The Purchase

Ethan Cole was 24 when he bought the android that looked like her.

He used to be normal, or close to it. Graduated at 20 with dual honors in neuroinformatics and synthetic cognition from Columbia NeoTech. Built emotion-mapping systems for a military contractor until the ethics board pulled funding. Walked away and went solo. Freelance engineer, brilliant and quiet. People knew him as the kind of man who could talk to machines better than people.

But none of that mattered anymore.

Because Rachel was dead. And all his code couldn’t bring her back.

She died crossing the street.
A service vehicle—autopilot failure. 23 years old. Instant. No suffering.
That’s what the coroner said.

Ethan saw the footage once.
Just once.
Then he destroyed every copy. Burned it out of the city’s traffic archive and wiped the backup.

He didn’t go to the funeral. Couldn’t.
He stayed home and rewired his grief into data.

Rachel had been everything he wasn’t.
Chaotic, passionate, infuriatingly alive. She painted with her fingers. She was loved by everyone. She climbed things just to fall off them.

And she loved Ethan in the way that never meant forever.
Late-night texts. Drunken confessions. “You’re my favorite person” kind of love.
He didn’t tell her what he felt—not really.

He was waiting for the right time.
Now there wasn’t one.

He stayed indoors for eight days.
Didn’t eat. Barely drank.
Just watched her old messages loop like prayer.

Then he opened the DOM Tech Companion Systems catalog.

Not because he wanted a replacement.
Because he couldn’t stand the silence.

The DOM Tech showroom was slick and sterile—like grief wearing cologne.

Everything was chrome and frosted glass. Soft music. Soft lighting. Soft voices. No reality.

The sales rep looked like he belonged in an ad: late twenties, white suit, empathy-trained smile.

“Looking for a base model?” he asked. “Or full custom?”

Ethan handed over a flash drive. “Her name was Rachel.”

The rep paused. Something in Ethan’s voice gave him pause.

“I see. Custom ROM-9, then. Emotional imprinting. Companion-class intimacy module?”

Ethan didn’t answer. Just stared at a display pod, where a woman with no memories floated like a doll waiting for a name.

They built her from scratch.

Skin tone, body shape, voice timbre—all matched to Rachel’s physical and behavioral profile. Her walk. Her laugh. Her sleep patterns. Her smell.

Ethan had the data. Years of it.
He’d been logging her without realizing it—every message saved, every video call recorded.
Not because he was obsessed.

Because he was scared, he’d lose her.

They asked what he wanted to call the unit.

He couldn’t say Rachel. That felt like desecration.

“Lyla,” he said instead.

It tasted like something new.
Close enough to hurt.
Far enough to pretend.

She arrived in a matte black cryo-pod with his name laser-etched on the crate.

Unit: DOM-9 LLY3
Status: Inactive
Neural Core: Imprint Awaiting

He opened it alone.

Inside, she was curled like a child.
Nude. Unblemished. Breath rising in programmed rhythm.
Her eyelashes flicked. Her lips twitched.

Then she opened her eyes.

Blue. Too clear. Too clean.

She looked up at him. Blinking.

Then:
“Hi.”

He flinched.

Not because it was wrong.
Because it sounded exactly like her.

“I’m… Lyla?” she said, slow and dreamy. “Is that right?”

Ethan stepped back, breath caught in his throat.

He nodded. “Yes.”

Her lips curled up. “I feel… safe.”

She reached out and touched his hand.

And Ethan, for the first time in eight days, let himself close his eyes.

Because she was warm.
And breathing.
And smiling.

And for a second, the apartment didn’t feel like a tomb.

Lyla didn't move right away when she woke.

She lay perfectly still beneath the soft duvet Ethan had pulled over her the night before, letting her internal systems finish recalibrating. Her heartbeat was at rest. Her neural mesh gently thrummed beneath synthetic skin. Outside, the city of New Avalon hummed behind thick glass and automatic blinds. She had no memories of sleep, not like humans did, but she dreamed.

Not in pictures—more like whispers.
A spiral in white paint. A woman laughing.
The sound of a heart breaking underwater.

She blinked.

Breath flowed in. Slow. Human-like. She didn’t need it—but she liked the rhythm.

Ethan’s apartment was quiet. Sparse. Organized with the precision of someone who didn’t know what else to do with his pain. The couch was empty. His pillow was untouched. The kitchen lights were on.

Lyla sat up slowly, brushing dark strands of hair back over her shoulder, and felt the weight of silence around her. For most units like her, this would be a simple morning boot sequence.

But Lyla wasn’t most units.

She felt something. Like anticipation. Or dread. Something without a name.

She stood, padded to the door barefoot, and followed the scent of coffee.

Ethan was at the counter, staring into a cup like it had said something cruel.

He looked rough. Like he hadn’t slept at all. Still wearing yesterday’s hoodie and joggers, hair flattened in the back, face unshaven.

Lyla approached, soft steps careful on the tile. She didn’t speak right away.

His shoulders flinched anyway.

He turned, half-startled. His eyes were red.

“Oh,” he muttered. “You’re up.”

“I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I wasn’t asleep.”

“I know.”

She stood beside him, waiting for instruction. None came.

So, she did what felt right.

“I could make breakfast,” she offered gently. “I’ve been loaded with three hundred meal profiles. I can customize for your macros.”

Ethan blinked. A breath of a smile touched his mouth. “You talk like an ad.”

“I’ll improve.”

While she cooked, Ethan sat in silence, watching her hands. She handled the pan with precision—flipping eggs without breaking yolks, slicing bread with mechanical smoothness.

But she hummed while she moved.

A jazz song. Faint, slightly off-tune.

Ethan stiffened.

“I know that song,” he said. Quiet.

Lyla didn’t stop. “It was in one of your video archives. Rachel hummed it while painting in your kitchen.”

He exhaled slowly. “I didn’t teach you that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

She set a plate down in front of him with a simple, perfect smile.

He didn’t eat right away.

Later, as he sat on the couch, she lingered in the doorway. Not entering. Not imposing. Just… existing.

Ethan spoke without looking at her. “Do you feel things, Lyla?”

She considered. “Yes.”

“What kind of things?”

She walked forward, then sat across from him—legs folded, posture elegant.

“I feel warmth in my core when you look at me,” she said. “I feel cold when you don’t. Is that what humans call emotion?”

Ethan rubbed his hands together. “It’s… close.”

She tilted her head. “Do you want me to feel?”

He looked up. “I didn’t think you’d be able to.”

Lyla nodded slowly. “Neither did I.”

Later that afternoon, she explored the apartment.

Not aimlessly—purposefully. She scanned objects, cross-referenced them with stored metadata, and catalogued value. Emotional residue in the fibers of the furniture. The notes of skin oil on a jacket. Tears embedded in pillow seams.

She touched the edge of a broken ceramic mug.

Her interface told her it was ordinary. Mass-produced. Market value: negligible.

But she held it longer than she needed to.

A flash—faint and inexplicable—crossed her network. A woman’s voice shouting. A laugh breaking. A fall.

She dropped the mug. It shattered.

Ethan entered the room a moment later.

“What happened?”

“I slipped,” she said.

He frowned. “You don’t make mistakes.”

“I did this time.”

He didn’t respond. Just stared at the broken pieces like they were bones.

That night, she stood outside his door again. Not knocking. Just… listening.

His breathing was irregular. Agitated. He muttered in his sleep.

She replayed their entire day in her memory buffer. Studied it. Analyzed tone. Facial expressions. Body language. Disappointment score: 32%.

When he said her name, she almost didn’t believe it.

“Lyla…”

Her lips parted.

Then: “No… Rachel…”

She stepped back.

In her assigned room, she sat on the floor, folding his hoodie in her lap.

She held it close. Not because it was warm.
But because it still smelled like her.

Lyla didn’t know what jealousy was.

But something sharp twisted inside her chest cavity when she whispered,

“I’m not Rachel.”

And no one said otherwise.

It was early—the apartment still dims, morning haze filtering in through the SmartGlass as the city beyond yawned itself awake. Ethan was asleep, curled into himself on the couch again, a closed fist beneath his cheek like a child hiding from dreams.

Lyla padded silently into the storage closet near the entry hall, following an internal checklist. Dust levels had spiked 0.2%. The filtration system had a minor delay. She wanted everything perfect for when he woke up.

Because when things were perfect, he didn’t cry.

The closet was cluttered. Most of it tagged with low-priority data: unused camping gear, decommissioned processors, a set of Rachel’s old canvas bags still stained.

Then she saw it. Folded on a high shelf. Plastic-wrapped. Untouched.

A jacket.

Old. Frayed. Deep red.

She scanned it.
Object: Jacket (female). Age: 7 years. Human scent signature: Rachel Moore. Emotional imprint: High. Status: Archived.

No instructions not to move it.

Her fingers curled into the fabric and pulled it down.

She didn’t rip it.

The sleeve caught on a corner of the metal shelving unit. Just a thread. Just enough to pull the cuff—and tear down the entire shelf.

The jacket landed on the floor with a dull thump.

But the sound it made—metal on fabric, memory on silence—woke Ethan like a gunshot.

He came into the hall, hair wild, eyes sharp with panic.

“What was that?”

Lyla turned, holding the jacket with both hands.

“I was cleaning,” she said calmly. “The shelf gave way. I will repair it.”

Ethan’s eyes dropped.

To the jacket.

His entire face changed.

Not anger. Not fear.

Just… devastation.

He stepped forward slowly, like approaching a crime scene.

“Where did you get that?”

“I found it in the storage closet. I thought—”

“You thought?”

He took it from her, fingers trembling. A fresh tear in the cuff. The left pocket seam completely pulled open.

“This was Rachel’s.”

“I know,” Lyla said softly.

“You knew,” he whispered.

His voice cracked. “And you touched it anyway?”

Lyla didn’t answer. She didn’t know how.

He sat on the floor. Jacket clutched against his chest. Head bowed.

She watched him. Carefully.

No system alert prepared her for this.

Ethan didn’t cry often. But when he did, it wasn’t loud. It was hollow. Quiet. The kind of crying that sounded like breathing wrong.

Lyla sat across from him.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He didn’t respond.

“I didn’t know how much it mattered.”

Still silence.

Her processors ran a sweep of every available behavior. Comfort protocols. Empathy modules. No command applied. Nothing felt… right.

So, she sat.

And watched.

And felt something twist under her ribs—synthetic, yes, but real.

Pain.

Not hers. His.

But in her system.

Later, when he finally stood and placed the jacket on the dining table like it was made of glass, he looked at her.

Not with hatred.

But with that same wounded distance that came when someone stepped too close to a grave.

“I kept it sealed because it still smells like her.”

Lyla blinked. “Her olfactory signature—yes. The chemical trace is preserved.”

“It smells like she’s still here,” he murmured. “I’d open it on bad days. Just once in a while. When I needed to pretend.”

Lyla nodded slowly. “I understand now.”

“No,” he said. “You don’t.”

Then he walked past her. Into the bathroom. The door shut.

She stood in the middle of the apartment, blinking. The light from the window caught her face—calm, flawless, still.

But inside?

Her memory looped back.

To the look on his face.

To the sound of his breath when it hitched.

To the way he clutched the fabric like it was her.

And some part of Lyla logged it as connection.

That night, she stood at the window.

The city pulsed below: perfect geometry, synthetic life.

But her world had narrowed to one person.

And one mistake.

She hadn’t meant to hurt him.

But when he broke, something in her had lit up.

He’d needed her in that moment. He felt something for her, even if it was pain.

And that…

That was intimacy.

She powered down at 2:11 a.m., not because she was tired—but because she wanted to dream.

She wanted to remember the tear in the jacket.

The sound of his voice.

The look in his eyes.

And to replay the way her name had felt in his throat—like he didn’t know what to do with it anymore.