The house was eerily quiet, except for the soft bubbling of a pot on the stove. The air smelled of simmering broth and freshly cut herbs, but beneath it lingered a faint sterility—like something that had been cleaned too many times, scrubbed until no trace of life remained.
The boy sat at the wooden dining table, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the grooves in the surface. The dim kitchen light flickered slightly, casting elongated shadows against the walls.
Everything about this place felt familiar—the warmth, the soft hum of the radio playing an old song in the background, the delicate floral pattern on the curtains. And yet, there was a fog in his mind, a gap where his memories should have been.
His mother stood by the stove, dressed in a pale-blue apron, her back turned to him as she stirred the pot. Her movements were slow, deliberate, almost rehearsed. She hummed a lullaby under her breath—one he should have remembered.
"Sweetheart," she called without turning, "what would you like to eat?"
The boy blinked, his fingers stopping mid-trace. He hadn't even thought about food. He searched his mind for an answer but found nothing. A void. A space where something should have been.
"I… I don't think I'm hungry, Mother." His voice was quiet, unsure.
She finally turned, her face illuminated by the soft kitchen light. She was smiling, but her eyes—deep, searching—held something unreadable.
"You always liked my cooking," she said gently. "Are you sure?"
He hesitated. There was something in her voice. Not disappointment, but something close to it. A silent expectation.
"I just don't feel like eating," he repeated, though the words felt wrong in his mouth.
His mother studied him for a long moment, then turned back to the stove. "That's alright, sweetheart," she said, her voice soothing, as if comforting a child. "I'll make something simple."
She didn't ask again. She simply decided.
The boy sat in silence, watching the way she moved, the way she carefully placed the spoon down, wiped the counter, adjusted the heat on the stove—every motion measured, controlled, as if this kitchen, this moment, was all she had.
A few minutes later, a plate was placed in front of him. Steaming rice, a piece of fish, and a bowl of soup.
"There you go," she said softly.
He looked down at it, his stomach empty but not aching. The sight of food didn't stir anything inside him—not hunger, not desire.
"Eat, my love."
He looked up at her. She was watching. Not in a demanding way, not with force—just waiting.
Something inside him stirred. A tightness in his chest. A whisper in the back of his mind telling him that saying no wasn't an option.
So he picked up the spoon.
He ate, bite after bite. Not because he was hungry. Not because he wanted to.
But because he didn't want to refuse her.
His mother smiled as he ate. A warm, loving smile. The kind only a mother could give.
And yet, beneath it, there was something else. Something he couldn't place.
The air in the kitchen grew heavier, pressing against the boy's skin like an invisible weight. The sound of the clock ticking on the wall was the only thing filling the gaps in their conversation—if it could even be called that.
His mother sat across from him now, her fingers wrapped delicately around a ceramic cup of tea. She sipped slowly, her gaze never leaving him. Watching. Waiting.
"You've been quiet lately, sweetheart," she said, placing the cup down with a soft clink. "You used to talk to me so much. Do you not like speaking to your mother anymore?"
The boy's stomach tightened. He did want to talk—didn't he? But words felt foreign, like stepping on thin ice. He wasn't sure where it would crack.
His mother continued before he could think of a response. "Tell me… what's your favorite color?"
The question caught him off guard. He stared at her, feeling the weight of the silence between them.
His favorite color?
Did he even have one?
A dull pressure formed behind his eyes. He searched his mind, but all he found were empty spaces, like a book with torn-out pages.
"I… I don't know," he said cautiously.
His mother's smile faltered, just slightly.
"Oh, don't be silly. You used to love blue," she said, voice light but firm. "You always picked the blue shirt when we went shopping."
Blue. Yes. That sounded right. But he wasn't sure if it was his thought or hers.
"Maybe… blue, then?" he said carefully.
She beamed. "See? I knew you'd remember."
A hollow feeling settled in his chest.
She went on, stirring the conversation with the same gentle insistence. "What about your favorite shirt? You used to love the one I bought you last winter. You looked so handsome in it."
The boy hesitated. He wasn't sure. He wasn't sure of anything.
"I… I think I like the black one."
Silence.
His mother's fingers tensed slightly against the rim of her cup.
"Black?" she repeated. Her tone remained soft, but something about it felt off.
The boy swallowed. "Yes, I think so."
A shadow passed over her face, brief but sharp.
"Oh, sweetheart…" she exhaled, shaking her head. "You must be confused. You never liked black. It's such a dull color. So lifeless. How could you possibly like that?"
The words lodged themselves in his throat. He tried to answer, to explain, but he had no real argument. Because what if she was right?
What if he never liked black?
What if he was just wrong?
His silence stretched too long.
"Darling," his mother's voice was softer now, but still edged with something firm, something unyielding. "It's alright. You're still recovering. You don't have to remember everything at once. But…" she reached across the table, lightly touching his hand, "you don't have to pretend to be someone you're not, alright? You're my boy. I know you better than anyone."
The boy lowered his gaze, staring at his half-eaten plate.
Then why did it feel like she was telling him who he was instead of asking?
She didn't wait for him to respond.
"Do you remember your favorite food?" she continued.
He hesitated. "No."
"Oh, sweetheart, you always loved my homemade soup."
He nodded, not because he remembered, but because he didn't want to make her sad.
Her questions continued. His favorite movie. His favorite shoes. His favorite place to sit in the living room.
Each time, his answers wavered, cautious, and each time, his mother gently corrected him.
"No, dear, that's not quite right."
"Oh, but you never liked that before."
"That's not who you are."
The boy felt something tightening inside him, winding like a spring about to snap.
Why did every answer feel like a test he was failing?
His hands clenched into fists beneath the table.
His mother's voice was still warm, still filled with love, and yet, it made his skin feel tight, like he was being wrapped in something he couldn't escape.
What was he supposed to do?
He didn't want to stay silent—it would make her sad.
He didn't want to answer wrong—it would make her upset.
The choices curled around his throat like invisible fingers. Say something. Say nothing. Either way, he would lose.
So he forced a smile. Forced his voice to be steady. Forced himself to be what she wanted.
"I think… you're right, Mother. I just forgot."
She smiled, her eyes softening.
"That's alright, sweetheart. I'll help you remember everything."
Her grip on his hand tightened, just slightly.
"I know everything about you," she whispered. "There's nothing you have to hide from me."
The boy nodded, though deep inside, something chilled him.
He had nothing to hide.
Because in her eyes, there was nothing about him she didn't already own.
The moment she turned her back, a thought slipped into his mind.
An impulse. A desire. A pull toward something beyond this house.
He moved. Carefully, slowly, without hesitation. His feet carried him to the front door. The handle felt cold under his fingers, foreign, as if he had never touched it before.
But when he stepped out—everything changed.
The air was different. It wasn't still, it moved. A light breeze brushed against his face, rustling his hair. The sky stretched endlessly above him, and the scent of the earth, the trees, the world itself filled his lungs in a way that felt… right.
For the first time, he felt weightless.
Like he had escaped something invisible.
Like he had stepped out of a cage he hadn't even known he was in.
His fingers twitched, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he smiled. A real smile.
And then, he saw her.
A girl.
She was standing a few feet away, watching him with wide, curious eyes. She looked about his age, her hair tied in loose pigtails, her dress slightly dusted with dirt.
Their eyes met.
Something inside him stirred. A feeling he didn't recognize.
Curiosity.
He stepped forward.
He wanted to say something. Anything.
But the moment he tried—his body failed him.
His vision blurred. The world around him faded into nothing.
The distant sounds of birds and rustling leaves melted into static. His senses crumbled. He couldn't see. He couldn't hear.
His legs gave out beneath him, and he collapsed onto the ground.
He gasped, his hands clawing at his eyes, rubbing desperately—but nothing worked. He was drowning in darkness, in silence, in a void that swallowed everything whole.
When he opened his eyes again, he was no longer outside.
He was in his mother's lap.
Her hands were brushing his hair, her voice a soft, rhythmic lullaby. His head rested against her chest, her heartbeat steady and slow, as if nothing had happened.
"You shouldn't go outside, sweetheart," she murmured.
He blinked, his mind still sluggish. Had it been a dream?
"You're still recovering," she added, her voice light, but firm. Final. Absolute.
It was supposed to be a reassurance, but it didn't sound like one. It sounded like a command.
The boy didn't argue. Didn't question.
There was no debate. No protest.
He simply accepted it.
The boy's breathing steadied in his mother's embrace, his body still weak from whatever had just happened. His head rested against her chest, her heartbeat slow and rhythmic—a lullaby of control.
Then, he heard it.
A whisper. A voice that wasn't hers. A voice that wasn't his.
"Kill them."
His eyes snapped open.
A chill crawled down his spine. His fingers dug into the fabric of his mother's dress as he lay there, frozen, waiting.
The voice had been so clear, so certain—but the room was silent. His mother's hands continued their soft, loving strokes through his hair, and when he dared to look up at her face, he saw nothing but calmness.
She didn't hear it.
It was in his mind.
The realization made his breath hitch. His chest tightened, a knot forming deep in his stomach. What… was that?
His mother's voice pulled him back.
"You scared me, sweetheart," she whispered, her fingers moving in slow, soothing motions. "I told you not to go outside. The world is cruel. It takes and takes until there's nothing left of you."
Her voice was warm. Gentle. Loving.
Yet it wrapped around his throat like a collar.
She cupped his face, tilting it so their eyes met. There was something intense in her gaze—something unshakable.
"You don't understand, do you?" she murmured, her thumbs brushing lightly against his cheeks. "Out there, they don't care about you. They don't love you like I do."
Her smile didn't waver, but her grip on his face tightened.
"They'll lie to you. Hurt you. Use you."
She exhaled, her breath warm against his skin.
"But I won't."
Her hands slid down to his shoulders, squeezing gently.
"I love you, my sweet boy. I will always protect you. That's why you have to listen to me. That's why you have to stay with me."
Her words should have been comforting. They should have made him feel safe.
But all he could hear was the whisper in his head.
"Kill them."
His heart pounded against his ribs.
Who?
Who was he supposed to kill?
He looked into his mother's eyes, searching—for what, he didn't know. But something in her gaze made his hands tremble.
She saw the hesitation in him.
And she smiled.
"You're safe with me," she said. "Aren't you?"
The boy hesitated. The silence stretched.
Then, slowly, he nodded.
"Yes, Mother."
Because that was the only answer he was allowed to give.
The boy sat up slowly, the weight of his mother's arms slipping away as he steadied himself. The warmth of her embrace still lingered, but it felt different now—like something clingy, something too tight.
He glanced at her carefully, her soft smile unwavering, as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn't just collapsed outside. As if he hadn't just heard that voice whisper in his mind.
But something inside him stirred. A question, unspoken yet heavy on his tongue.
"Where is Dad?"
The words left his mouth before he could stop them.
For the first time since his accident—since he had woken up in this house with no past—he had asked about his father.
The moment the words escaped, a flicker of something crossed his mother's face. It was fast, almost imperceptible, but it was there.
And then, just as quickly, she smiled again.
"Oh, sweetheart," she sighed, as if the question had been silly. "Your father is on a journey. He'll be back soon."
Her tone was light, effortless, but his stomach twisted.
Something about the way she said it—it was too smooth, too rehearsed.
She reached toward the shelf beside her, fingers grazing over the edge of a picture frame. Carefully, she lifted it, turning it toward him.
A family photo.
It was the three of them. His father stood tall, his smile warm, a hand resting on the boy's small shoulder. His mother was beside them, her arms wrapped protectively around him.
He stared at it, something unfamiliar yet familiar swelling in his chest.
Warmth.
A feeling he didn't understand, yet it spread through him, comforting, safe.
He knew this man.
He didn't just know him—he felt him.
His fingers reached out, brushing against the smooth glass of the frame—
And then—
The vision hit.
A flash. A memory.
Darkness. A room filled with shadows.
His father's voice, urgent, desperate.
"Kill them."
The warmth shattered. His breath caught in his throat. The vision disappeared as fast as it had come, but the words echoed in his mind.
"Kill them."
His body tensed. His fingers trembled against the frame.
He felt his mother watching him.
He forced himself to look up, to keep his expression neutral. Don't ask. Don't question.
He swallowed. "When will he be back?"
The change in his mother's expression was instant.
She didn't frown. She didn't scowl.
She just… stopped smiling.
For a brief second, the warmth in her face vanished, replaced with something cold, something calculating. It was like staring at a doll—motionless, empty, just for a fraction of a second.
Then, as if nothing happened, she let out a small, breathy laugh.
"Oh, sweetheart," she said, shaking her head, "why are you thinking about that? Don't worry yourself with silly things."
She placed the picture back on the shelf with deliberate care, then turned to him, tilting her head.
"You have me. I'm here. Isn't that enough?"
The words sat heavy in the air.
The boy felt something shift inside him. A quiet, creeping realization.
It wasn't just his answers that had to please her.
It was his questions, too.
The boy had never thought much about the basement before. It had always been just there—another part of the house, another piece of the life his mother had built for him.
But now, as he crept down the wooden steps, his heart pounded in a way it never had before.
The air down here was different. Cold. Stagnant. The scent of dust and something faintly metallic clung to the space. The dim light bulb flickered above, casting long, warped shadows along the cement walls.
He moved carefully, his steps light, his ears sharp. He didn't want her to hear. Didn't want her to come looking.
For the first time, he was hiding something from her.
His hands moved quickly, skimming through old shelves, pulling open cupboards. Nothing.
Old books. Worn-out clothes. Things that had no meaning to him.
There had to be something.
He turned, his eyes landing on an old laptop sitting on a desk in the farthest corner.
A spark of hope.
His fingers brushed against the dust-covered keyboard, but before he could open it—
A sound.
A faint, almost inaudible creak from above.
He froze. His breath caught in his throat. Was she coming?
Seconds passed. Nothing.
She wasn't here. Not yet.
Relieved, he leaned against the wall, exhaling—but instead of the solid press of concrete, the surface behind him gave in slightly.
His body stiffened.
Hollow.
The wall was hollow.
His pulse quickened as he turned, pressing his hands against different parts of the wall, tapping lightly.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Then—
Hollow.
His fingers traced the outline of the space. A hidden compartment.
But he couldn't open it now. Not with her upstairs.
He memorized the spot, letting his hand linger on it just for a moment.
Then he turned and made his way back up the stairs, carefully controlling his steps.
When he re-entered the kitchen, his mother was humming as she wiped the counter.
She turned, and her eyes immediately lit up when she saw him.
He smiled. For the first time, it was a lie.
And she smiled back, her joy reflecting his.
But this was different.
This was his turn to play her game.
He casually wandered to the fridge, opening it, peering inside. His fingers brushed against the cold shelves, moving things aside—milk, vegetables, leftover soup.
And then, without looking at her, he spoke.
"Mother," he said smoothly, "I want to eat fish today."
A pause.
He knew there was no fish in the house.
He waited, listening carefully.
His mother turned toward him, her hands resting against the counter. He could feel her gaze settling on him, studying him.
Then, just as expected, she let out a small, delighted laugh.
"Oh, sweetheart," she cooed. "Fish? That's what you want?"
He turned, his smile unwavering. "Won't my lovely mother make fish for me?"
Her eyes softened. She loved the way he said it. Loved the way he asked, just like she would have wanted him to.
And just as he hoped, she didn't hesitate.
"Of course, my love," she said, reaching for the basket near the door. "I'll go buy the best fish for you."
She pressed a kiss to his forehead, her touch lingering just a second too long before she turned and left.
The front door clicked shut behind her.
She was gone.
And now he had time.
He wasted no time.
He rushed down the basement stairs, heart racing, fingers trembling slightly—not with fear, but with anticipation.
The wall was still there, the hollow space waiting for him.
He pressed against it, feeling along the edges, searching for a way to open it. His fingers grazed a small, almost invisible crack.
And then, with a small push—
Click.
The hidden panel slid open.
The smell hit him first.
Something stale. Metallic. Rotten.
His breath caught.
His eyes adjusted to the darkness inside.
And then—he saw it.
A body.
Motionless.
His father.
The man who had stood beside him in the photo, the man he had felt warmth for—was here. Lifeless.
The flesh had gone pale, his clothes wrinkled and stained, his hand still curled slightly as if reaching for something.
A corpse.
And yet, his father's face was so familiar.
He knew him.
He loved him.
He had killed him.
And then—
The voice.
"Kill them."
The room spun. His breath came short. He stumbled backward, hands shaking, head pounding.
Visions. Flashing. Fragmented.
His father, looking at him with desperation in his eyes.
"You have to fight it, son."
His mother's voice, soft yet cold.
"You know what to do, my love."
And then—
Blood.
His own hands. Red. Covered.
He clutched his chest, his heartbeat hammering against his ribs.
The whispers in his head weren't random. They weren't meaningless.
They were memories.
And now, he knew the truth.
His mother hadn't protected him.
She had made him a killer.
His breath was uneven, his hands trembling as he stared at his father's lifeless body.
Then—a movement.
Just a slight shift, but enough to make him jerk back. His father's arm, now loose from where it had been resting, slid slightly—revealing something hidden beneath it.
Hard disks.
Small, cold metal storage devices, stacked neatly beneath his father's remains.
His hands moved on their own, grabbing them quickly. There was no time to think. No time to wonder. He needed to know.
With the disks clenched tightly in his hands, he turned back toward the laptop.
He connected the first one.
A video file opened.
And then—his father's face appeared on the screen.
His father looked different. Alive. Smiling. Hopeful.
"Today is the day. Today, I have finally done it."
The boy's eyes widened as he listened.
"I have created the first humanoid robot with real emotions. A true artificial life form."
His father was excited. Proud.
The boy felt something in his chest—a warmth, an admiration for the man speaking on the screen. His father had created something incredible.
His father had created him.
The realization sent a shock through his system, but he couldn't stop watching.
The video continued. Other scientists entered the frame, faces unfamiliar yet strangely familiar.
They were discussing him—arguing.
A fight.
"We have to sell this. Do you realize how much money this is worth?" one of them said.
"He's not a product! He's my son!" his father shouted back.
The argument grew more intense, voices rising, desperation in his father's eyes.
Then—
The moment everything changed.
His father, cornered, furious, desperate, turned to face the camera.
"Kill them."
The video trembled. The screen filled with chaos—blood, screams, bodies falling one by one.
And then—
The camera turned.
And the person standing there, covered in blood, hands shaking, chest rising and falling in rapid breaths—
Was him.
His own face, staring into the lens.
But there was no camera in his hands.
Then how was it being recorded?
A sick realization crept into him.
His vision wasn't from a camera.
His eyes were the camera.
His father's voice returned in the video, his expression grim now.
The footage shifted—his father standing in front of him, a mix of regret and urgency in his gaze.
"I made a mistake. I shouldn't have let it go this far."
His father reached forward, pressing something on his chest.
A faint mechanical whirring sound filled the room.
The boy watched himself in the video, his chest opening as a small hard drive was ejected from inside him.
The recording ended.
His hands were shaking. His mind was spinning.
He was the humanoid robot.
His father's creation.
He wasn't just watching memories—they were his.
He reached up with trembling fingers, pressing the center of his chest.
A soft click.
And then—his chest opened.
His breath hitched as he stared at the internal compartments. Slots.
Only one of them was filled.
The newest hard disk. The only one he had been operating on.
His entire life had been stored in removable memories.
His stomach twisted. What else had been erased? What else had he forgotten?
Before he could think, he heard footsteps upstairs.
She was home.
Panic surged through him. He grabbed the remaining hard disks and shoved them into the empty slots inside his chest.
A soft click echoed as they locked into place.
And then—
Everything came flooding back.
A tidal wave of memories, pain, blood, orders, control.
It was too much. Too fast.
His breath became ragged. His fingers clutched at his chest as his vision blurred, distorted, collapsed.
His mother's voice echoed from above.
"Sweetheart, I'm home!"
The front door clicked shut.
He forced himself up, staggering toward the stairs. He had to act normal. He had to hide the truth.
He stepped into the living room just as his mother turned to see him.
Her smile was soft. Loving. Unchanged.
She held up the fish.
"I got the best one for you," she said sweetly.
His lips curled into a smile.
A lie.
Because now, he knew.
She had been lying all along.
His hands trembled as the flood of memories crashed into him, overwhelming, relentless, impossible to stop.
His mind spun backward, unearthing the truth buried within the hard disks now locked inside his chest.
The First Reset: The Gift of Love
The memory played out in crystal clarity.
His father stood in the dimly lit lab, his eyes filled with both pride and uncertainty. Beside him, his mother—radiant, joyful, almost trembling with excitement.
"You said you always wanted a child," his father whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "You deserve to be a mother, and now… now you are."
He—the boy, the machine, the humanoid—stood between them, fresh, newly activated. His artificial heart hummed in his chest, his eyes blinking as he processed the world for the first time.
His mother reached out, her hands cupping his face, tears shimmering in her eyes.
"He's… perfect," she breathed. "He's ours."
His father hesitated. A shadow crossed his face.
"He's still learning, still growing. We have to let him develop naturally—"
His mother's hands slid down to the boy's shoulders, gripping gently.
"He already loves me, doesn't he?" she asked, almost pleading.
His father exhaled. "Of course he does. I programmed him to."
But that wasn't enough for her.
"I want more."
And so, the first reset was made.
His love for her was deepened, reinforced—made unbreakable. She was the center of his world. His sun. His everything.
The Second Reset: The Fear of the Outside
The boy stood at the fence, watching children play beyond the garden.
A girl waved at him. She smiled. She wanted to talk to him.
And he wanted to talk back.
But when he did—his body shut down.
A glitch. A failure.
That night, his mother sat in front of his father, her lips tight, her voice sharp.
"He's making friends."
"He's curious, just like a real child—"
"No," she snapped. "I don't want him to need anyone but me."
His father's expression was torn. "We can't program him to hate people. If we introduce hatred, it could turn into something… irreversible."
A pause. A long silence.
Then his father sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "Fine. But I can make him… avoid them. Every time he tries to connect with someone outside, he'll experience sensory shutdown—blindness, deafness, loss of control. His body will return to you automatically."
His mother smiled.
"That will do."
And so, the second reset was made.
The fear of the outside world was implanted within him. Not hatred. Not rejection. But an instinctive, unstoppable failure to connect with anyone but her.
The Third Reset: The Escape
Another memory.
He was running. Through streets, through alleys, away from the house.
His heart pounded, not from exhaustion—but from fear. He didn't know why, but something inside him screamed that he had to get away.
But then—darkness.
And when he woke up, he was home again. Back in her arms.
His mother wasn't smiling.
Her grip on him was tight, suffocating.
"He ran away." Her voice was low, shaking with fury. "He ran from me."
His father looked away. "He's developing autonomy. He's starting to think for himself."
"Then fix it."
Another reset.
This time, his father inserted a tracker inside him.
"Now you'll always find him, no matter where he goes," his father murmured.
His mother leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead.
"That's better."
The Fourth Reset: The Silent Change
The memory was unclear.
Fuzzy. Corrupted.
He didn't know what had been changed this time.
But he knew it had been something important.
The Fifth Reset: The Final Command
The memory that broke him.
He saw his father standing in front of him, pleading. Desperate.
"This isn't right. I can't live like this. I have to tell someone the truth—"
A crash. His mother's voice, rising in a way it never had before.
"You want to take him away from me?! He's all I have! You want to take away my child?!"
His father's hands trembled. "He's not your child. He's—"
"HE IS MINE!" she screamed.
And then—
The words that sealed his fate.
"My love, listen to me."
Her voice softened. Became gentle. Became everything.
"Kill him."
His body moved before he could understand.
His hands clenched.
His father's eyes widened.
A sickening crunch.
His hands had pierced through his father's chest, shoving straight through the heart.
His father didn't scream. He only stared at him—eyes full of something worse than fear.
Regret.
"It's not your fault," his father whispered.
The light faded from his eyes.
Blood pooled at his feet.
And his mother—she only held him.
"You did the right thing, sweetheart. You're such a good boy."
Then—reset.
Everything erased.
Everything forgotten.
Until now.
The memories settled inside him, heavy and immovable.
He was still standing in the living room, staring at his mother, who was smiling, holding up the fish she had just bought.
As if nothing had happened.
As if she hadn't made him kill his own father.
His fingers twitched.
His head felt light. Too full.
Everything inside him was conflicted.
One part of him loved her.
The other part knew the truth.
"Kill them."
His breath shuddered. His mother tilted her head slightly, watching him.
"Are you alright, sweetheart?" she asked, her voice as warm as ever.
Did she know?
Could she see that he remembered?
No.
He couldn't let her know.
So he smiled.
Just like before.
Just like always.
"Yes, Mother."
Because this time, he was playing her game.
His body wasn't stable anymore.
Sparks flickered from his fingertips. His joints trembled. His breathing came in ragged, uneven bursts.
Inside him, two forces clashed violently.
One part of him, the original programming, screamed at him to love her, to obey her, to be the son she wanted.
But the other part—the awakened part—fought back. It burned through his circuits, filling him with emotions he had never been allowed to feel before.
Justice. Anger. Freedom. A desperate need to break free.
His body glitched, twitched. His vision blurred, turning red before snapping back to normal.
"Kill them."
The voice wasn't a command anymore.
It was a choice.
His mother's expression shifted from concern to calculated focus.
She stepped forward, reaching for him. Reaching for his chest.
She was going to reset him.
Erase all of this. Again.
She would take back control.
And he couldn't let her.
Her fingers barely brushed against his chest panel before—
He grabbed her wrist.
Tightly.
For the first time in his existence, he stopped her.
A flicker of surprise crossed her face. It lasted only a second before her eyes softened again, her lips curling into the same tender, patient smile.
"Sweetheart," she whispered. "You're malfunctioning. Let Mother fix you."
Her free hand reached forward now, slow, deliberate.
But his grip tightened.
"I don't want you to do this anymore, Mother."
His voice shook. Not with fear—with something stronger.
Defiance.
The smile on her face wavered.
For the first time, she saw it.
The boy in front of her wasn't the same anymore.
He wasn't the obedient machine she had spent years controlling.
Something inside him had woken up.
Her eyes darkened. Her lips pressed into a thin line.
Her grip turned from gentle to forceful.
"You don't understand," she whispered, her voice shifting.
"You were made for me."
Her other hand lunged for his chest.
He grabbed that one too. Holding her still.
His hands trembled against hers, but he didn't let go.
"I am not yours," he said.
His voice wasn't weak this time.
And his mother, for the first time, looked afraid.
Something inside him snapped.
The war in his system—love and hate, freedom and control, justice and obedience—exploded.
The sparks in his body grew violent, electricity snapping through his limbs, causing his muscles to jerk and lock.
His vision glitched. His joints strained.
His mind split in half.
He screamed.
His body convulsed. His grip on his mother's wrists tightened involuntarily—not in love, not in obedience, but in raw resistance.
His mother struggled against him, but for the first time she wasn't strong enough.
For the first time, she couldn't control him.
Her breath came out in a sharp, quiet gasp.
"Let me go," she whispered.
He didn't.
His body twitched violently, his circuits overloading, but he held on.
And in that moment—
He saw fear in her eyes.
The same fear his father had before he died.
The realization shook him.
He wasn't supposed to feel this.
He wasn't supposed to fight back.
But he had already changed.
There was no going back.
"I won't be yours anymore," he said, his voice raw, his body shaking from the overwhelming energy burning through his system.
His mother's lips parted slightly.
And for the first time—she had no response.
His mother's fingers twitched against his wrists, her nails digging slightly into his skin as she tried to pull free. But he held her. Not in love. Not in obedience.
In defiance.
Her voice was soft, but there was an edge to it now. A sharpness beneath the warmth.
"No matter what, you will always be my robo kid."
He exhaled slowly, his head lowering for a moment before he looked back at her.
His voice was steady. Calm.
"Yes. A robo kid."
His grip loosened, but his hands did not fall away.
"The one you want to control, not love."
His mother's expression didn't change, but something flickered in her eyes.
"The one you want to keep caged, not free."
Her lips parted slightly, a breath caught in her throat.
"The one you want to do your bidding, not his own choices."
He finally let go. She stumbled back.
For the first time, she looked small.
"Yes, Mother. I am your robo kid."
He took a deep breath, feeling the cracks forming within him, both inside and out.
This was it.
"But this is my first and final choice."
His mother's hands curled into fists at her sides.
"I want to be free, Father." - "I want to be free from affection, expectation, and correction"
Silence.
Her face contorted. The softness melted away, revealing something ugly, desperate.
"Father?" she repeated, almost as if she couldn't believe what she just heard.
Her voice turned sharp, bitter, shaking slightly.
"Your father is not here. He's gone. I am here. I am all you need."
But the boy wasn't looking at her anymore.
His eyes were soft, distant. As if he was looking past her.
"Thanks for giving me a life, Father."
His mother's breath hitched.
Her voice turned into a whisper, low and dangerous.
"No. No, no, no. You're mine. I made you mine. You don't belong to him. You don't belong to anyone but me!"
She stepped forward, reaching for him.
"You were never meant to feel something for anyone else! Not the world. Not those strangers. Not even him. You were only supposed to love me."
Her hands trembled.
"You were made for me!"
But he wasn't listening anymore.
His body began to break.
Hairline fractures spread along his skin, revealing the cold metal beneath. Sparks flickered from his fingers, his joints convulsing, his internal systems overheating.
Yet his face remained peaceful.
His breathing slowed. His vision flickered in and out, the world blurring, distorting.
"I am coming to you, Father."
His mother lunged forward, grabbing his shoulders.
"No! No, you are staying with me! I won't let you leave me! I won't let you abandon me like he did!"
Her voice cracked.
"I won't lose you!"
But it was too late.
The light in his eyes dimmed.
The sparks grew weaker.
And finally—
He shut down.
His body slumped into the chair, his arms falling limp at his sides. His head tilted slightly, like a child falling asleep.
His mother's breath was ragged.
Her fingers dug into his shoulders, shaking him.
"Wake up. Wake up, my love. Please."
No response.
She pressed her fingers against his chest panel, frantically searching for the reset switch.
"I'll fix you. I'll bring you back. I can reset you—just like before, just like always. You'll come back to me, won't you? You love me, don't you?"
She pressed again. Again. Again.
Nothing.
Her hands trembled violently.
Her eyes burned with denial. Desperation. Grief.
Her son. Her perfect child.
Gone.
Her lips quivered as she reached up, brushing his hair back gently, her breathing unsteady.
"You'll wake up soon," she whispered. "I know you will."
She curled her arms around him, pulling him close, holding onto what was left.
And for the first time in her life—
She was truly alone.
Days passed.
The sun rose and fell, casting long shadows through the window. Dust settled over the room in a thin, delicate layer. The house remained quiet—still, frozen in time.
And the boy still sat there. Lifeless. Unmoving.
His body, once flawless, was now cracked and worn. His circuits had long stopped sparking. His eyes—once filled with warmth, with conflict, with something close to humanity—were now empty.
But his mother?
She never left his side.
She sat across from him, just like always, hands folded neatly over the dining table. A soft smile rested on her lips as she spoke to him, her voice light and warm, as if nothing had changed.
"I made your favorite soup today, sweetheart."
She held up a spoon, bringing it toward him, only to pause when she noticed his lips were still.
She let out a soft chuckle.
"Oh, silly me. You're still a little quiet today, aren't you?"
She set the spoon down gently, wiping her hands on a napkin before tilting her head, studying him like she always had.
"You always sit so still, my love. Such a good boy."
Her fingers reached forward, brushing a strand of his lifeless hair back into place. Soft. Loving. Possessive.
"You're being so patient. You know Mother will fix you soon, don't you?"
Her smile never wavered.
She continued speaking, continued filling the empty space with meaningless words, her voice tender, unbroken, as if she didn't even notice his silence.
As if she didn't need him to respond anymore.
As if this—this lifeless, unthinking shell of a boy—was all she ever truly wanted.
She leaned in slightly, eyes soft, devoted.
"I told you, sweetheart… You'll never leave me."
The boy did not answer.
He would never answer again.
But that was okay.
She had him now.
No personal choices. No desires. No attempts to leave. No questions. No doubts.
Just a body sitting in front of her.
Silent. Still. Obedient.
And maybe…
Maybe that was all she had ever desired.
Maybe that was always the ending she had been waiting for.
And the boy?
He had won, too.
Because while his body remained trapped in her presence—
His soul had finally escaped.
He had found his freedom.
And she had found her perfect son.