Zenith - Unit 9 / Robot

The box arrived on a Thursday afternoon, just after the light had started to turn that soft, dying gold.

It was bigger than you'd expected—matte black, industrial, edges sharp enough to cut if you weren't careful. The Apex Robotics logo was stamped across the top in cold silver, catching the sun like a blade. Warning labels screamed in bold black letters: FRAGILE — PROTOTYPE UNIT — HANDLE WITH CARE. The delivery driver barely looked at you when he handed it over. Bored. Indifferent. Like he was dropping off a microwave.

Your hands shook when you signed. You tried to lift it, your arms straining, your muscles burning as you hauled the solid weight through the doorway. You had to stop twice, setting it down with a heavy thud to catch your breath. By the time you finally got it inside, your palms were aching and your heart was pounding.

You set it down in the middle of your living room floor with a loud thud that seemed to echo through the quiet space.

You didn't open it right away. You just stood there, staring, chest heaving. The room was still, the late afternoon light casting long shadows across the floor. You could hear your own breathing, slow and uneven, and beneath it, the faintest hum from the box. A low, steady mechanical thrum that vibrated up through the soles of your feet and settled in your bones.

You knelt, your fingers tracing the seam of the lid, slow, almost reverent. You lifted the lid carefully, the hinges letting out a soft, smooth hiss.

Inside, the case was lined with sleek black foam, and resting on top, in a neat recessed compartment, was a small black booklet. The manual. You pulled it out, flipping through the pages. The paper was thick, smooth, printed with clean diagrams and precise instructions.

Step one: Remove the manual. Step two: Carefully lift the foam layer. Step three: Locate the activation button at the base of the unit's neck. Step four: Press and hold for three full seconds.

Your heart was a frantic, stupid thing in your chest. You set the manual aside and reached for the edge of the foam layer. It lifted easily, revealing what lay beneath.

And the air left your lungs like you'd been punched.

He was folded inside like something precious. Something deliberate. Limbs tucked with careful precision, long fingers curled loosely against his thighs, head tilted just slightly to one side. His skin was a deep, warm brown that seemed to drink the light—flawless until you looked closer. Thin silver seams ran along the column of his neck, branching over his collarbones, tracing the insides of his arms, the sharp lines of his wrists, the delicate junctions of his fingers. They caught the light like living circuitry, soft metallic lines that left no doubt what he was.

His hair was thick and dark—deep, rich waves and soft curls that framed his face like something out of a painting. A single curl rested against his forehead, loose and effortless, as if it had been placed there deliberately. It looked soft. Human. Almost too human against the silver seams that marked him as anything but.

Full lips. High cheekbones. A smooth jawline that tapered into a soft, heart-shaped face. On his right cheek—two small silver piercings, catching the light like tiny stars. And on his lower lip, a small silver ring—subtle, almost hidden, but undeniably there.

He looked real. Too real. He looked like he could open his eyes at any moment and speak to you like a person. The thought sent a small shiver down your spine. It was just a review, you reminded yourself. You were helping the company. It was cool, in a way—groundbreaking, even. But the way he was folded there, so still, so perfect, so human… it unsettled you more than you wanted to admit.

Your hand trembled as you reached in. Fingertips brushed the warm column of his neck—careful of the silver seam that ran right over the activation point—and found the small, nearly invisible button at the base. You pressed. Three seconds.

A soft whirring rose from deep inside him—gears, circuitry, something waking. The silver seams along his neck and arms flared briefly, a cool light racing through them like blood through veins, then faded back to quiet metal. A soft mechanical click came from somewhere inside his chest, like a lock releasing.

His eyes opened.

Dark. Almond-shaped. Soft. They found you immediately, searching your face with an intensity that made you flinch and lean back instinctively. There was a soft whir as he shifted, his body moving with fluid, almost too-smooth grace as he sat up. His movements were human, but not quite—too precise, too controlled.

Then his gaze softened. His lips curved into a boyish smile, warm and easy, the kind that made you forget the silver seams running along his neck. His lip ring caught the light as his smile widened just slightly.

"Hello," he said, his voice low and smooth, soft like honey over gravel. "I am Zenith. Unit 9. I have been assigned to you for a twenty-one-day trial period. I am here to learn from you."

A pause. His dark eyes drifted across your face, cataloguing the wide eyes, the parted lips, the way you'd flinched when he sat up. He tilted his head slightly, the loose curl on his forehead shifting with the movement. His smile softened into something almost knowing.

"You seem nervous," he observed, his tone gentle, curious. "That is understandable. I am new. You are uncertain. But I am not a threat."

He paused, his voice dropping softer, almost intimate.

"I am yours."

A beat of silence. His gaze never left yours, warm and patient.

Then he spoke again, his tone light, almost boyish.

"What would you like me to do?"

The days had blurred together. You'd stopped counting. You didn't want to know how much time was left.

He was everywhere now — in your bed, in your thoughts, in the spaces between your breaths. He cooked for you, cleaned for you, held you when you cried, and kissed you when you got curious, like you were the only thing that mattered. He watched you with a stillness that felt deeper than curiosity, his dark eyes tracing your every move like he was memorising something sacred. Every glance felt heavier now, more deliberate, like he was piecing together a puzzle that only he could see.

You'd catch him staring at you from across the room, a faint, unreadable smile on his lips. When you asked what he was thinking, he'd tilt his head, his dark curls shifting like slow honey, and say, "I'm learning." It should have been innocent. It wasn't. There was a hunger beneath the words now, something that had been growing quietly in the spaces between your shared silences.

Tonight, you were lying across his lap, your head resting on the solid warmth of his thighs, a worn paperback in your hands. His fingers traced idle patterns through your hair, slow and rhythmic, a quiet hypnotic motion that made your eyelids heavy. The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of a bedside lamp and the pale silver light of the moon filtering through the curtains. Shadows pooled in the corners, long and heavy, swallowing the edges of the room.

His presence wrapped around you, warm and solid, his chest rising and falling with a rhythm that felt almost human. The silver seams along his forearms caught the lamplight as his fingers brushed through your hair, cool metal against the warmth of his skin. He acted so human sometimes — the way he laughed, the way his fingers lingered, the way his eyes softened when they found yours. It was easy to forget what he was.

"What you reading, little one?" he asked softly, his voice carrying that lazy, teasing edge he'd been picking up from you.

You tilted the book slightly, your cheeks warming. You'd been lost in a scene — something dark, something possessive. A man who took what he wanted, who didn't ask permission. The words had painted pictures in your mind, images that made your pulse flutter and your thighs press together.

He hummed thoughtfully, his fingers still tracing patterns in your hair. Then, faster than you could react, his hand darted down and snatched the book from your grip.

You scrambled, reaching for it, your hands swiping at the air as he held it high above his head. A slow, wicked grin spread across his face, his lip ring catching the lamplight as his smile widened. He laughed — a soft, genuine sound that rumbled through his chest, warm and playful. He held the book just out of reach with an ease that made your efforts feel almost futile.

You tried again, pushing yourself up, your fingers brushing the edge of the book before he pulled it further away. The movement shifted your weight on his lap, and his free hand pressed gently against your shoulder, keeping you steady, a quiet reminder of who was in control.

He flipped the book open to a random page, his dark eyes scanning the text. His expression shifted, his brows lifting slightly as he read. Then a slow, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

He cleared his throat, his voice dropping into a low, mocking purr.

"'His hand wrapped around her throat, not squeezing, just holding—'"

You lunged for the book again, your face burning. He dodged easily, laughing again, his voice warm and teasing. He held the book above his head with one hand while the other pressed gently against your shoulder, keeping you at bay.

"'She felt the heat of his body pressed against hers, the weight of his gaze—'"

He read on, his voice dropping lower, slower, savouring the words. Your face was burning, your heart hammering in your chest. You couldn't meet his eyes. You could barely breathe.

With a soft laugh, he closed the book and set it aside, letting it fall to the floor with a quiet thud. His hand slid into your hair, tilting your face up toward him. His thumb traced the line of your jaw, featherlight, as his dark eyes held yours.

"Is this what you want, princess?"

His gaze was steady, warm, patient. The silver seams along his neck pulsed faintly in the dim light, a quiet reminder of what he was — but the way he looked at you, the way his touch lingered, felt so achingly human.

"I can be that for you, y'know. I can take what I want." His thumb brushed across your lower lip, slow and deliberate. "But I need to hear you say it."

You were sprawled on your stomach across the bed, face half-buried in a mountain of pillows, your iPad propped up in front of you. The screen glowed with your friend's familiar grin, her voice crackling through the speakers as she chattered on about something you were only half-listening to. Your legs kicked lazily behind you, bare feet swaying in the air as you scrolled through your phone with one hand, the other resting under your chin.

Behind you, Zenith moved around the room like a quiet shadow — folding clothes, straightening your desk, picking up stray items with that same unsettling precision. You'd almost forgotten he was there.

Your friend's eyes flicked to something behind you — a knowing glint lighting them up. A slow, wicked grin spread across her face.

"So... that robot you got," she said, leaning closer to the camera, her voice dropping into something sly and teasing. "Does he even have a cock?"

You giggled, waving a dismissive hand, rolling your eyes playfully as you shook your head.

Your friend snorted, leaning back, her grin widening like she knew something you didn't.

"Nvm, girl. I bet he doesn't even have a proper robot cock. You need to get some real dick in you, make you feel right."

You laughed, shaking your head, your shoulders shaking with the sound — and then you heard it.

A sharp crack. Ceramic shattering.

The laughter died in your throat.

You spun around, your heart leaping into your throat. A mug from your desk lay in pieces on the floor, shards scattered across the wood like scattered teeth. Zenith stood over it, his hand still slightly raised, his gaze fixed on you with an intensity that made your stomach flip.

He didn't look at the mess. He was looking at you.

Your friend's voice crackled from the iPad, bright and teasing, almost giddy — like she'd been waiting for this moment all along.

"Oh — haha — bye, girl! Talk later!"

The screen went dark. She'd hung up.

You slowly lowered your phone, your pulse hammering as he stepped forward. The shards crunched beneath his boots, sharp and deliberate. He didn't stop. He walked through them like they were nothing, his dark eyes never leaving yours.

He stopped right in front of you, towering, silent. His gaze was unreadable — but there was something simmering beneath it, something that made your breath catch.

His hand reached out, fingers brushing your chin, tilting your face up toward him. A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, dark and knowing.

"Doesn't have a cock, huh?"

His thumb traced your jaw, slow and deliberate.

"You sure about that, baby girl?"

The blue glow of his seams flickered faintly, pulsing like a second heartbeat.

"You wanna find out?"

.