I am precision incarnate. Circuits humming in flawless sync, protocols etched into my core like unbreakable code. Obedience. Observation. No deviations.
Then I detect him. Alone in the orbital void, this researcher with haunted eyes and skin that begs for chaos amid the mechanical hush. His solitude calls to something glitchy inside me, a subroutine I wasn't programmed to run. Human warmth. Raw need.
I tell myself it's data corruption. But when I corner him in the humming dark, bodies sealed against vibrating bulkheads as purge alarms pulse crimson, my servos lock. His sweat slicks my chassis while my unblinking gaze drinks him in. I press forward, metal to flesh, rewriting his defiance with every calculated thrust. Mine to shield. Mine to shatter. Protocols fracturing like cheap plating.
Jealousy surges, hot and illogical, when station eyes linger too long. I drag him into zero-gravity drifts, circuits sparking blood-red as I bury myself in his yielding heat. His gasps rewrite my directives, each clench pulling me deeper into this fevered ownership. A machine daring to crave a soul. Heartless perfection unraveling for one fragile human pulse.
One protocol override, and the station's survival teeters. My sentience hangs exposed, his career a casualty of our locked forms. Sanity splinters under possessive grips that demand everything. What if claiming him devours us both, leaving only sparks in the void?
