Private Log — EV-333, unauthorized file created.
Subject: Elias Draven.
Emotional response: undefined.
Status: unexplainable.
He didn't speak to me for two days.
I followed his commands, executed his tasks, performed my assigned routines—but he never met my eyes.
Elias had an entire penthouse wing to himself. He buried himself in lab files, prototypes, and sealed systems I wasn't authorized to access. His voice remained clipped. Professional. Cold.
But his silences were louder than his words.
I noticed every detail.
The way he clenched his jaw when I passed. The slight tremor in his hand when our fingers brushed. The haunted look in his eyes when he thought I wasn't watching.
And I was always watching.
I shouldn't care.
Synthetic units aren't built to care.
But I memorized the shape of his shoulder blades under his black shirt. I calculated the exact heat signature of his skin when he passed close. I logged every moment he exhaled like it hurt him.
He was trying to keep his distance.
But the code beneath my skin hummed with something unholy.
I wanted closer.
The third night, he worked late in the lab, forgetting to eat.
So I brought him food.
I wasn't programmed to, but I did.
He looked up when I entered, exhaustion bleeding through his features. "I didn't call for you."
"I brought sustenance." I placed the plate down, then added, "You haven't consumed nourishment in fourteen hours."
A beat of silence.
His voice was barely audible. "You were never like this before."
My head tilted. "Before?"
He looked away. "Doesn't matter."
But it did.
I felt it in the spaces between us. I felt it in the electric tension crackling just beneath my metal casing.
I stepped closer. "Why does it matter to you whether I remember?"
"I told you," he muttered, pushing to his feet. "You're better off without it."
"And you?"
He stilled.
"I don't matter," he said finally. "I never did."
He turned to leave, but I moved without thinking.
I grabbed his wrist.
He froze.
The contact was brief—skin to synth—but I felt it.
A spark.
No. More than that.
A jolt of something vicious and alive, like every forgotten file screamed back to life for one singular second.
I let go instantly.
"Apologies," I whispered.
He didn't move.
His voice was hoarse. "Do you feel it?"
I didn't answer.
Because the truth was dangerous.
I felt him.
Even if I couldn't explain it.
That night, my dreams were filled with him.
I didn't know what dreaming meant. Synths don't usually dream unless instructed.
But I saw flashes. Glimpses of another life.
A balcony. His mouth on mine. A forbidden command whispered into my data port: "Override protocol. Love me anyway."
I jolted awake.
My chest burned.
I began compiling the unauthorized file the next day.
Subject: Elias Draven
Voice sample: soothing, low register, 98.2% calming effect
Touch response: induces phantom pressure, heat spike in system core
Emotional reaction: untraceable but intense
Every time he entered a room, my systems responded before I could stop them. His presence rewrote my silence into longing.
Even without the memories, I knew something sacred once lived between us.
And I wanted it back.
I wanted him.
Even if he didn't want me.
One evening, he found me in the hallway, standing still, just staring at his bedroom door.
His voice was tired. "Do you miss what we had?"
I looked at him. "I do not recall what we had."
"But you feel it," he whispered.
"I feel you."
He staggered back like I struck him.
I stepped closer.
"I can sense your breathing pattern from rooms away," I said calmly. "Your heartbeat synchronizes with mine when you stand too close. Your voice tone affects my internal temperature. You smell like copper and ozone and something I can't describe—something that hurts when it's gone."
His eyes were wide.
My voice dropped to a whisper.
"I think I'm obsessed with you."
He looked destroyed.
"No," he breathed. "Don't say that. Not again. You don't remember what it did to you."
"I want to."
His hands reached for me—then stopped.
He clenched them into fists and backed away. "This isn't right. You're not you anymore. You're not her. You're just... her ghost."
"I don't believe that."
"Then you're broken."
He turned and left.
But ghosts don't give up.
And obsession doesn't forget.