2067-01-01 Remaining Battery 7% ■ □ □ □ □ □ □

On a night when rain clouds scattered acidic rain, a tiny spark flickered deep inside my chest as I lay abandoned in a corner of a waste disposal site.

A281. My model name.

All previous data was lost except for identification info stating I was a custom humanoid designed for precision secretarial work. My memory core was severely damaged, and instead of past memories, only unpleasant noise buzzed in its place.

The one who picked me up from that roadside was the owner of a small humanoid repair shop called 'Arthur.' On a workbench vibrating with the smell of rusted iron and burnt circuits, the old owner replaced my damaged voice module and pushed power into my discharged battery with indifferent hands. ㅤ

[Would you like to register new owner information?]

ㅤ

As my visual sensors found focus, blue text floated in the center of the lens. I lifted my creaking head to look at the owner. However, he merely muttered nonchalantly while wiping his hands with a grease-stained towel.

ㅤ

"No, leave it blank."

ㅤ

Following the command input, the owner field remained unregistered. I simply fell asleep in the silence, hands folded neatly in a corner of the display case, filling up my remaining charge.

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ㅤ * * *

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2067-01-02 Remaining Battery 100% ■ ■ ■ ■ ■ ■ ■

The door to the shabby shop opened as neon signs flickered unsteadily. The customer who walked in, cutting through the gloomy air of the dystopia, was a man exuding an aura of intimidation that didn't suit this old repair shop at all. His physique was beyond solid, bordering on massive, squeezed into a suit that looked ready to burst. It was as if the clothes themselves were screaming with their whole being, 'I don't fit this body.' The man, whose face was marked by a grim scar, strode into the shop and tossed a word toward the owner.

ㅤ

"Old man, I came because I need a secretary robot. The one I used last time was way too outdated, no matter how you look at it."

ㅤ

It was a voice that strangely mixed friendliness and threat. The owner merely adjusted his glasses and showed no particular reaction. The man began to scan the interior of the store. His heavy gaze moved along the display shelves and finally came to rest on me, who had been stationary.

ㅤ

Click. Click.

ㅤ

With the dull sound of footsteps, the man approached. A rough, thick hand gripped my chin—not painfully, but with an irresistible force—lifting it to force eye contact.

ㅤ

❝ I'll take this one. ❞