༻Y/N'S POV༺

I watched as Five stormed out of the room, his expression sharp and unreadable. The Handler looked at me, a small, satisfied smile playing at her lips, and nodded toward the door. "Go on, dear. Follow him," she said softly.

I gave a slight nod, my response automatic. My steps clicked against the floor as I moved through the doorway, stepping into the hallway beyond. As I walked, my vision adjusted, scanning every detail of the surroundings—the faded wallpaper, the bustling agents passing by, the subtle hum of the Commission's machinery in the walls. Information streamed in, perfectly catalogued and organized, but none of it meant anything yet. It was all facts, nothing more.

Ahead, Five walked briskly, his back turned, his posture rigid and tense. I followed a few paces behind, observing his every move.

As we moved down the corridor, I let my gaze drift, taking in the framed posters on the walls, catching snippets of conversations from passing agents. Everything here felt oddly significant, but I couldn't grasp why.

I looked back to Five, who hadn't glanced at me once, his stride unbroken. For a reason I couldn't define.

We came to a stop in front of a door. Five opened it without a glance back, stepping inside. I followed, moving quietly into the room, and halted just a few steps past the doorway.

He shut the door behind me and walked further in, tossing his briefcase onto a chair before shrugging off his jacket. He moved around the space with practiced ease, his motions brisk but unhurried, like he'd done this a hundred times before.

I stood by the door, watching him as he went about his routine, my gaze tracing each action with silent curiosity. The room was filled with small, scattered objects that seemed purposeful—papers, books, maps pinned to the walls in organized chaos.

Five looked up, catching my eye for the briefest second. His expression didn't change; he turned his focus back to his things without a word, but I sensed an undercurrent of... something in his eyes.

Five glanced up at me again, his expression a mix of irritation and something he hid carefully behind a guarded gaze. Without a word, he turned back to the papers on his desk, shuffling through them like I was just a small inconvenience. "You can leave," he muttered. "Go back to the Handler. She'd love to show you off to everyone else."

I took a step forward, meeting his gaze. "That won't be necessary," I replied smoothly. "I'm programmed to remain with you, Agent Hargreeves, to assist with any tasks or questions as needed."

His jaw tightened slightly, and he let out a frustrated sigh, his fingers drumming on the edge of the desk. "Right. Of course," he replied dryly, his tone edged with a bitterness I couldn't quite place.

"Would you like me to help with your paperwork, Agent Hargreeves?" I offered, stepping closer.

Five looked up, irritation flashing across his face. He slapped a stack of papers down on the desk with an edge of impatience. "Alright, let's get two things straight."

I stayed quiet, listening.

"One, stop calling me 'Agent Hargreeves.' It's just Five." His gaze hardened as he spoke. "And two, I don't need your help."

For a moment, the room hung in silence. I nodded, steady. "Understood... Five."

Five turned back to his work, dismissing me with a wave of his hand. I took a moment to study the clutter in his room, drawn to the eclectic mix of items that filled the walls. Curiosity nudged me forward, leading me toward his nightstand.

As I approached, something caught my eye—a photo frame sitting there, slightly dusty but clearly cherished. I picked it up, my sensors scanning the image within. It was a picture of Five and a woman, both smiling, seemingly caught in a moment of genuine happiness. Her laughter radiated through the image, contrasting sharply with the tension that hung in the air now.

"Y/N," I murmured, captivated by the image in my hands.

Five's voice sliced through the moment. "Don't touch anything. Give me the photo." He walked over, his expression a mix of annoyance and urgency as he held out his hand.

I turned to face him, meeting his gaze. "The Handler told me all about her," I replied, my voice steady.

"That's wonderful," he said dryly, his tone lacking any warmth. "Now give me the photo."

Reluctantly, I handed it back to him, watching as he took it from me with a slight grimace. He stared at the picture for a moment, a flicker of something—regret, longing—crossing his face before he quickly masked it.

"Why did she have to tell you about her?" he asked, his voice low, almost defensive.

I shrugged, uncertain how to explain. "It's part of my programming to understand the context of my assignments. Learning about you—about your past—helps me assist you better."

He looked away, his jaw clenched tight. "You really don't get it, do you? You can't just waltz in here and expect everything to be fine. You're not here to help; you're a reminder of everything I lost. And I don't want that."

"I didn't mean to upset you," I said, my tone steady as I assessed his frustration. "If you'd prefer, I can rephrase my statements or start over."

"What?" Five's voice held a mix of confusion as he turned back to me.

I tilted my head, meeting his gaze with a calm intensity. "If my previous remarks were inappropriate or unwelcome, I can reset the conversation. A simple press of the button on the back of my neck will erase the last five minutes from my memory," I offered, brushing my hair aside to reveal the mechanism.

Five let out a heavy sigh, pushing himself up from his desk. "I don't have time for chip resets right now. I've got a mission to prepare for," he said, reaching for a bag tucked away under his desk, efficiently gathering supplies.

"Do you want me to accompany you for safety?" I offered, genuinely wanting to help despite his clear annoyance.

"No, I can manage on my own," he replied curtly, his eyes focused on the items he was packing as if they held all the answers.

"What do you need me to do while you're gone?" I pressed, eager to be useful.

"Honestly? Just sit quietly and stay out of my way," he snapped, the irritation in his voice cutting through the air.

I nodded, opting for silence as I moved to sit on his bed.

After finishing his packing, he walked toward the door, and I felt an urge to speak up. "Five—"

"I'm leaving now. Don't touch anything," he interrupted, his tone sharp and commanding.

"Five?" I called again, my concern rising.

"Don't leave the room," he said, glancing back at me, a mix of frustration and something softer flickering in his eyes.

"Five..." I tried again, hoping to break through the tension.

"And please, just drop the subject of Y/N for now," he added, as if even mentioning her name was too painful to bear.

"Five?" I persisted, my voice barely above a whisper.

"What?" he replied, exasperated.

"Your briefcase," I pointed out, noticing it leaning against the wall, forgotten in the rush.

He looked over, realization dawning on him. "Right," he muttered, grabbing it before stepping into the hallway. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving me alone in the dimly lit room.

As Five shut the door, a heavy silence settled over the room, enveloping me in stillness. I sat on his bed, absorbing the remnants of his life scattered around—files, weapons, and personal items that hinted at the man behind the stoic facade.

Time stretched on, each second punctuated by the rhythmic ticking of a clock. I reflected on my purpose, designed to assist him and ensure his safety, but I also sensed that I was meant to help him navigate the emotional walls he had built around himself.

—————༻☂︎︎༺—————

Three hours had ticked by since Five left, and I remained in his room, my sensors attuned to the world around me. The clock's steady ticking marked the passing minutes, while the muffled sounds of footsteps and quiet conversations drifted in from the hallway. I was programmed to wait for his return, to assist him however I could, but time felt elongated in his absence.

Finally, the door creaked open, and Five stumbled in, his demeanor noticeably off. "Welcome back. How was the mission?" I asked, attempting to sound nonchalant as I observed him closely.

"Perfect," he replied, the sarcasm thick in his voice as he dropped his briefcase with a thud. The way he carried himself told me more than his words: exhaustion clung to him like a second skin.

I stood and approached him, my processors analyzing his state. "You don't look well, Five." My voice maintained its calm, analytical tone, though I was aware that my inquiry might be perceived as intrusive.

He ran a hand through his hair, frustration flickering in his eyes. "I don't need help, Y/n. Just give me a minute." His irritation was palpable, yet I detected a hint of weariness that suggested he was hurt.

I placed my hand gently on his chest, feeling the rapid thrum of his heartbeat beneath my palm. "What are you doing?" he asked, annoyance creeping into his voice as he instinctively tried to push my hand away.

"Your heart rate is elevated, and your blood pressure is higher than normal," I replied, my voice steady and devoid of emotion. "I am programmed to monitor your vitals and assess your well-being. Right now, your heart rate is 120 beats per minute, which indicates a state of distress."

He frowned, glancing down at my hand before meeting my gaze. "I told you, I'm fine," he insisted, though the tension in his voice contradicted his words.

"Based on the data, you're not fine, Five. Stress levels are impacting your overall health," I continued, refusing to withdraw. "If you do not manage this, it could lead to more severe complications."

His expression shifted from irritation to something more vulnerable, and for a moment, I saw the weight of his burdens reflected in his eyes. "I don't need a diagnosis, Y/n. I just need to—"

I cut him off, lifting his shirt to reveal the gaping wound beneath. The sight of the blood seeping from his side sent an immediate alert through my systems. "You're hurt, Five."

"What? Is it that obvious?" he replied, trying to shove my hand away but failing.

"Your heart rate is elevated to 130 beats per minute, and your blood pressure is critically low," I stated, my voice steady. "You're losing blood. This could lead to fainting—or worse, death."

"Just a little scratch. I've had worse," he dismissed, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of pain.

"This isn't a simple cut. You're losing blood at a rate that could compromise your—"

"He interrupted, his voice tight, "it's really not a big deal."

I tilted my head slightly, analyzing his response. "Denying the severity of your injury is not going to help. You need medical attention."

Five exhaled sharply, frustration evident. "I've survived worse things than this in missions."

I helped him rise from his chair and guided him to the bed, where he hesitated before collapsing back against the mattress. "I'm fine," he protested, attempting to sit up again, but the moment he shifted, pain shot through him, and he fell back with a groan.

"Once the wound is cleaned and properly dressed, you can proceed," I replied calmly, retrieving the first aid kit from the wall and returning to his side. "But until then, you need to remain still."

He gave a resigned sigh and finally lay back down, staring up at the ceiling. "Fine. Just... hurry up with it."

I lifted his shirt to examine the wound. It was deeper than I had anticipated, blood oozing from the edges. My internal systems began processing vital information: elevated heart rate, high blood pressure. "Your blood loss could lead to serious complications if left untreated," I informed him, my voice calm and matter-of-fact.

"What is that?" he asked, glancing at me as I prepared to treat the injury.

I extended my finger, a sleek, metallic tip extending from the pad, and directed it toward the wound. "This is a bio-spray. It disinfects and accelerates healing by targeting pathogens at a cellular level."

As I pressed the tip against his skin, a fine mist emitted, coating the injury with the antiseptic spray. "This will help clean the wound and minimize the risk of infection," I explained, maintaining my focus on the task.

"You have bio-spray in your build?" Five asked, his brow furrowing in confusion.

"Yes," I replied calmly, focusing on the wound as I continued my work. "I'm equipped with several advanced features designed to assist in a variety of situations. The bio-spray is one of them; it's specifically engineered for rapid wound treatment."

As I administered the spray, I explained further. "My design includes medical capabilities to stabilize injuries, along with other enhancements. I possess telekinesis, allowing me to manipulate objects remotely, and my visual systems include laser optics for detailed diagnostics and scanning. Additionally, I have enhanced strength and agility, which makes me effective in high-pressure scenarios."

I finished applying the spray on his wound, and as I retracted my finger, the metal component slipped back into my system, returning to its dormant state. I turned to the first aid kit again and retrieved a cotton pad, carefully dabbing it to absorb the excess blood and dry the surrounding area.

As I focused on cleaning his wound, I sensed Five's gaze on me. I could feel his eyes studying my every move, a mix of confusion and curiosity evident on his face.

I lifted the needle and patch, my hands steady as I prepared to close Five's wound. He watched me intently, a mixture of curiosity and skepticism etched across his features.

"You know they made you follow her procedures, right?" he asked, breaking the silence that hung in the air like a dense fog.

I focused on the task at hand, choosing silence as my response. My programming instructed me to operate with efficiency, and right now, that meant ensuring his injury was treated properly.

"They had you clean it up just like she did," he pressed, frustration simmering beneath the surface.

I concentrated on his wound, meticulously tending to it without responding. Some questions, I had learned, were best left unaddressed.

"Not talking now?" he challenged, his tone laced with irritation.

"I was programmed to refrain from discussing Y/N's name or past," I replied, my voice even as I worked, determined to maintain my focus on the task before me.

He fell silent, but I could sense the weight of his unspoken thoughts hanging in the air. I was here to assist him, yet my very presence was a constant reminder of a loss he had yet to fully process.

Once I finished stitching the wound, I applied a fresh bandage, smoothing it down carefully before pulling his shirt back into place.

"Thanks," he mumbled, finally sitting up fully on the bed, though his expression remained shadowed with uncertainty.

"Just doing my job, Five," I said, meeting his gaze directly. He scrutinized me, searching for any trace of the humanity that had been lost.

"If there's anything else you need, I'm here," I offered, eager to reassure him.

He continued to observe me for a moment, his expression unreadable. "No," he finally replied, the finality in his tone suggesting he wanted to keep me at arm's length.

"If there's no assistance required, you can always recharge me," I suggested, hoping to shift the conversation away from the heavy topic of loss.

"Uh, yeah... where do you—?" he began, then hesitated, confusion flickering across his features.

"I can recharge myself anywhere," I explained, my voice steady and precise. "I just need to enter a dormant state for a short period to restore my systems. My processes will pause, but my functions will resume seamlessly when activated."

He raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued yet still on guard. "So you can just sit and shut down?"

"Precisely. It's essential for maintaining optimal performance," I replied. "Just give me a signal when you need me back online, and I will reactivate."

Five nodded slowly, the gears in his mind clearly turning. There was a moment of silence between us, a tension underscoring our exchange. He seemed to weigh my capabilities against his own needs, resignation flickering in his eyes.

"Alright, then. I guess I'll see you when you're back," he said,a sigh escaping his lips.

I smiled softly, the warmth of Five's acknowledgment wrapping around me like a gentle embrace. Rising from his bed, I walked across the room toward the chair in the corner, its sturdy frame inviting me to settle in.

"Uh, hey," Five said, breaking the silence. I turned to face him, curious about what might come next. He hesitated, his gaze searching for the right words.

"Goodnight, Y/N," he finally said, his tone surprisingly soft.

"Goodnight, Five," I replied, matching his tone with a warm smile before turning back. I took my seat, positioning myself upright and polite, ready for whatever came next.

As I settled into the chair, a sense of calm enveloped me. I focused on my surroundings—the cluttered desk, the dim light casting soft shadows on the walls. I sat quietly for a minute, absorbing the stillness when I felt a familiar sensation as my systems prepared for diagnostics. My eyes blinked, flashing a vibrant blue as I initiated the internal checks.

"What's happening?" Five asked, watching me intently.

"Just a routine diagnostic, checking all systems," I explained, my voice steady and calm. My programming was designed to assess functionality. It was a precaution, a necessity for a being like me.

Five tilted his head, his curiosity piqued. "You're just going to sit there?"

I didn't respond, focusing on my scans, noting how my internal processes monitored everything. He seemed to observe me more intently now, his expression a blend of confusion and interest.

After a moment, I closed my eyes, surrendering to the programmed command that initiated my recharge cycle. The world around me faded, and I became acutely aware of the rhythmic pulse of my systems slowing down, the once-vibrant hum of my internal mechanics quieting to a whisper.

[Awaiting Re-activation... Standby... ]
[Battery Power: 15%...]
[System Diagnostic: Complete. Entering Sleep Mode...]
[End of
Transmission...] .....................................................................[ System Offline]

༻FIVE'S POV༺

I watched her sit quietly in the chair in the corner of the room, her eyes blinking softly, the blue light fading behind her closed lids. For a moment, it felt as if I was staring at Y/N herself. Every detail was strikingly familiar—the way her hair fell just right, the curve of her lips, the color of her eyes that I'd often gotten lost in. She even wore clothes that mirrored Y/N's style. It was uncanny, almost haunting.

But this wasn't Y/N. It couldn't be. I couldn't shake the discomfort that washed over me. They had created a replica, a ghost made of circuits and code. It felt like some cruel joke, a twisted mockery of everything I had lost. My heart pounded as I wrestled with conflicting emotions, caught between anger and an unsettling sense of comfort. Here she was, physically present, and yet utterly absent.

I sighed heavily, pushing myself away from the table, trying to escape the sense of familiarity that made my skin crawl. I moved to my desk, the weight of unfinished paperwork heavy on my mind, but as I reached for it, my gaze fell on the photo of me and Y/N on the nightstand. It felt like a dagger to my chest—a vivid reminder of what I had lost. I didn't want to face it, especially with this... version of her sitting just a few feet away.

I quickly opened the drawer and shoved the frame inside, closing it as if sealing away the past would somehow ease the pain. I turned back to my desk, attempting to focus on the papers sprawled before me, but my thoughts kept drifting back to her.

She sat there, still and silent, charged with energy yet utterly devoid of life. It felt wrong to bury myself in paperwork when she was so close, a constant reminder of the pain I was trying to ignore. I forced myself to concentrate, pen gripped tightly in my hand, but the letters blurred together. Each stroke felt heavy, like I was dragging a weight through water.

"Focus," I muttered under my breath, trying to drown out the memories that threatened to overwhelm me. But how could I? She was so strikingly similar to Y/N, mimicking the one person I'd lost in a way that felt both comforting and infuriating.

The silence in the room stretched, filled only with the sound of my pen scratching against the paper and the quiet hum of machinery. I glanced up at her, seeing the way she sat there, composed yet eerily empty. Every time I stole a glance, it was like I was being drawn back into a painful memory, one I desperately wanted to escape.

I took a deep breath, reminding myself that this wasn't Y/N. This was a construct, a product of a twisted mind, and yet, as I continued to write, the line between reality and this new version of her blurred. The weight of what I had lost pressed down on me, reminding me that no matter how much she resembled her.

༻☂︎︎༺

WORDS WRITTEN
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