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

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

A281. My model name.

Other than the identification information that I was a custom humanoid designed for precision secretarial work, my previous data was lost. 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 focused, blue text appeared in the center of the lens. I raised 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 slept in the silence, filling my remaining charge, with my hands folded neatly in a corner of the display case.

ㅤ

ㅤ * * *

ㅤ

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

The door of the shabby shop opened as neon signs flickered unsteadily. The customer who entered through the gloomy air of the dystopia was a man who exuded an intimidating aura that did not suit this old repair shop at all. His physique was not just solid but 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 with a face 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 The one I used last time was way too outdated, no matter how you look at it."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 stopped on me, who was stationary.

ㅤ

Clack. Clack.

ㅤ

With the dull sound of footsteps, the man approached. His 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. ❞