I stare at the ice-cream bowl. It's turning into sad soup.
Panic.
I shovel three—no, four—huge spoons into my mouth before it fully dies, cheeks freezing, brain buffering.
"Mmf—okay—important question," I mumble.
I point the spoon at him. "You're… alive, right? Like not a machine. Not a robot. Flesh, blood, breathing, heartbeat, whole deluxe human-compatible package?"
He nods calmly. "Yes."
"And," I continue, mouth still full, "you're basically not allowed to feel emotions, pain, or do anything you personally want, because you just… follow whatever you were born for?"
I swallow. Hard.
He thinks for a second. "I understand your concern," he says. "But my kind is born with stability. Enough resources. No hunger. No illness. A painless life."
I snort. "Wow. Luxury prison."
He tilts his head. "Prison?"
"Yeah," I say, tapping the empty bowl. "You get everything except the one thing humans lose sleep over."
He waits.
I look straight at him. "Free will."
