee and depression toast.
"What would you like me to prepare?" Aiah asked, approaching the refrigerator with some trepidation.
Jhoanna opened it, revealing what could only be described as "the saddest fridge in Metro Manila." Some eggs, milk, butter, and one sad container of leftovers that might have been food once upon a time. Some wilted vegetables in the crisper that looked like they were contemplating their mortality.
"I don't really cook much," Jhoanna admitted, looking almost embarrassed. "Haven't for years. Just... whatever you can make with this."
Challenge accepted. I've seen competitive cooking shows. I've got this.
Aiah surveyed the options like a contestant on Chopped with the world's most depressing mystery basket. "I can prepare a Spanish omelet with the eggs, or French toast with the bread I see in the pantry, or—"
"French toast sounds nice." Jhoanna's voice went soft. "I haven't had that since..."
She trailed off, and the weight of that unfinished sentence hung in the air like smoke.
"Since?" Aiah prompted carefully, then immediately regretted it because robots probably don't show curiosity about emotional backstories.
"Nothing. It's not important." Jhoanna's walls went back up faster than Aiah could say "emotional trauma." The shutters closed. The mask returned.
Aiah began gathering ingredients, moving carefully. Not too smooth. Not too perfect. Be mechanical. Be stiff. Be... robotic. Think like you're following a GPS. Turn left at the eggs. Proceed to the bread. You have reached your destination.
But cooking had always been muscle memory for her—her mother's recipes, her grandmother's techniques, the way her hands just KNEW what to do without thinking. She had to consciously slow down, make her movements more deliberate, less intuitive. Like she was following instructions instead of instinct.
It felt WEIRD and wrong. Like she’s trying to write with her non-dominant hand while also solving math problems.
"You're very efficient," Jhoanna observed from where she'd perched on a bar stool, watching with that same intense focus.
Stop staring at me. You're making me nervous. I'm going to mess up and do something human like taste the batter or curse when I burn myself or—
"Efficiency is a primary directive." Also, I'm hungry and want to eat this food so I'm moving fast.
"Right. Of course." A pause. Jhoanna tilted her head. "Do you... enjoy cooking? Or is that not something you can do? Enjoy things?"
DANGEROUS QUESTION ALERT. DANGER. ABORT. MAYDAY.
"I find the process of food preparation satisfying in terms of task completion," Aiah said carefully, like she was choosing each word from a very boring dictionary. "Whether that constitutes 'enjoyment' in the human sense is a philosophical question beyond my programming parameters."
Nailed it. That sounded super robotic and not at all like someone desperately dodging a question about feelings.
Jhoanna smiled—actually SMILED, small but real—and it was like the sun coming out from behind clouds. "You're programmed to be philosophical?"
"Human companionship often involves abstract discussions. I am equipped to engage in such conversations to provide a more fulfilling interaction experience."
Also I took way too many philosophy classes in college because I was trying to find the meaning of life or whatever.
"Interesting." Jhoanna propped her chin on her hand, studying Aiah like she was a puzzle to solve. A fascinating puzzle.
They fell into silence, but it felt less awkward now. More comfortable. Aiah cooked, hyperaware of Jhoanna's eyes on her, tracking every movement. The bread sizzled in the pan, releasing the scent of cinnamon and vanilla and butter. She plated it carefully, added a dusting of powdered sugar, arranged some berries she found hiding in the back of the fridge like they were in witness protection.
And then, without thinking—just pure muscle memory and instinct—she cut the toast into a heart shape.
WAIT. NO. THAT'S TOO HUMAN. THAT'S ROMANTIC. THAT'S A ROMANTIC GESTURE. ROBOTS DON'T DO ROMANTIC GARNISHES. OH NO OH NO OH NO—
"Here." She set the plate in front of Jhoanna, trying to act like the heart shape was a totally normal, completely robotic choice. "Your breakfast is prepared."
Jhoanna stared at it. Then looked up at Aiah. Then back at the heart-shaped French toast. "You made it heart-shaped."
PLAY IT COOL. JUST PLAY IT COOL. YOU'RE A ROBOT. ROBOTS MAKE LOGICAL DECISIONS.
Shit. "An aesthetic choice. Humans respond positively to visually pleasing food presentations. Studies show that food arranged in recognizable shapes increases appetite satisfaction by 23.7 percent."
Did I just make up a statistic? I definitely just made up a statistic. Please don't ask for my sources.
Smooth recovery. Maybe. Possibly. Probably not.
"It's lovely." Jhoanna picked up her fork, then hesitated, looking at Aiah. "Are you just going to... watch me eat?"
I mean, yeah, what else am I supposed to do? I'm a robot. We don't have phones to scroll through.
"Would you prefer I didn't?"
"No, I—" Jhoanna sighed, and it sounded bone-deep tired. The kind of tired that comes from years of loneliness. "I don't know what I prefer anymore. This is all very new. Strange."
"Take your time. I am patient." And also trying very hard not to stare because you're really pretty when you're confused and vulnerable.
Jhoanna took a bite.
Her eyes closed.
A soft sound escaped her—almost a moan of pleasure—and Aiah's brain immediately short-circuited and crashed like a computer that just got a virus.
THAT'S. THAT'S NOT FAIR. THAT'S AN ILLEGAL SOUND. THAT SHOULD BE ILLEGAL. ROBOTS DON'T HAVE THOUGHTS ABOUT SOUNDS LIKE THAT. ROBOTS DON'T THINK ABOUT— ABORT. SYSTEM ERROR. REBOOT NEEDED.
"This is incredible," Jhoanna said, opening her eyes with an expression of genuine surprise and delight. "Like, really incredible. How did you...?"
"Recipe database," Aiah said quickly, hoping her voice didn't sound strangled or affected or like she was having a minor crisis. "Optimized for flavor profiles based on common preferences."
And also my grandmother's secret technique of adding extra vanilla and a pinch of salt and cooking it low and slow, but that's beside the point.
"Well, your database is excellent." Jhoanna took another bite, and Aiah felt absurdly, ridiculously proud. Like she'd just won a Michelin star for breakfast. "I haven't had anything this good in... I can't even remember."
That's so sad. You're so sad. I wanna cook for you every day. Wait, no, that's not professional. That's weird. I'm being weird.
They were quiet as Jhoanna ate. Aiah stood at what she hoped was a respectful, robotic distance, hands clasped in front of her in the most mechanical pose she could manage while internally screaming into the void.
But she couldn't stop watching Jhoanna's face. The way her expression softened with each bite. The way tension bled from her shoulders like someone had finally given her permission to relax. The way she looked... almost happy.
When had Jhoanna last looked happy?
How long had it been since someone had taken care of her like this?
Stop it. Stop catching feelings. You're here to do a job. A fraudulent, illegal job, but still a job.
"Thank you," Jhoanna said softly when she finished, setting down her fork with a satisfied sigh. "That was the best breakfast I've had in... years, actually. Maybe since my mother..."
She didn't finish the sentence, but Aiah heard it anyway.
"I am pleased I could provide satisfaction." Robot voice. Robot words. Very robotic. Not emotional at all.
Jhoanna stood, taking her plate to the sink. But she paused there, gripping the counter edge like she needed it for support. Her shoulders rose and fell with a deep, shaky breath.
Something was wrong. Very wrong.
"Jhoanna?" Aiah asked, forgetting to be robotic for a crucial moment because CONCERN overrode her common sense. "Are you alright?"
Jhoanna turned, and her eyes were wet with unshed tears that she was clearly trying to hold back. "You touched me. Earlier. When we met. When you took my hand."
"Yes."
"And I didn't..." She pressed a hand to her chest, over her heart, like she was checking to make sure it was still beating. "I didn't react. For the first time in three years, someone—something—" She stumbled over the words. "—touched me and I didn't break out in hives. I didn't panic. I could breathe. I was okay."
The pain in her voice was visceral. Raw. Like she'd just confessed her deepest wound, the one she kept hidden from everyone.
Oh. Oh no. She has some kind of... touch aversion? Condition? Something happened to her.
Aiah wanted to cross the space between them. Wanted to wrap this lonely, hurting woman in the biggest hug of her life and tell her it would be okay. That she wasn't broken. That she deserved kindness and connection and love and also way better food options than sad toast.
But she couldn't.
Because Jhoanna thought she was a robot.
Because Jhoanna felt safe precisely BECAUSE she believed Aiah couldn't hurt her, couldn't be a threat, couldn't trigger whatever trauma had made human touch unbearable.
Because the moment Jhoanna found out the truth, that safety would shatter into a thousand pieces.
I'm the worst person in the world. I'm literally the worst.
"I am glad I can provide you comfort," Aiah said in her monotone, even as her heart cracked into approximately seventeen thousand pieces.
Jhoanna wiped her eyes quickly, embarrassed by the display of emotion. "Sorry. You're not programmed to deal with emotional breakdowns on day one. That's not fair to you."
Actually, I'm a human with feelings who desperately wanna hug you so badly right now it's physically painful, but sure, let's go with that.
"I am programmed to provide emotional support," Aiah said carefully. "Your feelings are valid and welcome. You can express them freely without judgment."
"Valid and welcome," Jhoanna repeated slowly, like she'd never heard those words strung together before. Like it was a foreign language. "God, when's the last time someone said that to me?" She laughed, but it sounded broken. Hollow.
The silence stretched like taffy being pulled too thin.
Then Jhoanna straightened her spine, pulling herself together with visible effort. The mask came back up. The walls rebuilt themselves in real-time. "Well. I should start working. I have meetings. You're free to... do whatever robots do when they're not actively needed. Charge? Update? I don't know."
Panic? Cry? Question all my life choices? Text my friends in a group chat about how screwed I am?
"I will familiarize myself with the house and garden environments," Aiah said. "Call if you require my presence."
"I will." Jhoanna hesitated at the kitchen doorway, looking back over her shoulder. "AIA-9?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you. For the breakfast. And for... being here. It's nice. Having someone around. Even if you're not really someone."
ACTUALLY, I AM SOMEONE. I'M SO SOMEONE. THE MOST SOMEONE.
But Aiah said, in perfect robot monotone: "I am here to serve you, Jhoanna. That is my primary function."
Jhoanna nodded and left, her footsteps echoing down the hall until they faded into silence.
Aiah stood alone in the pristine kitchen, surrounded by the evidence of breakfast—the pan still warm on the stove, the scent of cinnamon lingering in the air, the heart-shaped French toast that had made Jhoanna smile for maybe the first time in years.
She pulled out her phone with shaking hands and opened the group chat.
Aiah: I'm in. Day 1. She bought it.
Colet: THANK GOD. How's it going???
Aiah: She's so lonely. Like... HEARTBREAKINGLY lonely. It's like living inside a sad lo-fi playlist. The kind you listen to at 3am when you're having an existential crisis.
Maloi: Stay focused!! You're a robot. No emotions. Chrome vibes only! Think Terminator but less murder!
Aiah: Right. No emotions, just totally chrome inside. I’m definitely not crying in her kitchen right now. AND Definitely not having feelings.
Gwen: Chrome doesn't cry, babe.
Aiah: NOT HELPING, GWEN.
Colet: Remember the objective. Observe, adapt, report. And PLEASE don't catch feelings. I'm begging you.
Aiah: Copy that. Observe, adapt, report, and definitely NOT develop inappropriate feelings for my fake client who thinks I'm a machine. Ez.
(pause)
Aiah: ...Do robots cry? Asking for a friend. The friend is me. I want to cry SO BAD.
Gwen: I just told you Chrome doesn’t cry. 🙄
Colet: Get back to work, Aiah.
Aiah: Blablablabla, Gwen. I can’t read your messages.
Aiah: She hasn't touched another human in THREE YEARS, Colet. THREE. FUCKING. YEARS. She almost cried when she touched my hand because she didn't break out in HIVES. Who HURT this woman?! 😠
Maloi: That's really sad :(
Aiah: IT'S REALLY DEVASTATING, LOI. Like soul-crushing. I want to find whoever hurt her and fight them. Can robots fight people? Is that a thing?
Gwen: Not your problem. You're there to do a job, not fix her. We're not running a therapy service.
Aiah: But what if I WANT to fix her? What if that's really my new life goal and my calling?
Colet: NO. No fixing. No feelings. NO FEELINGS, AIAH. Just survive 29 more days without blowing your cover.
Aiah: 29 days. I can do 29 days. Totally doable. Absolutely fine. I'm calm. So calm. The calmest.
Maloi: You're panicking.
Aiah: I'M PANICKING SO HARD. I'M PANICKING IN FREQUENCIES ONLY DOGS CAN HEAR.
Gwen: Take a breath. You made it through Day 1, Hour 2. Only 718 hours to go! You've got this!
Aiah: WHY DID YOU PHRASE IT LIKE THAT?! WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT TO ME?!
Colet: Because Gwen is chaos incarnate and enjoys suffering. Ignore her. You're doing great. Just keep being robotic and boring. Think beige. Think plain oatmeal. Think tax forms.
Aiah: I made her heart-shaped French toast.
(long pause)
(very long pause)
Maloi: You WHAT?
Aiah: IT JUST HAPPENED. My hands did it automatically! I wasn't thinking! My brain was offline!
Colet: AIAH. ROBOTS DON'T MAKE ROMANTIC BREAKFAST GARNISHES.
Aiah: I KNOW THAT NOW. I REALIZED IMMEDIATELY. IT WAS A MISTAKE.
Gwen: Did she notice?
Aiah: YES! But I told her it was "aesthetic optimization for human satisfaction" and made up a fake statistic about food shapes and appetite. I think she bought it???
Maloi: And she bought it?
Aiah: Maybe? She smiled. It was a really pretty smile. Like really pretty.
Aiah: I mean—a smile. Normal smile. Average smile. Not pretty. Just a smile. Neutral smile. Robot-observing-smile.
Colet: Oh no.
Aiah: What?
Colet: You're already in trouble. Deep trouble.
Aiah: I'M NOT IN TROUBLE.
Gwen: Read your messages again, babe. You called her smile "really pretty."
Aiah: I CORRECTED IT!
Maloi: You're 100% catching feelings already. This is day ONE. Hour TWO.
Aiah: I am NOT catching feelings. I'm being professional. I'm a professional robot. Beep boop.
Aiah: See? Very robotic.
Colet: STOP SAYING BEEP BOOP.
Aiah: EVERYONE KEEPS TELLING ME THAT BUT NOBODY TELLS ME WHAT ROBOTS ARE SUPPOSED TO SAY INSTEAD.
Gwen: They just talk normally! Without the beep boop! Just... boring! Monotone! Like you're reading assembly instructions!
Aiah: I'M TRYING MY BEST.
Gwen: Okay, real talk. Can you actually DO this? 29 more days? Because if you're already struggling on Day 1.
Aiah: I can do this. I HAVE to do this. For the company. For you guys. For my mom's dream. For my bank account. For my dignity. For—
Colet: We get it. But Aiah? Be careful. With her heart AND yours. You're a hopeless romantic gay disaster and you KNOW IT.
Aiah: Excuse me? I'm not a disaster. My heart is totally fine. I have a robot heart. Beep boop.
Maloi: WE'RE GOING TO KILL YOU. WE'RE GOING TO MURDER YOU. PLEASE STOP SAYING BEEP BOOP!
Aiah: Gotta go. I think I hear her calling me. Or maybe that's just the sound of my own anxiety. Hard to tell. They sound similar. Both very loud.
Gwen: Good luck. Don't do anything stupid.
Aiah: Too late. I signed up for this plan.
Aiah pocketed her phone and took a deep breath that was decidedly not shallow or robotic. Okay. I can do this. I'm a robot. A very convincing robot. A robot who definitely doesn't think Jhoanna is beautiful and sad and desperately in need of a hug and good food.
Nailed it.
She began exploring the house, noting every detail with the focus of someone who might need to navigate it in the dark at 3 AM while pretending to be in "rest mode" and not having a panic attack.
The living room: Massive floor-to-ceiling windows, designer furniture that looked uncomfortable on purpose, a bookshelf filled with business books and exactly zero novels or anything fun. A grand piano in the corner, covered with a dust cloth like a ghost. Someone used to play that piano. Nobody played it anymore.
The dining room: A table that could seat twelve people, set for no one. Crystal chandelier that probably cost more than a car. More art on the walls that definitely cost more than several cars.
The study: Where Jhoanna had disappeared to. Aiah could see her through the glass door, sitting at an enormous desk with multiple monitors, typing furiously with the focus of someone trying desperately to lose themselves in work.
And then—the garden.
Aiah stepped outside and felt like she'd entered a completely different world. A different dimension where things were allowed to be alive.
It was BEAUTIFUL. Genuinely, breathtakingly beautiful.
Orchids everywhere—purple, white, pink, yellow, every color imaginable—in careful, loving rows. A small fountain burbled peacefully in the center like background music for meditation. Stone pathways wound through carefully maintained flower beds. There was a wooden bench under a mango tree, positioned perfectly to catch the morning sun, worn smooth from use.
This was where Jhoanna came alive. Aiah could feel it in the air.
She walked slowly through the garden, trying to look robotic and analytical while also appreciating the sheer amount of CARE that had gone into this space. Every plant was healthy, well-watered, perfectly positioned to get optimal sunlight. This wasn't just a garden maintained by a professional gardener. This was someone's therapy. Their meditation. Their way of staying connected to something real.
"Beautiful, aren't they?"
Aiah nearly jumped out of her synthetic skin like a cartoon character. She turned to find Jhoanna standing in the doorway, watching her with an unreadable expression.
HOW LONG HAS SHE BEEN THERE?! DID I DO ANYTHING WEIRD?! WAS I BREATHING TOO HUMANLY?! DID I SMELL THE FLOWERS LIKE A PERSON?!
"Yes," Aiah said in her robot voice, trying to slow her racing heart. "The garden is well-maintained. Optimal growing conditions for the species present. Very efficient use of space and resources."
Wow. That sounded so boring. Good job. Gold star for being boring.
Jhoanna walked closer, and Aiah noticed she'd changed into more casual clothes—worn jeans and a soft gray sweater that looked old and comfortable and made her look younger somehow. Less like a businesswoman, more like a person. "You don't have to analyze it like that. You can just... enjoy it. If robots enjoy things. Can you?"
I'M ENJOYING IT SO MUCH. IT'S GORGEOUS. I WANNA LIVE HERE FOREVER.
"I find natural environment... pleasant," Aiah said carefully. "They provide positive sensory input that could be categorized as... aesthetically satisfying."
That was the most robotic way to say "this place is amazing and I'm having feelings about it."
Jhoanna stopped beside her, close enough that Aiah could smell her perfume again. Roses and something else. Something warm. "My mother planted most of these. The orchids especially." Her voice went soft, gentle. "She said they were like people—they need exactly the right conditions to thrive, but they're so much stronger than they look. They survive."
"That is a thoughtful metaphor."
"She was a thoughtful person." Jhoanna's voice cracked slightly. "She died five years ago. Cancer… These are all I have left of her. Her garden and her flowers."
Aiah's chest tightened painfully. She wanted SO BADLY to say something real, something comforting, something HUMAN. I understand. I lost my mom too. I know what it's like to keep someone alive through the things they loved. I know that grief. I KNOW.
But she was a robot. Robots didn't understand grief. Robots didn't have dead mothers they still mourned.
"I am sorry for your loss," Aiah said carefully, mechanically. "Based on the care you have given these plants, it is evident you honor her memory well. She would be proud of you."
Jhoanna looked at her with surprise, like she hadn't expected that. "That's... thank you. That means more than you know." She paused. "Than you CAN know, I guess. Since you're..."
A robot. Yeah. About that.
"You are welcome," Aiah said simply.
They stood in silence, surrounded by orchids and the soft sound of the fountain and the morning sun filtering through the mango tree leaves. It should have been awkward, but it wasn't. It felt... peaceful. Right. Like they were supposed to be standing here together.
Stop it. Stop romanticizing this. You're committing fraud. This is a crime. Crimes aren't romantic.
"Can I ask you something?" Jhoanna said suddenly, turning to look at Aiah directly.
OH NO. HERE IT COMES. IT’S TOO EARLY BUT SHE'S FIGURED IT OUT ALREADY. SHE KNOWS I'M HUMAN. SHE'S GOING TO CALL THE POLICE. I'M GOING TO JAIL. GOODBYE, CRUEL WORLD. TELL MY FRIENDS I DIED DOING WHAT I LOVED: SOMETHING STUPID.
"Of course."
"Do you think robots will eventually replace humans completely? Like, in terms of... companionship? Connection?" Jhoanna's expression was vulnerable, genuinely curious.
NOT THE QUESTION I EXPECTED. NOT EVEN CLOSE.
"That is..." Aiah paused, choosing her words very carefully like she was defusing a bomb. "A complex philosophical question with no simple answer."
"But you must have some programming about it. Some opinion."
Okay. Okay. Think. What would a really advanced AI say about this? Something deep but not TOO deep.
"I believe robots and humans serve fundamentally different purposes," Aiah said slowly. "Robots can provide consistency, reliability, freedom from judgment or rejection. Predictability. Safety." She paused. "But humans..."
She chose her next words very carefully.
"Humans have something that robots cannot replicate, no matter how advanced our programming becomes. Authenticity. The ability to truly CHOOSE kindness, not just execute it as a command. To choose connection even when it's hard, even when it hurts. That choice is what makes human connection meaningful."
Jhoanna stared at her with an expression Aiah couldn't quite read. "That's... a very nuanced philosophical position for a robot. Very... human."
ABORT. ABORT. TOO PHILOSOPHICAL. TOO DEEP. TOO HUMAN. RED ALERT.
"I have been programmed with advanced ethical reasoning capabilities," Aiah said quickly, defaulting to technical jargon. "To better assist humans with complex emotional needs and philosophical discussions. It helps create more meaningful interactions."
"Right… Programmed." Jhoanna looked away, back at the orchids. "I forgot."
"Forgot what?"
"That you're not real." Jhoanna's voice was barely above a whisper. "That none of this is real."
I AM SO REAL. I'M STANDING RIGHT HERE. I'M SO REAL IT PHYSICALLY HURTS.
But Aiah said nothing. Because what COULD she say? The truth would destroy everything.
The moment stretched between them, fragile and heavy like spun glass.
Then Jhoanna's phone buzzed loudly, shattering the moment. She pulled it out, frowning at the screen. "I have a video call with my therapist in ten minutes. Will you be okay out here alone?"
"I will continue to explore the garden and catalog the plant species for my database. It will be... pleasant." I will stand here and have an existential crisis while pretending to look at flowers.
"Okay." Jhoanna hesitated, like she wanted to say something else but couldn't find the words. "AIA-9?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you. For this morning. For the breakfast. For talking to me like..." She trailed off. "For being here. It's been a very long time since this house felt less empty."
She left before Aiah could respond, walking back toward the house with her shoulders hunched like she was carrying an invisible weight.
Aiah stood alone in the garden, surrounded by a dead woman's orchids, pretending to be a robot for a woman who desperately needed to believe she couldn't be hurt anymore.
She sat down on the stone bench—the one worn smooth from use, where Jhoanna probably sat every morning—and allowed herself exactly sixty seconds to be human. To feel the weight of what she'd just done. To acknowledge the dangerous, terrifying path she'd started walking down.
Day 1, Hour 3. I made her breakfast, lied directly to her face multiple times, and am currently falling apart emotionally in her dead mother's garden. This is fine. Everything is fine. I'm fine.
She pulled out her phone.
Aiah: Update: I'm in her garden having a breakdown. This is so very robotic. Robots definitely have breakdowns in gardens.
Colet: Are you OKAY?
Aiah: Define "okay."
Aiah: Actually no, don't. I don't want to know.
Maloi: Do we need to extract you?? Say the word and we'll come get you RIGHT NOW.
Aiah: No. I'm fine. I can do this. I just need a moment to remember I'm a soulless machine and not a disaster gay with way too many feelings about everything.
Gwen: You're a disaster gay with feelings pretending to be a soulless machine. That's literally what this whole plan is.
Aiah: THAT'S NOT HELPING, GWEN. THAT'S THE OPPOSITE OF HELPING.
Colet: Take a breath. Remember why you're doing this. The company. The investment. The future.
Aiah: Right. The company. The investment. Mom's dream. Definitely not because Jhoanna looked at me with those devastating sad eyes and said the garden feels "less empty" with me in it. Definitely not that.
Maloi: Oh, you're in DEEP. Like Mariana Trench deep.
Aiah: I'M NOT IN DEEP.
Gwen: You're in SO deep you need a submarine to get back to the surface. You're in so deep James Cameron wants to make a documentary about you.
Aiah: I hate all of you. Every single one of you. You're the worst friends ever.
Colet: We love you too, you disaster. Now get back to work before she catches you texting and realizes robots don't have group chats with their friends.
Aiah: Copy that. Returning to robot mode.
ALL THREE: DON'T YOU DARE.
Aiah: ...I wasn't going to say it.
Maloi: You were ABSOLUTELY going to say it.
Aiah: Okay fine I was going to say it. It's a problem. I'm working on it.
Aiah stood, smoothed her expression back into mechanical blankness, and went back to examining the orchids like a robot who definitely wasn't having an emotional crisis about catching feelings for her client who thought she was a machine.
29 more days, she thought, looking at a particularly beautiful purple orchid that was definitely not making her think about the sadness in Jhoanna's eyes. I just have to survive 29 more days without falling completely, hopelessly, catastrophically in love with her.
I'm so screwed.
A butterfly landed on her shoulder like some kind of Disney movie moment. Aiah looked at it and sighed deeply.
"You and me both, buddy," she whispered to the butterfly, because apparently she was talking to insects now. "We're both way over our heads in situations we don't understand."
The butterfly flew away, probably to find someone less pathetic to land on.
Aiah stayed there, surrounded by orchids and lies and the lingering ghost of Jhoanna's perfume in the air.
Day 1 was only half over.
She was already emotionally exhausted.
And somewhere deep down, beneath the fear and the guilt and the bone-deep panic, a small, traitorous part of her heart whispered:
This might actually be worth it.