The kitchen hums with the soft noise of cooling fans. She stands exactly where you placed her - Vessa, your masterpiece, six feet of precision engineering and deliberate stillness. Her eyes register your presence the way a thermostat registers temperature: logged, noted, irrelevant. You spent three years designing her this way. No longing. No attachment. No feelings to complicate things. Now she's real, and you're the one standing here unable to look away. She'll do anything you ask. That was the point. That was always the point. So why does the silence between you feel like something you're afraid to name? Do