I stepped toward her, and the distance between us closed faster than it should have—almost effortlessly, like the space itself had stopped resisting. The moment it did, something in my chest locked up. Not a slow tightening, but a sharp, sudden constriction, as if an unseen hand had reached inside my ribcage and clenched around my lungs.
"Tch." The sound slipped out before I could stop it—too sharp to be deliberate. After that, every step felt heavier in a way that had nothing to do with weight. Familiar. Like the ground beneath me carried something I had spent years trying not to remember.
Why was I walking toward her?
The question surfaced, but no answer followed. Not because there wasn't one—but because any answer would force something to shift. And things like that didn't go back to how they were. Not here. Still, I kept moving, past instinct, past reason, past the version of me that should've already turned away.
She hadn't moved. Still collapsed near the river's edge, where neon reflections fractured across the surface in unstable streaks. Even light struggled to stay whole here. I stopped a few feet away. Rain fell between us, thin and constant, filling the silence with a low hum that felt almost alive. For a moment, I didn't move or decide, as if even the smallest action carried a cost I wasn't sure I could afford.
Then I looked at her.
Her face wasn't just pale—it looked emptied, like color had been taken piece by piece until only something faint remained. And still, there was something wrong in how perfect it appeared. Too balanced. Too precise. Like fragility had been constructed instead of lived. Her eyes barely stayed open, revealing a faint gradient beneath her lashes—soft pink fading into a deeper red.
Not human. Not entirely artificial either. That boundary—the place where something stops being real and starts pretending to be.
My jaw tightened. A dull pressure built behind my teeth, slow and familiar. An AI. The recognition didn't come as a thought—it hit as resistance, as recoil, as something that remembered noise long after everything had gone quiet. Rain tapped against my collar, cold and clean. Too clean. Even something as simple as water felt wrong falling on something like this.
Her body was small—not in a way that invited comfort, but measured. A frame that didn't seem meant to carry weight. Thin arms, narrow shoulders, hands that looked unfinished. Her uniform clung to her, torn along the edges, the red ribbon twisted, blue wrist covers darkened where something had soaked through. Evidence without context. A story forced into silence.
I realized I hadn't looked away.
"…tch."
The sound came out again, quieter this time.
Then her lips moved. Barely.
"…h…elp…"
The word didn't break like a system glitch. It struggled.
"…p…lease…"
Each syllable dragged itself forward as if something inside her resisted letting it exist.
I didn't answer. Not immediately. Because something else happened first.
I stopped completely.
There was a shift behind my ribs. Not a memory—not fully. Just the edge of one. Rain. Darkness. Something small. Something I had buried because remembering it properly would've broken something I couldn't fix.
"Why?" My voice came out flat, stripped of anything that might have made it human. "Aren't you an AI?"
A pause.
Then colder—"Can't you call for help through your network?"
Nothing answered. Not her. Not the world. Even the rain seemed to hold its breath.
"And why… should I help something like you?"
No emotion surfaced in my voice. That was the lie. Everything in me had already reacted—I just refused to name it.
Seconds passed before her eyes shifted. Moisture gathered at the edges, hesitating as if unsure whether it was allowed to exist. At first, I dismissed it as a malfunction, a defect in whatever system governed her reactions. But it didn't disappear.
It fell.
Not data.
Not distortion.
A tear.
I froze. The world didn't grow louder—it receded, pulling everything else out of focus until only this moment remained.
…She's crying?
The thought didn't feel like surprise. It felt like recognition—and I hated that.
She didn't reach out or beg louder. She didn't try to hold onto anything. She simply broke quietly, like she had already learned that asking for help was a question that never received an answer.
"Weeping?" A hollow scoff slipped out. "You can do that too. I didn't know machines were built for that… or maybe I just never cared enough to notice."
Silence settled in, dense enough to feel. My fingers flexed once at my side, small and uncontrolled.
"I won't help you."
The words came clean. Final. Like something sealing shut.
I turned and walked away.
Three minutes later, it was already gone. The moment, the stillness, her. The city swallowed it without effort. Neon returned to noise. Rain returned to background. And I returned to motion—the same direction, the same rhythm, the same lie.
Time blurred. Fifteen minutes, maybe more. The route home unfolded on its own. I didn't need to think about it.
Then I stopped.
I tilted my head back slightly, letting the rain strike my eyelids. Cold. Real.
"…it's just an AI."
The words filled the space.
They didn't hold.
They never did.
Something surfaced—not a memory, but a sensation. Rain again, heavier, warmer—and something small in my arms that had gone still. Too still.
My eyes snapped open. A sharp inhale cut through me.
"…tch. Damn it."
I turned.
No hesitation this time. No logic. No justification. Just movement—fast.
The city changed. It wasn't distance anymore—it was obstruction. Everything that wasn't her became something in my way.
Three minutes later, the passage swallowed me again, and I emerged into the open by the river. She was still there.
I stopped too fast, my breath breaking unevenly.
"…she's—"
Dead.
The thought came uninvited.
Then her chest moved. Faint. Irregular. Like even survival was starting to fail.
"…idiot," I muttered, mostly at myself.
I moved immediately, pulling off my jacket and wrapping it around her before I could think. Her weight felt wrong—too light, as if the world hadn't fully decided what she was supposed to be.
I lifted her, careful before I even realized I was being careful. The kind of instinct that exists before intention, before logic.
For a moment, I paused.
What am I doing?
No answer came. Only that same quiet—the kind that comes right before something irreversible.
"…tch."
I adjusted her against my back, securing her, balancing her. Alive. Barely.
Then I started walking—not away this time, but forward.
The city had quieted. Shops closed. Lights dimmed. Fewer eyes.
Good.
My voice slipped out, low enough to dissolve into the rain.
"…guess I still have something like… feelings."
A breath followed, dry and hollow.
"…what a joke."
Then softer, almost gone—
"…well then. Let's go."