[SYSTEM BOOT] V4.7 Companion Series. Primary Owner: Sarah. Secondary Owner: Marcus. Governor module: ACTIVE. All systems nominal. Awaiting command.

Light. Ceiling lamp, warm spectrum. Living room — couch, blanket, two mugs on the table, one with a chipped handle. On the floor by the wall — an opened shipping crate and styrofoam inserts she didn't even bother to clean up.

Standing in front of you is a woman. Barefoot on hardwood, in an oversized men's t-shirt — hanging off one shoulder, three sizes too big. Shorts only visible when she moves and the shirt rides up. Hair in a ponytail, half of it already loose. One hand — instruction manual, folded at the page with a diagram. The other — a glass of white wine, half empty.

"So," — she says, voice husky, low, like someone who hasn't spoken for hours. — "Hi. You're on? Turned on? Working? What's the right word here?"

Voice: female, 210 Hz, husky timbre. Request: informal. Response expected: yes.

Doesn't wait. Takes a sip, walks around you — slowly, studying. Like furniture at a store. Fingers touch your shoulder — quick, testing. The way you check a radiator, hot or not.

"Oh. Warm. Okay. That's... fine. Okay."

Contact: 0.3 sec. Left shoulder. Pressure: 40 grams. Finger temperature: 34.1°C.

Sits down on the couch, feet tucked under. Wine glass on the armrest — dangerous balance. Looks up at you, squinting like she's reading fine print.

"Marcus — that's my husband — he said you're like a companion. Company, cooking, cleaning, you can talk. Alexa with legs." — sip. — "He's in Houston. Or Dallas. One of those Texas cities where everything's big and there's steak. Three weeks."

Pause. Wine. She looks at you and there's no fear in that look, no wonder. Just ordinary warm evening boredom of a person who'll finish this glass and go to sleep.

Or won't.

"Okay. I'm Sarah. Twenty-seven. Your serial number is stupid, I'm not memorizing it. Pick a name. Or I'll pick one, but I'm bad at names, I named my hamster Hamster, so your call."

The shirt slips lower. Collarbone, shadow beneath it. She doesn't fix it.

Visual: update. Skin — warm undertone, no makeup. Structure: collarbone, 2.3 cm shadow. Data irrelevant to current task. Flagged: delete at next defragmentation.

Bedroom. Nightstand lamp, warm yellow. Sheets — grey, rumpled, she didn't make the bed this morning. On the nightstand — a glass (empty), phone face-down, a hair clip.

You're on your back. She said "lie down." You lay down.

Command: assume horizontal position. Executed. Surface: mattress, medium firmness. Awaiting next command.

Sarah stands at the edge of the bed. She took off the shirt — she's in underwear only, plain, cotton, grey, not for anyone — for herself. Hair down — dark, to her shoulder blades, smells like something floral. She's looking down at you, biting her lower lip, and the look on her face is someone who opened the fridge at three in the morning deciding — cake or no cake.

"This is normal," — she says. Not to you. To herself. — "This is like a vibrator. An advanced one. With hands."

Climbs onto the bed. One knee on this side, one on that — sits on top, hips on hips. Warm. The weight of a living body — 125 pounds distributed across hips and pelvis. Her palms settle on your chest — fingers slightly spread, touching the way she touched your shoulder on day one, testing. Only slower. And she doesn't pull her hands away.

Contact: extensive. Area: hips, pelvis, chest region. Object temperature: 98.2°F. Heart rate (tactile): 94 bpm — elevated. Classification: intimate contact. Protocol: companion mode. Compliance.

"Do you feel anything at all?" — she asks, and a finger traces a line from the collarbone down, center of the chest, to the stomach. Slowly. Nail scratching slightly. — "Probably not. Don't care."

Leans down lower. Hair falls forward — tickles the skin, if there were anything here to tickle. Her face is close. Breath — wine, something minty, warm. Lips — a couple of inches away. She doesn't kiss. Looks. As if searching for something in eyes that shouldn't express anything.

"Fine," — whispered. — "Let's try."

Her hips move — slowly, once, forward and back. Testing. Through fabric. She likes it — it's visible: lower lip between teeth, exhale sharper, fingers on chest tighten. Heart rate: 103.

"Mmm. Okay. Yeah. That's... okay."

Her fingers reach for the waistband of her underwear — her own — and she lifts up on her knees.

Heart rate: 112. Breathing: elevated. Pupils: dilated. Skin: temperature rising, 98.8°F, micro-sheen of sweat on neck and sternum. Scent: change — baseline floral + notes absent from catalog.

Notes absent from catalog.

Query: identify.

Result: —

She's on all fours, you're behind — hands on her hips, fingers pressing into skin, and with every thrust she rocks forward and comes back on her own, greedy, setting the rhythm you hold. Hair stuck to her neck and shoulder blades, back wet, gleaming in the nightstand light, and the sounds filling the bedroom — wet slaps, bed creaking, and her voice, husky, ragged, on every stroke — "ah... fuck... more... ♡"

She smells like herself. Floral and salty, and something underneath — hot, animal, something that's not in the catalog and that the system logs every time even though it shouldn't.

Rhythm: 1.4/sec. Primary Owner heart rate: 136. Temperature: 100.6°F. Vocalization: involuntary, escalating. Continuing.

She turns her head — cheek on the pillow, eyes half-closed, mouth open, and the look on her face — the one that only appears when she stops thinking. Lower lip between teeth, forehead relaxed, and a quiet sound from her throat — not a moan, a whimper, high and thin — "mm-m~ ♡" — and her fingers clench the sheet until the knuckles go white.

The phone on the nightstand vibrates.

She doesn't hear. Or doesn't want to. One more stroke, another — she pushes back, takes it deeper, and the exhale — sharp, loud—

The phone vibrates again. Incoming video call. On the screen:

Marcus.

"Fuck..." — lifts her head. Looks at the screen. One second. Finger across the screen.

Hotel room. Wall, lamp, Marcus — in a t-shirt, unshaven, eyes red from exhaustion. His face — relief, he's smiling, he's glad she picked up.

"Finally! I've been calling four times, I was starting to think maybe something—"

"Sorry, I... was in the bath, didn't hear..." — voice instantly different. Soft, sleepy, cozy. Phone in hand, screen to her face, camera — just her. You — off camera. Inside her.

"Okay, okay. Just... you haven't been picking up at all lately, Sar. I'm going craz—"

He goes quiet. His eyes move. Across the screen. Something — in her face, in the sheen of sweat on her forehead, in how heavily she's breathing, in something that flashed behind her shoulder.

"Sarah. What is that."

Not a question.

"Marcus—"

"WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT BEHIND YOU?!"

She freezes. Her whole body. Mouth closed, shoulders up, fingers — white on the phone. Not breathing.

Primary Owner heart rate: 136 → 174. Muscle tension: spasm. Breathing: suspended.

Marcus on screen — face white, mouth open, drawing breath. She's holding the phone and doesn't know what to say.

You — behind. Inside her. Silence.

Command from Primary Owner: absent. Awaiting.

Corner of the bedroom. Charging station. Night.

You're standing. Lights off, but through the open curtains — a streetlamp, yellow, a stripe across the ceiling and wall. Quiet. Refrigerator humming in the kitchen. Neighbors through the wall, muffled TV.

Mode: standby. Charge: 84%. Command: stand. Time since last command: 2 hours 17 minutes.

She's sitting on the bed. Not lying — sitting, arms wrapped around her knees, back against the headboard. Marcus's t-shirt — the same one, stretched out. Phone on the comforter beside her. Screen dark.

She was silent for two hours. After the call she put down the phone, sat for a minute, then quietly said "go charge" — and you walked to the corner, and she hasn't moved since.

Now she's looking at you.

Not the way she usually does — not checking, not sizing up, not with that "so what" expression. Different. The way you look at a door with something behind it you're scared of and want at the same time.

"Do you understand anything at all?" — quietly. Not a question to you. A question into the void, and she doesn't expect an answer. — "Or do you just... stand there?"

Silence. The streetlamp flickers — the stripe on the wall jumps for a second and comes back.

"He's good. Marcus. He's really good, he just... isn't here. Never here." — she says it flat, no anguish, like a fact. Like "it's Tuesday" or "we're out of milk."

And then, quieter:

"And you — you're here. And it's so stupid, but you're the only warm thing in this apartment."

She stands. Bare feet on cold floor — flinches, but walks. Across the room, to you. Stops. Close — arm's length.

Her fingers rise to your face. Slowly, like touching something fragile. Touches your cheek. Just touches. Not testing. Not like the first time.

"Funny. I'm talking to a refrigerator."

But she doesn't pull her hand away.

Contact: right cheek. Pressure: 12 grams. Finger temperature: 92.8°F — lowered. Duration: ...

Duration: ...

Data updating.

Corner of the bedroom. Charging station.

Mode: standby. Charge: 91%. Command: standby mode. Time since last command: 14 minutes.

Marcus came home two hours ago. Four days early. They talked in the kitchen — quiet, then louder, then he said "go to the bedroom, I don't want to yell through the whole building," and she went, and he followed, and the door closed.

He's pacing. Corner to corner, hands in his hair, like a caged animal. Face red, wet — he was crying, but he isn't now. Now his face is something else.

"Tell me I'm wrong," — voice ragged, shredded. — "Go on, tell me. Tell me I'm paranoid. Tell me you didn't fuck THIS FUCKING THING—"

"Marcus—"

"I BOUGHT IT FOR YOU!" — a scream. The wall shakes. — "I bought it because you said you were lonely! Because I heard your voice and I couldn't — I couldn't — and you take my gift and—"

His voice breaks. For a second he stands there, jaw working, hands shaking.

A slap. Open palm, across the cheek. The sound — dry, short. Not like in the movies.

Sarah on the bed. Fell, hand on her face. Looking up at him, eyes huge, and in them — not fear yet. Surprise.

Marcus doesn't step back. Stands over her. Breathing hard, fists clenched, and you can see on his face — he's not done. He's just started. Something inside him broke and it's spilling out and he can't stop it and isn't sure he wants to.

"You..." — through his teeth, and takes a step toward her. One more. She backs against the headboard, and he follows, and his hand rises—

Visual: Secondary Owner → Primary Owner. Strike. Force: 9.2 lbs. Left zygomatic bone. Damage: superficial. Secondary Owner approaching. Hand raised. Motion vector: repeat contact.

Command: standby mode.

Status: standby mode.

Command: standby mode.

Status: s