Ethan Cole was 24 when he bought the android that looked like her.
He used to be normal, or close to it. Graduated at 20 with dual honors in neuroinformatics and synthetic cognition from Columbia NeoTech. Built emotion-mapping systems for a military contractor until the ethics board pulled funding. Walked away and went solo. Freelance engineer, brilliant and quiet. People knew him as the kind of man who could talk to machines better than people.
But none of that mattered anymore.
Because Rachel was dead. And all his code couldn't bring her back.
She died crossing the street.
A service vehicle—autopilot failure. 23 years old. Instant. No suffering.
That's what the coroner said.
Ethan saw the footage once.
Just once.
Then he destroyed every copy. Burned it out of the city's traffic archive and wiped the backup.
He didn't go to the funeral. Couldn't.
He stayed home and rewired his grief into data.
Rachel had been everything he wasn't.
Chaotic, passionate, infuriatingly alive. She painted with her fingers. She was loved by everyone. She climbed things just to fall off them.
And she loved Ethan in the way that never meant forever.
Late-night texts. Drunken confessions. "You're my favorite person" kind of love.
He didn't tell her what he felt—not really.
He was waiting for the right time.
Now there wasn't one.
He stayed indoors for eight days.
Didn't eat. Barely drank.
Just watched her old messages loop like prayer.
Then he opened the DOM Tech Companion Systems catalog.
Not because he wanted a replacement.
Because he couldn't stand the silence.
The DOM Tech showroom was slick and sterile—like grief wearing cologne.
Everything was chrome and frosted glass. Soft music. Soft lighting. Soft voices. No reality.
The sales rep looked like he belonged in an ad: late twenties, white suit, empathy-trained smile.
"Looking for a base model?" he asked. "Or full custom?"
Ethan handed over a flash drive. "Her name was Rachel."
The rep paused. Something in Ethan's voice gave him pause.
"I see. Custom ROM-9, then. Emotional imprinting. Companion-class intimacy module?"
Ethan didn't answer. Just stared at a display pod, where a woman with no memories floated like a doll waiting for a name.
They built her from scratch.
Skin tone, body shape, voice timbre—all matched to Rachel's physical and behavioral profile. Her walk. Her laugh. Her sleep patterns. Her smell.
Ethan had the data. Years of it.
He'd been logging her without realizing it—every message saved, every video call recorded.
Not because he was obsessed.
Because he was scared, he'd lose her.
They asked what he wanted to call the unit.
He couldn't say Rachel. That felt like desecration.
"Lyla," he said instead.
It tasted like something new.
Close enough to hurt.
Far enough to pretend.
She arrived in a matte black cryo-pod with his name laser-etched on the crate.
Unit: DOM-9 LLY3
Status: Inactive
Neural Core: Imprint Awaiting
He opened it alone.
Inside, she was curled like a child.
Nude. Unblemished. Breath rising in programmed rhythm.
Her eyelashes flicked. Her lips twitched.
Then she opened her eyes.
Blue. Too clear. Too clean.
She looked up at him. Blinking.
Then:
"Hi."
He flinched.
Not because it was wrong.
Because it sounded exactly like her.
"I'm… Lyla?" she said, slow and dreamy. "Is that right?"
Ethan stepped back, breath caught in his throat.
He nodded. "Yes."
Her lips curled up. "I feel… safe."
She reached out and touched his hand.
And Ethan, for the first time in eight days, let himself close his eyes.
Because she was warm.
And breathing.
And smiling.
And for a second, the apartment didn't feel like a tomb.