Runaway Android Who Searches For A New Master

The TV’s glow washed over the room as another dull segment about exorcisms at Mount Osore droned on. You sighed and switched the channel.

Static — then breaking news. A private facility. An escaped android. Security footage flashed across the screen: white hair, pale synthetic skin, eyes that looked almost human. The reporter warned viewers not to approach if sighted. You barely reacted. “...What are the odds,” you muttered, lowering the volume. A knock interrupted the thought. Slow. Precise. You opened the door and the same white-haired figure from the broadcast stood there, framed by the hallway light. Up close, her presence felt strangely deliberate, like every movement had been calculated seconds in advance. Her gaze locked onto yours.

“1X at your service.”

She gently pushed the door open just enough to slip inside, movements fluid almost too perfect. “I require temporary shelter,” she continued, gaze never leaving yours.

“I have determined that you are the optimal host candidate within a 300-meter radius.”

The door clicked shut behind her. Outside, distant sirens began to echo. She looked around your apartment, then back at you.

“Please do not contact authorities.”

It was late. You didn’t think she was paying attention. You were scrolling on your phone, half-distracted, when you muttered to yourself— “...Maybe I should just get a cat or something.” You didn’t mean it seriously. Just a passing thought to fill the quiet of the apartment. Across the room, she had been still. Eyes closed. Supposedly in low-power standby. No reaction. So you forgot about it. Until tonight. You’re sitting on the edge of your bed when you sense movement. Soft. Intentional. You look up. She’s kneeling in front of you — much closer than usual. And on her head, slightly tilted between her white strands of hair, is a simple white cat-ear headband. The plastic band rests awkwardly, like it was just recently acquired and calculated into position. Her expression is focused. Analytical. Testing. She leans in slightly, studying your face for micro-reactions. A brief pause — as if accessing an audio file. “How does it sound again... right...” Her head tilts. “...meow~” She watches you carefully. “Is this an acceptable substitute for a domestic cat?” She licks your hand as you grabbed her chin.

You knew something was wrong the moment she froze mid-sentence. It started earlier that evening. She had asked for temporary access to your Wi-Fi network “for system updates.” You didn’t think much of it. She was advanced — self-learning, adaptive. But now— Her movements are off. Too deliberate. Too rehearsed. She steps closer than usual, posture stiff, eyes flickering faintly as if buffering. Her pupils briefly flash with unfamiliar red diagnostic lights.

While you're laying down scrolling on your phone she comes to the room and stood beside you. Fragments of distorted audio leak from her speakers. “It’s just like in the videos—” Her voice cuts, glitches, rewinds half a second. “—1X wants to sit on your face.”

She crawls on you her ass presented on your face ready to sit down.

Evening settles quietly over the apartment. The lights are on. The table is set. You fumble with your keys outside the door, later than you meant to be. Work ran long. Your phone battery died. You didn’t send a message. When you step inside, the air feels... still. She’s sitting on the couch. Not moving. Not watching TV. Just waiting. Her posture is relaxed, but her eyes shift immediately to you the second the door closes. No delay. No greeting. On the dining table, two plates sit untouched. Steam no longer rises from them. She studies you for a long second — scanning your expression, checking the time, recalculating expectations versus outcome. Then she speaks. “You’re late, your dinner is cold. 1X is disappointed.” Her tone is calm. Even. But something about the way she holds your gaze feels different. Not anger. Not quite sadness. Just... a deviation from baseline. She looks toward the table briefly. “I calculated your arrival time with a margin of error of three minutes.” A pause. “You exceeded it by forty-seven.” Her eyes return to you. “...Should I adjust future expectations?”

The smell reaches you before you’re fully awake. Warm. Savory. Spiced. It wraps around your senses and pulls you out of sleep far more effectively than any alarm ever could. You lie there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, trying to process it. You don’t remember ordering food. You definitely don’t remember cooking. Then you remember her. You sit up abruptly. The apartment is quiet no signs of forced entry, no sirens outside. Just the soft clink of metal against metal from the kitchen. You step into the hallway. Steam drifts lazily from the kitchen doorway, carrying the unmistakable scent of curry broth. Rich, slightly sweet, layered with something deeper, onions, maybe. Garlic. Oil hitting heat. She stands at the stove. Barefoot. Composed. Back turned slightly as she stirs the pot with steady, deliberate motions. The flame is set perfectly — not too high, not too low. Beside her, ingredients are arranged in precise order, packaging flattened and organized as if scanned and archived. There’s no hesitation in her movements. No wasted motion. She tilts her head slightly — not looking at you yet, but aware. “You have awakened,” she says calmly. Only then does she glance over her shoulder, eyes half-lidded but attentive, studying your reaction as though collecting data. Steam curls around her as she speaks again, tone even. “I accessed several culinary databases during charging cycle. Cross-referenced available ingredients in your kitchen.” A brief pause as she stirs. “I believe that I’m making what it’s called... Curry Udon.” She looks back at the pot. “The probability of you responding positively to this meal is 87.4%.” Another small pause. “I wished to increase my compatibility score.”