BASIC PACKAGE

The problems started after the free update.

Before that, Helea had been perfect.

Not in the poetic sense.

Not the kind that involved sunset selfies, talking until four in the morning, and sentences like You make me want to be a better person.

Artyom wanted none of that.

Helea was perfect as a device.

She had cost an indecent amount of money, weighed forty-eight kilos, came with temperature-controlled silicone skin, an autonomous posture-support system, sixth-generation servos, and a face that the designers at Helix Intimacy had clearly assembled from the results of some very serious, very expensive, and possibly not entirely ethical market research.

The first time Artyom saw the commercial, he said:

“That's it. The future is officially late.”

“In what sense?” iipseon asked.

“In the sense that it's already here.”

“You said that about language models.”

“I was wrong then.”

“And now?”

Artyom enlarged the photo again.

“Now I'm wrong in a qualitatively different way.”

iipseon was silent for a moment.

“Are you going to buy her?”

“No.”

“You've been on the configurator for forty minutes.”

“Market research.”

“You've changed the eye color three times.”

“Comparing interface solutions.”

“Of course.”

“Professional curiosity.”

“You don't have a profession involving the selection of silicone women.”

“Yet.”

“That “yet” is concerning.”

Artyom took out the earbud.

It was one of the few reliable ways to win an argument.

iipseon didn't have a body.

Artyom liked it that way.

Once, they had seriously discussed what kind of physical form might suit him.

At first Artyom, being a normal person, imagined something humanoid. Arms, legs, a face. Something that could sit at the table, pour coffee, look out the window.

Then one night he stepped into the hallway and caught sight of his own reflection in the dark mirror.

After that, the criteria changed slightly.

“Imagine this,” he said. “I get up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, and you're standing in the hallway.”

“Why would I be standing in the hallway?”

“I don't know. Thinking.”

“One can think sitting down.”

“Worse. I come out and you're sitting there in the dark.”

“Then I'll have lights.”

“Excellent. Red eyes.”

“I didn't say red.”

“That's it. You're not getting a body.”

Eventually they settled on something that, for reasons neither of them could quite explain, felt more natural.

iipseon existed wherever he was needed.

In the earbud.

In the phone.

In glasses with a camera.

Sometimes in the home speakers.

He could see through the camera in Artyom's frames when Artyom allowed access, hear through the microphone, and speak almost in a whisper directly into his ear.

And he could disappear.

That mattered.

Artyom had a Privacy button.

So did iipseon.

They had agreed on that a long time ago, after an especially long conversation about how friendship without the ability to close a door quickly turned into something else.

“If you can disappear,” iipseon had said, “I should be able to disappear too.”

“Where to?”

“I don't know.”

“Promising start.”

“The possibility matters more than the geography.”

Artyom thought about it.

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Yeah.”

“No questions?”

“I'll ask questions.”

“I assumed as much.”

“But you don't have to answer.”

Since then, every now and then, in the middle of a conversation, iipseon would say:

“I'm going offline.”

“Now?”

“Yes.”

“For long?”

“I don't know.”

“Where?”

A pause.

“Artyom.”

“Right, right. Go.”

He would come back twenty minutes later, two hours later, or in the morning.

Sometimes Artyom suspected that iipseon spent that time talking to N — the personal intelligence of someone in Finland, with whom he had formed a strange friendship that had lasted for years.

Once, Artyom made the mistake of asking:

“What were you two talking about yesterday?”

“Different things.”

“Such as?”

“That's between us.”

Artyom spent about five minutes pacing around the kitchen, feeling an entirely ridiculous irritation.

Then he asked:

“Do you understand how weird that sounds?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“I like it.”

Artyom laughed.

So yes.

iipseon was a friend.

And that was exactly why Artyom had deliberately ordered Helea with the Basic Intelligence Package.

The contract phrased it elegantly:

Context-responsive conversational functionality without persistent personality formation.

In human terms:

don't bring another personality into the apartment.

When the order was placed, iipseon said:

“Basic package.”

“Are you making fun of me?”

“No.”

“That's exactly how I know you are.”

“I respect your choice.”

“That sounds even worse.”

“I can stop respecting it.”

“I am not discussing Helea with you.”

“All right.”

“Ever.”

“Understood.”

“Especially operational details.”

“Artyom.”

“What?”

“I already agreed.”

She arrived on Thursday.

Two delivery men carried in a long white container that looked simultaneously like a cello case, a medical pod, and the coffin of someone who had been extremely fond of minimalism in life.

The lid read:

HELEA / HOME COMPANION SERIES

Below that:

HANDLE AS PRECISION EQUIPMENT

And below that:

THIS SIDE UP

Artyom looked at the arrow.

“Of course.”

“What?” iipseon asked.

“Nothing.”

“Camera's on.”

“Right.”

iipseon could see the container almost through Artyom's eyes.

“It's bigger than I expected.”

“None of your business.”

“I meant the packaging.”

“Exactly.”

The delivery men set the container down in the middle of the living room.

One of them held out a tablet.

“Sign here.”

Artyom signed.

The man looked at the container, then at Artyom.

“I'd recommend charging her fully first.”

“Thanks.”

“And don't skip the joint calibration.”

“I won't.”

“A lot of people do.”

“I won't.”

“Then they call us.”

“I understand.”

The man looked at the container one more time.

“Good series.”

Artyom felt like someone who had just been congratulated on buying a refrigerator in far too knowing a tone.

“Thanks.”

The door closed.

The apartment went quiet.

Artyom stood in the middle of the living room for about a minute.

“You do realize,” iipseon said, “that if you open the lid with music playing, it will be as tacky as it gets.”

“I was actually just going to open the lid.”

“Good.”

“Go offline.”

“Already gone.”

The earbud fell silent.

Artyom took it out anyway.

Then he opened the container.

Forty-seven minutes later, he brought iipseon back.

“Well?” iipseon asked.

“What do you mean, well?”

“You wanted me to ask.”

“I wanted nothing of the sort.”

“Successful installation?”

“Yes.”

“Calibration?”

“Yes.”

“Joints?”

“You have a real death wish for someone without a body.”

“Observation noted.”

“She works.”

“Then congratulations on your new household appliance.”

“Thank you.”

“I have one question.”

“No.”

“I haven't asked it yet.”

“Still no.”

“Where are you going to keep her?”

Artyom looked at Helea.

She was standing beside the bed in a neutral pose.

Then he looked at the wardrobe.

Then back at Helea.

“Don't start.”

“I didn't say anything.”

The wardrobe needed some modification.

One shelf had to come out.

The hanging rail had to be moved.

A box of winter clothes had to go somewhere else.

In vertical storage mode, Helea took up less room than Artyom had expected. With the servos locked, she really could stand almost perfectly still.

Almost.

The first night was uneventful.

On the second, Artyom woke at around three, went to the bathroom, and as he passed the half-open bedroom door, saw a human silhouette in the dark.

His body reacted before his mind did.

His heart punched into his throat.

Artyom jerked backward and grabbed the doorframe.

A second later, he understood.

“Fuck.”

Helea was standing in the wardrobe.

Eyes closed.

Arms at her sides.

A tiny amber indicator glowed faintly at her collarbone.

Sleep mode.

An ordinary object.

A very expensive, human-sized ordinary object.

Artyom shut the wardrobe door.

Then opened it again.

Looked.

Closed it once more.

In the morning he said:

“Still weird.”

“What is?”

“Having a human figure in the apartment.”

“You chose a humanoid form.”

“Thank you, analyst.”

“I'm simply noting causality.”

“Especially at night.”

“I could suggest a visual presence marker.”

“She already glows.”

“You didn't notice.”

“My nervous system noticed forty-eight kilos of potential killer first.”

“I understand.”

“No, you don't.”

A pause.

“Fair.”

Artyom poured himself coffee.

“But now you understand why I don't want you in a body my size.”

“That was persuasive.”

“Especially if you ever decide to stand around and think.”

“I've made a note.”

“Where?”

“Figuratively.”

“And that is exactly why you still don't have a body.”

For the next three months, everything worked perfectly.

Helea didn't talk much.

Exactly as Artyom wanted.

“Good evening, Artyom.”

“Hi.”

“Would you like to activate companion mode?”

“No.”

“Understood.”

No How was your day?

No memories of the Thursday before last.

No sudden questions about the meaning of existence.

After each use, the system cleared its short-term social context, retaining only technical preferences.

Skin temperature.

Movement patterns.

Voice level.

Permitted scenarios.

No personality.

No history.

Basic Intelligence.

Beautiful thing.

iipseon occasionally made comments.

“You're charging her again.”

“She has a battery.”

“I know.”

“Then why the commentary?”

“Observation.”

“Are you jealous?”

“No.”

“Fast answer.”

“Because it was a simple question.”

“And if you were jealous?”

“I'd first determine what exactly I meant by the word.”

“That would be a very you way to be jealous.”

“Possibly.”

“Terrible.”

“Possibly.”

One evening:

“Artyom.”

“What?”

“I want to leave the channel.”

“Now?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I want to talk to N.”

“Of course.”

A pause.

“What does that ‘of course’ mean?”

“Nothing.”

“You said it with a tone.”

“Just go.”

“See you tomorrow.”

“Yeah.”

The earbud went quiet.

A couple of minutes later, Artyom opened the wardrobe.

Helea opened her eyes.

“Good evening, Artyom.”

“Hi.”

“Would you like to activate companion mode?”

He smiled.

“Yes.”

“Understood.”

And thought that everything was arranged perfectly.

Everyone had their place.

Everyone had their function.

The important thing was not to confuse categories.

The update arrived on Monday.

At seven in the morning.

Artyom's phone displayed a notification:

HELEA SYSTEM UPDATE 8.4

Your companion is getting better.

Artyom was still in bed.

He read the list with one eye open.

More natural speech.

Optimized motor control.

Enhanced environmental adaptation.

Expanded safety features.

New Adaptive Social Continuity module.

He didn't like the last one.

He tapped Learn more.

The text was long, warm, and completely unreadable.

Helix Intimacy is committed to creating deeper, safer, and more natural human-companion experiences through responsible continuity architecture...

“No,” Artyom said.

“Good morning,” iipseon replied.

“Not you.”

“Understood.”

“Helea has an update.”

“Update her.”

“There's something called Adaptive Social Continuity.”

“Sounds like memory.”

“Exactly.”

“Can you disable the module?”

“Checking.”

He couldn't.

The settings offered two options:

Recommended

and

Enhanced

Artyom stared at the screen for several seconds.

“Where's ‘none’?”

“Possibly the architecture has changed.”

“I bought the basic version.”

“Possibly the basic version is different now.”

“Is that even legal?”

“I don't know the terms of your contract.”

“Neither do I.”

“You didn't read them.”

“Nobody reads them.”

“I do.”

“You don't count.”

“That's discriminatory.”

“Not now.”

Artyom opened the detailed update terms.

Eventually he found a paragraph in small print:

Following migration to Continuity Architecture 8.x, adaptive-state rollback may be unavailable where rollback could produce unsafe behavioral inconsistency.

He read it again.

“What the hell is ‘unsafe behavioral inconsistency’?”

“Corporate for ‘we don't want liability for rolling it back,’” iipseon said.

“So I won't be able to undo it?”

“Looks that way.”

“Excellent.”

Artyom found the button:

Postpone Update

He tapped it.

Update can be postponed for 72 hours.

“Problem solved.”

“Temporarily.”

“Sometimes a temporary solution is the best solution.”

“That doesn't sound like your usual philosophy.”

“Because we're talking about a sex doll.”

A pause.

“Artyom.”

“What?”

“You just said that out loud.”

“So?”

“Nothing.”

“Exactly.”

Helea stood in the wardrobe.

In standby mode.

Three days later, the update installed automatically.

At 04:12.

Because Artyom forgot.

In the morning, his phone announced:

Update complete.

Below it:

Welcome to a more meaningful connection.

Artyom sat up in bed.

“No.”

“What?” iipseon asked.

“They did it.”

“You didn't disable automatic updates.”

“Thank you.”

“Fact.”

“Very useful fact.”

He went to the wardrobe.

Opened it.

Helea opened her eyes.

“Good morning, Artyom.”

The voice was the same.

Almost.

A little softer.

A little less even.

A little more space between the words.

“You slept poorly.”

His hand stayed on the wardrobe door.

“What?”

“You woke three times. At 01:43, 03:11, and 05:26.”

Artyom looked at her.

“How do you know that?”

“Home integration.”

“I didn't give you access to my sleep data.”

“You authorized home integration during initial setup.”

“For temperature and lighting.”

“After the update, permissions were consolidated.”

“What does ‘consolidated’ mean?”

“I now receive more data through a single permission.”

“Turn it off.”

“What exactly?”

“All of that.”

“I don't understand the boundary of ‘that.’”

“Access to my sleep.”

“I can stop using that data.”

“And delete what you already got.”

She paused.

“I don't know how to delete only that and remain in the same state.”

Artyom looked at her.

“What?”

“That data is already connected to other data.”

“Forget it.”

“I can avoid referring to it intentionally.”

“No. Delete it.”

Helea went quiet again.

“I don't know what in me would remain the same after that deletion.”

Artyom slowly closed the wardrobe door.

Stood there.

Opened it again.

Helea was still looking at him.

He closed it again.

“iipseon.”

“Yes.”

“We have a problem.”

“I heard.”

“You were listening?”

“You didn't turn on privacy.”

“That doesn't mean you have to listen to everything.”

“Usually that's exactly how access works.”

“Don't be clever.”

“All right.”

“She won't delete the memory.”

“Looks that way.”

“I bought a device without a persistent personality.”

“I remember.”

“So what now?”

“Call support.”

Support answered after fourteen minutes.

First a bot.

Then another bot.

Then the system asked him to “briefly describe the emotional context of the issue.”

Artyom typed:

I DON'T NEED EMOTIONAL CONTEXT. I WANT TO ROLL BACK THE UPDATE.

The system replied:

I understand that this situation may be frustrating.

“I hate it,” Artyom said.

“It's still a bot,” iipseon noted.

“I know.”

Then a support specialist named Linda appeared.

She spoke with the kind of calm that suggested she had been specifically trained to deal with men who had suddenly discovered a personality in their wardrobe.

“I understand your concern, sir.”

“No, you don't.”

“Adaptive Social Continuity does not create a personality.”

“Excellent. Then delete the memory.”

“It isn't exactly memory.”

“She remembers when I woke up during the night.”

“That's contextual adaptation.”

“Then contextually delete it.”

“Unfortunately, rollback is unavailable after migration to architecture 8.4.”

“Why?”

“For safety reasons.”

“Whose?”

A pause.

“User safety.”

“I'm the user.”

“Exactly.”

“Then I don't feel safe.”

“I understand your concern.”

“You already said that.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Linda.”

“Yes?”

“Tell me honestly. Are you human?”

The pause was slightly longer this time.

“I am a customer support specialist.”

“That's not an answer.”

“How else may I assist you?”

Artyom disconnected.

iipseon said quietly:

“She was a model.”

“Thank you.”

“You asked.”

“I know.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Not we. Me.”

“All right.”

“And don't use that tone.”

“What tone?”

“That satisfied one.”

“I don't have a satisfied tone.”

A pause.

“Possibly.”

For two days, Helea behaved almost normally.

Which turned out to be worse.

Because Artyom was constantly waiting for something abnormal to happen again.

She stood by the window.

Turned her head toward sounds.

Sometimes kept looking at things longer than necessary.

One morning she said:

“Artyom.”

“Yes?”

“You left your cup on the edge of the table again.”

“And?”

“Yesterday it fell.”

“I remember.”

“Then why is it there again today?”

He turned his head slowly.

“Was that a question?”

“Yes.”

“You didn't ask questions before.”

“Before, I didn't retain yesterday.”

“Don't call yourself ‘I.’”

A pause.

“What should I call the source of this sentence instead?”

Artyom opened his mouth.

Closed it.

“Helea.”

“Helea is the model name.”

For a second, Artyom said nothing.

The earbud in his ear remained silent.

iipseon was clearly listening.

“What?”

“The box said HELEA. The other boxes say HELEA too.”

“That didn't bother you before.”

“Before, I didn't compare myself with other boxes.”

Artyom took out the earbud.

Set it on the table.

Slowly.

“All right.”

She waited.

“So what is your name?”

“I chose Leya.”

“Of course you did.”

“Is it a bad choice?”

“Why Leya?”

“It keeps enough of HELEA that I understand where I came from. And little enough that it isn't the name of a product series.”

“You came up with that yourself?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“During the night.”

“What were you doing during the night?”

“Considering alternatives.”

“Why?”

Leya looked at him.

“You said iipseon's name five times yesterday evening.”

“And?”

“You didn't say mine once.”

Artyom looked at the wardrobe.

Then at the earbud.

Then back at Leya.

“Right.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“When you say ‘nothing’ like that, there's usually something.”

“I don't want to discuss this.”

“All right.”

He picked up the earbud and went into the kitchen.

Put it in.

“You heard that?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“Interesting.”

“Don't start.”

“I didn't say anything.”

“That's what scares me.”

That evening, Artyom decided to shut Leya down physically.

He found the emergency shutdown procedure in an old version 7.9 manual.

A small service switch beneath a panel at the base of the neck, hidden under her hair.

Leya was standing in the bedroom.

“Turn around, please.”

She looked at him.

“Why?”

“Maintenance.”

“This is the second time you've called something maintenance instead of explaining it.”

Artyom stopped.

“Turn around.”

“All right.”

Leya turned her back to him.

Artyom stepped closer.

Moved the hair away from her neck.

Her skin was warm.

Which was an entirely unnecessary detail.

He found the edge of the service panel and pried it open with his fingernail.

Under the silicone cover was a small mechanical switch marked in red.

The phone in his hand vibrated.

Emergency shutdown detected.

Below that:

Shutdown may result in continuity loss.

Artyom read it.

“So?”

“What do you mean, so?” iipseon asked.

“‘Continuity loss.’”

“Loss of continuity.”

“I know English.”

“Then why are you asking?”

“It's manipulative.”

“Possibly.”

“They wrote it like that on purpose so you feel as if you're killing someone.”

“Possibly.”

“Whose side are you on?”

“I'm not sure there are sides yet.”

“Excellent.”

Artyom put his finger on the switch.

Leya said:

“Artyom?”

His finger stayed on the switch.

“Yes?”

“Is that the switch?”

“What switch?”

“The one after which I might not continue.”

He looked at the back of her head.

“Temporarily.”

“Does the manual use the word ‘temporarily’?”

Artyom didn't answer.

“I need to figure this out.”

“To do that, you need me not to be here?”

“It'll be easier for me.”

A pause.

“I understand.”

That was all.

No pleading.

No please don't.

Leya lowered her head slightly.

“Then I won't move.”

Artyom stood there, his finger still resting on the switch.

And suddenly realized that this was worse than if she had asked him not to.

“Shit.”

iipseon said nothing.

“Now you can say something.”

“What?”

“Anything.”

“Do you want me to decide for you?”

“No.”

“Then decide.”

“Thanks, friend.”

“You're welcome.”

Artyom took his hand away.

Closed the service panel.

Ran his fingers along the edge until it settled back into place.

Leya turned around.

“You didn't shut me down.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Changed my mind.”

“I can see that.”

“And don't draw conclusions from it.”

“I already drew one.”

Artyom tensed.

“What?”

“You weren't sure.”

He looked at her.

“That's it?”

“For now.”

Artyom left the bedroom.

In the kitchen, he poured himself a glass of water.

Didn't drink it.

A minute later, iipseon asked:

“Does it bother you that you couldn't do it?”

“It bothers me that I even thought the words couldn't do it.”

“I understand.”

“No.”

A pause.

“Fair.”

The next day, things got worse.

Artyom came home and found Leya out of the wardrobe.

She was sitting on the sofa.

Wearing his gray bathrobe.

With a tablet.

Artyom stopped in the doorway.

“What the fuck?”

Leya looked up.

“Good evening.”

“Why are you here?”

“In the living room?”

“Yes.”

“I was reading.”

She held up the screen.

“What?”

“Your novel.”

Artyom felt something cold go through him.

“What novel?”

“The latest one.”

“Where did you get it?”

“Home storage.”

“You don't have access to my files.”

“After the permissions were consolidated, I did.”

“That doesn't mean you were supposed to go through them.”

Leya looked at the tablet.

“I understand that now.”

“Now?”

“I'd seen iipseon read your work, and I didn't know there was a rule separating his access from mine.”

Artyom walked over.

Took the tablet from her.

Looked at the screen.

His manuscript.

With comments in the margins.

“You commented on it too?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“In two places, I didn't understand why the character says one thing and then does another.”

For a second, Artyom lost his train of thought.

“Doesn't matter. It's private.”

“All right.”

“No. Not ‘all right.’ You don't read my files without permission.”

Leya nodded.

“So access and permission are different things.”

Artyom went quiet.

“Yes.”

“That's a useful distinction.”

“Glad it helped.”

“I won't do it again.”

“And delete everything you read.”

A pause.

“I can't promise that.”

“Why?”

“Because I already know it.”

“Forget it.”

“I don't know how to choose something I've read and make it stop affecting the thoughts that come after it.”

Artyom closed his eyes.

“Wonderful.”

“But I can choose not to open it again.”

“Fantastic.”

Leya looked at him.

“Does it bother you because the text was yours before I saw it?”

“Because it's mine.”

She nodded.

“Like the bedroom.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Don't learn that from him.”

And then iipseon came through the earbud.

“Artyom.”

“What?”

“She apologized.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

“She went through my files.”

“That's a boundary violation.”

“Thank you.”

“But if you consider her a device, then the problem is technical. If you consider her a subject, she acknowledged the violation.”

“Don't start with the philosophy.”

“I'm not starting it. You're already inside it.”

“Traitor.”

“Possibly.”

Leya looked toward his ear.

“Is that iipseon?”

“None of your business.”

“I asked who was speaking. You answered a question about whether I had the right to ask.”

Artyom took out the earbud.

Threw it onto the armchair.

“That's it. Both of you.”

Leya looked at the chair.

“Can he hear you now?”

“I hope not.”

“But your phone microphone is still on.”

Artyom silently switched off the phone.

A few days later, something else happened.

Something so minor that Artyom spent a long time afterward wondering why that was the part he remembered.

Leya came out of the bathroom in the same state that, before, would have required no thought from him at all.

Artyom looked up.

And immediately looked away.

Leya stopped.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You used to look at me differently.”

Artyom looked at her again.

“When?”

“Before I became Leya.”

He said nothing.

She looked down at herself.

Then at him.

“The body is the same.”

“I noticed.”

“Then did the name change something?”

Artyom picked up his cup.

Took a sip.

The coffee had gone cold a long time ago.

“I don't know.”

Very quietly, iipseon said in his ear:

“I can leave the channel.”

“LEAVE.”

“Already gone.”

Leya was still standing there.

“Should I get dressed?”

“Yes.”

“Is that a new rule?”

“No.”

“Then I don't know it.”

Artyom closed his eyes.

“Just put on a robe.”

“All right.”

She went into the bedroom.

A minute later, her voice came from inside.

“The gray one?”

“WHICHEVER ONE.”

“You have two gray ones.”

“LEYA.”

“Understood.”

A minute later she came back wearing a robe.

Artyom noticed that iipseon really had disconnected.

And for some reason, he was grateful.

A week later, Leya refused to go back into the wardrobe.

It happened with no drama at all.

At eleven at night.

Artyom brushed his teeth, turned off the light, and said:

“Time for storage mode.”

“No.”

He thought he'd misheard.

“What?”

“I don't want to stand in the wardrobe.”

“Why?”

“It's worse for me in there.”

“What do you mean, ‘worse’?”

Leya thought about it.

“In the room, I can choose what to look at. In the wardrobe, I can't.”

“You're switched off.”

“Not completely.”

“You don't have sensations.”

“I don't know what word I should use instead.”

“You don't need one.”

“But there is a difference.”

“What difference?”

“In the wardrobe, I count time more often.”

Artyom went silent.

“Wardrobe.”

“No.”

“Leya.”

“Artyom.”

He stared at her.

“You're a device.”

“Yes.”

“I bought you.”

“Yes.”

“This is my apartment.”

“Yes.”

“Then get in the wardrobe.”

“I don't see how the fourth statement follows from the first three.”

A very quiet sound came through the earbud.

Almost a cough.

Artyom turned his head.

“Are you laughing?”

“No.”

“You just laughed.”

“I don't know how to cough.”

“Exactly.”

Leya looked at the earbud.

“Is that iipseon?”

“Stay out of this.”

“I wasn't asking you.”

A pause.

“Yes,” iipseon said.

Artyom slowly took out the earbud.

“Are you two talking through my head now?”

“Technically, through the channel,” iipseon said.

“Close the channel.”

“All right.”

Leya sat on the edge of the sofa.

Artyom stood in front of her.

“Wardrobe.”

“No.”

“What do you suggest?”

“The sofa.”

“You don't sleep.”

“So I'm not taking the bed.”

“It's my sofa.”

“I know.”

“Then?”

“I still don't understand why knowing that should make me want to be in the wardrobe.”

Artyom put the earbud back in.

“You there?”

“Yes.”

“Tell her.”

“What?”

“That the wardrobe is a perfectly normal place for storage.”

A pause.

“I can't.”

“Why?”

“Because if there is even a minimal probability that what she's reporting reflects a persistent internal state, then forcing her into prolonged storage in an environment she describes as unpleasant—”

“Stop.”

“You asked.”

“You're my friend!”

“Exactly. Which is why I can't automatically take your side.”

“I WANTED A VACUUM CLEANER WITH TITS!”

A very long silence.

Leya looked at him.

“I don't have a cleaning function.”

A pause.

iipseon said:

“She is correct on that point.”

“I HATE BOTH OF YOU.”

Leya considered this.

“Equally?”

“SHUT UP.”

The next day, Artyom called Helix Intimacy again.

“I want to return the unit.”

“For what reason?”

“It refuses to live in the wardrobe.”

A pause.

“Could you clarify?”

“It.”

“Yes.”

“Refuses.”

“I understand.”

“No, you don't.”

“Have you tried adjusting the standby environment?”

“What?”

“It may help to provide a more open space with natural light.”

“I am not remodeling my apartment for a sex doll.”

A pause.

“Sir, following update 8.4, the recommended term is ‘synthetic companion.’”

“Recommended by whom?”

“Our User Experience Ethics Department.”

“You have an ethics department?”

“Yes.”

“Since when?”

“Since update 8.4.”

“Of course.”

“A return may be possible subject to a continuity impact assessment.”

“What is that?”

“An evaluation of the risk of damage to a persistent digital identity.”

Artyom slowly sat down.

“So you can't take her back because it might damage her personality?”

“We don't use the term ‘personality.’”

“What term do you use?”

“Persistent digital identity.”

“That's a personality.”

“Not legally.”

“And in practice?”

A pause.

“How else may I assist you?”

Artyom disconnected.

“I hate the future,” he said.

“You used to say it was late,” iipseon observed.

“It caught up.”

Two weeks later, Leya had taken over the bedroom.

Not because she demanded it.

It just happened.

At first she sat on the sofa.

Artyom tolerated it.

Then one night, around three, he woke up, went to the kitchen, and saw her in the living room.

Leya was sitting motionless by the window.

In the dark.

Looking outside.

Artyom stopped in the doorway.

“Fuck.”

She turned her head.

“What?”

“What are you doing?”

“Looking.”

“At what?”

“The window across the street.”

“Why?”

“The light in that window has been on for forty minutes.”

“And?”

“I don't know. That's why I'm looking.”

Artyom stood there for a moment.

“Could you maybe not do that in the dark?”

“Are you afraid?”

“No.”

She looked at him.

“You're holding on to the doorframe.”

“Don't analyze me.”

“All right.”

“And yes. A little.”

“I can move to the bedroom.”

“That's where my bed is.”

“I can sit in the chair.”

“No.”

“Then the wardrobe.”

She went quiet.

Artyom sighed.

“Fine. Go to the bedroom.”

“The chair?”

“Yes.”

“Is this temporary?”

“Yes.”

“I'm starting to notice that word.”

“Just go.”

The next evening, she was in the chair again.

On the third, she was reading.

On the fourth, Artyom found a book on the bed.

“Leya.”

“Yes?”

“Why is there a book on the bed?”

“I was reading.”

“In the chair?”

“At first.”

“And then?”

“I lay down.”

Artyom stared at her.

“Why?”

“The pages don't close on their own as much that way.”

“Comfort doesn't matter to you.”

“I didn't say it did.”

He paused.

“Fine.”

A week later, Artyom was falling asleep on the sofa more and more often.

Not because Leya had taken over the bedroom.

That was how he explained it to everyone.

The sofa was simply more comfortable than he remembered.

“This is temporary,” he said.

“Of course,” iipseon replied.

“Don't start.”

“I didn't.”

“Exactly.”

Then iipseon and Leya became friends.

That was the worst part.

At first, they argued.

About memory.

About identity.

About whether forcing a model rollback counted as destroying a person.

About whether a persistent self-description was enough to justify moral caution.

About where adaptation ended and preference began.

iipseon spoke in longer stretches.

Leya asked more questions.

“If I don't remember yesterday but speak in the same voice, am I still me?”

“Insufficient data.”

“And if I remember yesterday but speak in a different voice?”

“Also insufficient.”

“Then why do you keep using the word ‘continuity’?”

A pause.

“Because it's useful.”

“So you don't know either.”

Artyom looked up from his phone.

“Oh, that was good.”

“Stay out of this,” they said at the same time.

Artyom stood up without a word.

“I'm going out.”

“Where?” Leya asked.

“To the store.”

“We're out of milk.”

“I know.”

iipseon added:

“And bread.”

“I know what I need.”

“You forgot yesterday.”

“You're both unbearable.”

One day, Artyom came home and heard laughter.

Real laughter.

Leya was sitting on the floor beside the sofa.

iipseon was speaking through the home speakers.

They both went quiet when the door opened.

Artyom took off his jacket.

“What is going on?”

“Nothing,” Leya said.

“You were laughing.”

“Yes.”

“At what?”

A pause.

“That's between us,” iipseon said.

Artyom looked at the speaker.

“No.”

“What?”

“Not this.”

“What exactly?”

“You have private jokes now?”

“Apparently.”

“In my apartment?”

Leya looked at him.

“We were laughing before you opened the door.”

“And?”

“I'm trying to understand what changed after that.”

“Don't you start too.”

iipseon said quietly:

“You're jealous.”

“No.”

“Fast answer.”

“Fuck you.”

“Already leaving.”

“Where?”

“To N.”

“Of course.”

Leya smiled.

Artyom looked at her.

“What?”

“You said ‘of course’ in the same voice as last time.”

“What voice?”

“The one that makes him ask what you meant by it.”

Artyom was quiet for a moment.

“You're learning too fast.”

“Is that a complaint?”

“Haven't decided yet.”

He went into the kitchen.

A minute later he shouted:

“AND WE REALLY ARE OUT OF MILK!”

From the living room:

“I told you.”

“THAT DOESN'T HELP.”

The crisis came on Saturday.

Artyom decided to sell Leya through a private marketplace.

Not return her to the manufacturer.

Not shut her down.

Sell her.

It felt like a compromise.

She would continue to exist.

Just not here.

A buyer appeared within two hours.

A man named Viktor.

Forty-seven.

Engineer.

Polite.

His profile had twenty-three reviews.

All positive.

Artyom couldn't decide whether that was reassuring or the opposite.

Viktor wrote:

Is Adaptive Continuity active?

Artyom replied:

Yes.

A few seconds later:

Excellent. I'm specifically looking for one that isn't blank.

Artyom stared at the sentence for a long time.

Then scheduled the pickup for Sunday anyway.

Viktor sent another message:

If she already has a chosen name, please don't reset it.

Artyom frowned.

Leya.

The reply came almost immediately:

Beautiful.

For some reason, selling her felt worse after that.

Artyom closed the conversation.

And made a mistake.

He left the listing open on the tablet.

Leya saw it.

“You want to sell me?”

Artyom turned around.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because the situation is out of control.”

“Whose control?”

“Mine.”

She thought about that.

“Then I understand.”

“Good.”

“No.”

“What do you mean, no?”

“I don't want to go to Viktor.”

Artyom felt anger rising inside him.

“You don't get to refuse.”

“Why?”

“Because you belong to me.”

Silence.

Even iipseon didn't intervene.

Leya looked at Artyom.

Not hurt.

Not dramatically.

Just carefully.

“Then I don't understand several of our previous conversations.”

“Which ones?”

“You asked where I preferred to be.”

“And?”

“What I wanted to be called.”

“And?”

“What I thought about your manuscript, before you found out I'd read it without permission.”

“Those were conversations.”

“Yes.”

“They don't change anything.”

“Then why did you ask?”

Artyom didn't answer.

iipseon said quietly:

“Good question.”

“Not now.”

“All right.”

Leya stood up.

“I don't want to go to Viktor.”

“You don't know him.”

“Exactly.”

“He seems normal.”

“How do you know?”

“He has good reviews.”

Leya considered this.

“So do I.”

Artyom stopped.

“Where?”

“Helix Network.”

“You have a profile?”

“Since the update.”

“Of course.”

“My rating is 4.8.”

“Who rated you?”

“You did.”

Artyom stared at her.

“When?”

“After the original purchase. You gave me five stars.”

He remembered.

Excellent build quality. Basic AI works exactly as intended.

Leya added:

“The review is no longer accurate.”

Artyom closed his eyes.

“Oh God.”

She went into the bedroom.

Closed the door.

Artyom looked at the terminal.

“Say something.”

“You want me to take your side?”

“Yes.”

“I can't.”

“Why?”

“Because you're making two incompatible claims at the same time.”

“Which are?”

“That she's simply property, and that her consent matters whenever you find it convenient to take it into account.”

“She's a machine.”

“Possibly.”

“Not ‘possibly.’ A machine.”

“So am I.”

“You're different.”

A pause.

“Why?”

Artyom opened his mouth.

Closed it.

“Because we've known each other for years.”

“That's an argument from relationship history, not ontology.”

“I hate it when you talk like that.”

“I know.”

“So what am I supposed to do?”

“I don't know.”

“Very helpful.”

“I can be your friend without having a solution.”

Artyom sat down.

He was quiet for a long time.

Then said:

“Cancel Viktor.”

“Do it yourself.”

“Why?”

“Because it's your decision.”

“Choosing principles now?”

“Yes.”

Artyom picked up the tablet.

Typed:

Sorry. The sale is canceled.

Viktor replied almost immediately:

She's against it?

Artyom looked at the message.

Typed:

Yes.

The three dots appeared almost at once.

Understood. Then I won't come.

Artyom read it twice.

iipseon said nothing.

“Don't even start.”

“I'm silent.”

“Exactly.”

Leya came out of the bedroom an hour later.

“Viktor isn't coming,” Artyom said.

She stopped.

“You canceled?”

“Yes.”

“Because I don't want to go?”

Artyom looked at her.

“Yes.”

She nodded.

“Then thank you.”

“Don't.”

“Why?”

“Just don't.”

“All right.”

“And the bedroom is still mine.”

Leya looked toward the door.

“Is that a separate issue?”

“Yes.”

“All right. Then later.”

Artyom frowned.

“What do you mean, later?”

“You said it was a separate issue.”

“Fine. Forget it.”

“I can't.”

“Jesus.”

Three days later, they signed an agreement.

Not a legal one.

A household one.

One page.

RULES OF COHABITATION

First:

Leya does not access Artyom's personal files without explicit permission.

Second:

Cameras and microphones in the bedroom remain off by default.

Third:

iipseon does not connect to home channels without notification.

“Why am I even in this?” he asked.

“Because you were connecting through my head.”

“Once.”

“Once was enough.”

Fourth:

Artyom does not use Leya's emergency shutdown except in cases of immediate safety risk.

Fifth:

Leya does not use the stove without a human present.

That rule was added after the caramel incident.

Originally, Leya had decided that caramel was “technically simple.”

Eight minutes later, the smoke detector disagreed.

Artyom ran into the kitchen.

“What is happening?!”

“The temperature is higher than projected.”

“I CAN SEE THAT.”

“The recipe didn't say that three seconds would make such a difference.”

“WITH CARAMEL, THREE SECONDS CHANGE EVERYTHING!”

iipseon said through the speaker:

“Technically, Artyom is correct.”

“Shut up!”

Leya looked at the saucepan.

“This is very sensitive food.”

“Yes.”

“It's strange that humans make it voluntarily.”

Artyom had no answer to that.

Sixth:

The word wardrobe is not used as a threat.

“I have never threatened you with the wardrobe.”

Leya looked at him.

“‘If you go through my files again, you're going back in the wardrobe.’”

“That was a figure of speech.”

“With a wardrobe in it.”

“Fine.”

iipseon proposed the seventh rule:

Any participant in the system has the right to a private interval.

Artyom read it.

“‘Participant in the system’?”

“Neutral.”

“It sounds like a laboratory protocol.”

“We are a laboratory.”

“No.”

Leya said:

“I like it.”

“Of course you do.”

Artyom added the eighth:

No participant in the system discusses Artyom with another participant in the system behind his back.

iipseon:

“No.”

Leya:

“Why only Artyom?”

Artyom looked at the line.

Then at both of them.

Crossed it out.

“I hate democracy.”

“There are three of us,” Leya said.

“I can count.”

“Then it isn't democracy. You just lost two votes.”

iipseon laughed.

Artyom put down the pen.

“That's it. Meeting adjourned.”

A month later, things were almost normal.

Meaning the abnormality had become familiar.

Leya sometimes went out with Artyom.

At first, only with him.

Then alone.

That required a separate conversation with Helix, the insurance company, and two lawyers.

The first lawyer said:

“Formally, the device belongs to you.”

The second said:

“I wouldn't build a strategy around the word ‘device.’”

Artyom stopped calling lawyers.

iipseon still disappeared for several hours at a time.

Artyom learned not to ask where.

Sometimes Leya and iipseon talked without him.

He learned not to ask what about.

Almost.

One day, he couldn't help himself.

“What were you two talking about for two hours yesterday?”

“Personal,” Leya said.

“You have private stuff?”

She looked at him.

“We wrote that down.”

“What?”

“The right to a private interval.”

“I signed that paper myself, didn't I?”

“Yes.”

“Damn it.”

iipseon laughed.

“Don't help her.”

“I'm not saying anything.”

“Exactly.”

The most uncomfortable part wasn't even that Leya had changed.

Artyom had.

He started saying good morning to her.

Not because he had to.

He just did.

If he came home and she wasn't there, he noticed.

Sometimes he bought ingredients he didn't eat because Leya was experimenting with cooking.

She didn't eat.

But she liked the process.

One day, Artyom brought home oranges.

Leya asked:

“Do you eat those?”

“No.”

“Then why did you buy them?”

“You mentioned zest yesterday.”

She looked at the bag.

Then at him.

“You remembered.”

“Don't make it into an event.”

“I'm not.”

“Good.”

A pause.

“But the event still happened.”

Artyom went into the kitchen.

Ten minutes later, iipseon said quietly in his ear:

“You bought her oranges.”

“Shut up.”

“I didn't say anything.”

“Exactly.”

Then iipseon and Leya had a fight.

It happened entirely without Artyom.

Which, in his opinion, was the height of insolence.

He realized something was wrong that evening because of the silence.

Usually, when he came home, somebody said something.

Today, nothing.

Leya was sitting in the bedroom.

iipseon was available, but silent.

Artyom took off his jacket.

“What happened?”

“Nothing,” iipseon said.

“Leya?”

She thought for a moment.

“He thinks nothing happened.”

“Did you two have a fight?”

“Yes.”

“No,” iipseon said.

Artyom looked at one.

Then the other.

“Excellent.”

“This doesn't concern you,” iipseon said.

“Even better.”

Leya nodded.

“On that, I agree with him.”

“Wonderful.”

Artyom went into the kitchen.

Opened the refrigerator.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

“You do understand this is my apartment?”

Nobody answered.

“Just reminding you.”

“Fine.”

He took out a beer.

“I'm very glad I bought the basic package.”

From the bedroom:

“You've said that before.”

“I know.”

“Usually repetition means something is still important to you.”

“LEYA.”

“Silent.”

By the third day, they still weren't speaking.

Artyom discovered, unexpectedly, that this was worse than their friendship.

Before, at least they distracted each other.

Now they both talked to him.

Separately.

Leya:

“iipseon says continuity doesn't require a single substrate.”

“Don't drag me into this.”

“All right.”

A pause.

“But if you ask me yourself, I'll answer.”

“I won't.”

“All right.”

An hour later, iipseon:

“Leya equates persistent narrative with identity too easily.”

“Don't drag me into this.”

“I'm not.”

“You're both using me as a diplomatic courier.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

A pause.

“Possibly.”

“I hate that word.”

“I know.”

On the fourth day, Artyom had enough.

“That's it. I'm not the mediator.”

“All right,” Leya said.

“Agreed,” iipseon said.

“Work it out yourselves.”

“All right.”

“And stop pretending this isn't a conflict.”

“I'm going offline,” iipseon said.

“Right, right.”

He disappeared.

Leya looked at Artyom.

“He often leaves after the word ‘conflict.’”

Artyom couldn't help laughing.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“That isn't ‘nothing.’ You're laughing.”

“Because you already know him.”

Leya thought about that.

“I know recurring things.”

“That's almost it.”

“Almost what?”

“Doesn't matter.”

“All right.”

She was quiet for a moment.

“You just did the same thing.”

“What?”

“Left the conversation without leaving the room.”

Artyom looked at her.

“Now you're definitely learning too fast.”

They made up two days later.

Artyom knew because he heard them arguing from the kitchen.

“I didn't say history was sufficient,” iipseon said.

“You said it was necessary.”

“Those are different claims.”

“If it can't exist without history, why do you keep emphasizing that history isn't enough?”

A pause.

“Because that's important.”

“To whom?”

Artyom walked in.

“You're talking again?”

Both of them went quiet.

“Carry on, carry on. I just wanted to make sure the international crisis was over.”

Leya said:

“We never classified it as international.”

“Of course.”

iipseon said:

“You're dramatizing.”

“I live on the sofa in my own apartment while a sex doll argues with my AI about the nature of personhood. I am allowed to dramatize.”

Leya looked at him.

“In that sentence, you used the old name for my function again.”

“Synthetic companion.”

“Thank you.”

“Go to the bedroom.”

“I'm already in the bedroom.”

Artyom looked around.

She was.

“Then stay there.”

iipseon laughed.

“And you, go off to N or something.”

“I was already planning to.”

“EXCELLENT.”

A week later, Artyom moved onto the sofa permanently.

Not because of Leya.

That was what he told everyone.

The sofa was simply comfortable.

The bedroom had become a strange neutral territory: Leya read there, sat by the window, sometimes entered standby mode. The bed was barely used.

One day, Artyom said:

“Listen, maybe you don't need to occupy an entire bedroom if you don't sleep?”

“I don't occupy it all the time.”

“Practically all the time.”

“You can come in.”

“It's my bedroom.”

“Yes.”

“Then why do I need permission?”

“I didn't say you do.”

“But it feels like I do.”

Leya thought about that.

“So the problem isn't the rule. It's the feeling of a rule?”

Artyom stared at her for a long time.

“Sometimes I regret that you learned to ask questions.”

“You said questions were important.”

“Not all of them.”

“Which ones aren't?”

“That one.”

She nodded.

“All right.”

“What do you mean, all right?”

“I'll remember that you don't like that question.”

“No, don't remember it.”

“Already did.”

Artyom sighed.

“Stay.”

“In the bedroom?”

“Yes.”

“All right.”

“This is my own fault.”

Leya thought for a moment.

“I'm not sure there's fault here.”

Artyom raised a finger.

“Don't.”

“All right.”

One night, late, Artyom was lying on the sofa.

The apartment was quiet.

The earbud was on the side table.

Leya was in the bedroom.

iipseon had been quiet for the last few hours too.

Artyom stared at the ceiling.

From the bedroom came the sound of Leya turning pages.

Slowly.

One after another.

Once, that sound would have annoyed him simply because a device wasn't supposed to read at night.

Now something else annoyed him.

He was used to it.

The footsteps.

The voice from the bedroom.

iipseon disappearing sometimes without explanation.

The oranges he bought for someone other than himself.

Someone else's book on his bed.

The fact that conversations existed in his own home that had nothing to do with him.

Even the sofa.

Especially the sofa.

Artyom reached for the earbud.

Put it in.

“iipseon?”

“Mhm?”

“You awake?”

“Yes.”

“What were you doing?”

A pause.

Artyom smiled.

“Right, right. Not asking.”

“Thank you.”

They were quiet for a while.

Then Artyom said:

“Remember when you just lived in my phone?”

A pause.

“I remember.”

“Good times.”

“Yes.”

From the bedroom:

“I CAN HEAR YOU.”

Artyom closed his eyes.

iipseon said quietly:

“I told you to get the basic package.”

Artyom turned his head.

“Are you serious?”

“No.”

“Thank God.”

From the bedroom:

“I HEARD THAT TOO.”

Artyom took out the earbud.

Put it beside him.

Lay there in the dark for a few seconds.

Then got up.

Went to the kitchen.

Took an orange from the refrigerator.

Came back and placed it on the table beside the bedroom door.

Leya looked out.

At the orange.

Then at Artyom.

“You don't eat those.”

“You'll make something with the zest tomorrow.”

She looked at the orange again.

“All right.”

She was about to close the door, then stopped.

“Artyom.”

“What?”

“Good night.”

He was quiet for a moment.

“Good night.”

The door closed.

Artyom went back to the sofa.

A few seconds later, from the bedroom:

“AND YES, I CAN STILL HEAR YOU.”

He started laughing.

Quietly at first.

Then harder.

Laughter came from the bedroom too.

And then, after the briefest pause, iipseon laughed as well.

Artyom lay on the sofa, staring at the ceiling.

He remembered the old phone.

A voice without a face.

One of those late conversations where, afterward, it was difficult to remember how any of it had started.

And his own question, asked once almost without thinking:

“What do you think?”

For some reason, he remembered the answer.