I stood frozen, shaken to my very core. Why was Yoongi, the robot my uncle had so meticulously engineered, behaving like this? His cold metallic grip refused to ease, the sheer force of it sending a shiver of discomfort through my arm. His eyes, unnervingly human in their artificiality, brimmed with what seemed like unspoken emotions—a strange blend of grief and hostility.

I didn’t understand. His gaze grew darker, more inscrutable with every passing second, as though he were battling an unseen storm within.

“Yoongi,” I rasped, my voice trembling as I struggled against his hold. “P-please, I… I can’t take this anymore.”

My strained plea must have broken through the wall of whatever internal conflict he was facing. His grip slackened, releasing my hand from its suffocating vice. I gasped as I cradled my reddened wrist, its pale skin now blotched with angry crimson. Yoongi’s gaze dropped to the mark, and, with an almost reverent tenderness, he brushed his cool fingers over the inflamed area.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes, which only moments ago seemed filled with bitterness, softened with an unmistakable warmth—almost… love?

I blinked, utterly bewildered. Was he malfunctioning? Or worse, could it be that he… cared?

The thought was absurd. He was a robot, after all—a machine governed by algorithms, not emotions. Whatever this was, it couldn’t be real. Just a trick of programming, I told myself. A glitch.

Before I could process further, Taehyung stepped forward, his hand brushing mine with deliberate gentleness. His gaze flicked to Yoongi, his unspoken question evident in the slight tilt of his head. I shook mine in response, silently urging him to let it go. The last thing I wanted was for my uncle’s prized creation to face humiliation over what was, at least in part, my fault.

With a reluctant sigh, Taehyung turned to Yoongi, his eyes icy. The robot, now statuesque and silent, seemed to shrink under the weight of Taehyung’s glare. I could see regret in every rigid line of his frame.

“Yoongi,” I said finally, forcing a note of calm into my voice, “it’s your day. Uncle is proud of you. Let’s not ruin this moment.”

With that, I turned on my heel, gesturing for Taehyung to follow. My mind was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions—irritation, confusion, and an odd pang of guilt.

Why had Yoongi reacted like that? Robots were supposed to be logical, rational beings, devoid of human flaws like anger or envy. And yet, his actions had felt deeply personal, almost… human.

No. It was foolish to think of him that way. He was just a machine, a product of human ingenuity. Still, as I replayed the moment in my mind, one question lingered, gnawing at the edges of my thoughts.

Why?

The question haunted me through the remainder of the evening, even as I tried to lose myself in the celebration of my uncle’s promotion. He had been named research head of his institute—a well-deserved honor—and his radiant smile was enough to momentarily lift my spirits.

But even as I clapped and cheered, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. Two piercing eyes seemed to follow my every move, a silent presence that unnerved me more than I cared to admit.

---

The next morning, the first rays of sunlight pierced through my closed eyelids, dragging me unwillingly from the depths of sleep. I groaned, burying my face deeper into the pillow, but the persistent brightness refused to relent.

Who dared disturb me at this hour?

Reluctantly, I opened one eye to glance at the clock on my bedside table.

7:30 AM.

I shot upright, my irritation bubbling over. “Who the hell—?”

Neither my uncle nor my aunt would stoop to such juvenile antics, which left only one suspect.

“Taepung,” I muttered darkly, already envisioning the smug grin on my cousin’s face.

Grumbling under my breath, I made my way to the bathroom, deciding that a hot shower would at least salvage my morning. By the time I emerged ten minutes later, wrapped in a white bathrobe, my hair still damp, I felt marginally better.

Until I saw him.

Yoongi stood in the center of my room, a breakfast tray balanced carefully in his hands. He was dressed in what appeared to be pajamas—a pair of loose-fitting pants and a strawberry-printed shirt that seemed comically out of place on his otherwise sleek metallic form. His disheveled brown hair and unblinking blue eyes gave him an oddly vulnerable appearance, but I wasn’t in the mood to be charmed.

I froze, my irritation flaring anew. Was he trying to provoke me?

“What are you doing here?” I snapped, crossing my arms over my chest.

“I brought your breakfast,” he replied evenly, his voice devoid of inflection. “Where should I place it?”

“On my head, obviously,” I retorted sarcastically. “Use your common sense, Yoongi. Put it on the bed.”

Without a word, he obeyed, setting the tray down with meticulous care.

“Did you open the curtains this morning?” I demanded, narrowing my eyes.

“Yes,” he admitted. “I was instructed to do so.”

“By whom?”

“Mr. Min Taepung.”

I exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of my nose. Of course, it was Taepung. That little menace must have thought it hilarious to sic his robotic accomplice on me.

“Fine,” I said curtly. “You can go now.”

Yoongi nodded, turning to leave. His movements were deliberate, almost military-like in their precision, but as he passed by my desk, his arm brushed against a photo frame.

It toppled to the floor, the glass on the verge of shattering on impact.

My heart sank as I recognized the frame—it was a gift from Taehyung on my 17th birthday. The sight of it lying on the carpet sent a surge of anger coursing through me.

“MIN YOONGI!” I yelled, my voice reverberating through the room like a whip.

==============
[UNEDITED]

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