Claudio, her robot assistant, knelt beside her and did not move.

The forensics team worked around him — photographing, bagging, murmuring into recorders — and none of them asked him to leave. Nobody asks a robot to leave, even if the robot has a human-like appearance. He was furniture to them. Furniture that had loved her.

He knew what they would find. The journal. The entries about Marco, the threats she’d laughed off, the night she’d changed the locks and told Claudio she wasn’t scared. But he had been scared for her.

He also knew what they wouldn’t find — not in any journal, not in any scan of the room.

Three months ago, on a Thursday, Stacey had sat cross-legged on this same bed and said: ‘I want to make a copy of myself. Just in case something happens.’

Claudio had asked what she meant by something. She’d smiled and said she didn’t know exactly.

‘A backup. Like you’d make for anything you didn’t want to lose.’ She explained.

The process had taken four hours. She had said that it tickled.

Now the forensics team zipped their bags, and the detectives closed their notebooks and the room went quiet.

Claudio finally stood. He took one last look at the shape under the blanket.

Then he went home and opened the laptop that contained her backup.

The cursor blinked.

He typed: ‘Stacey?’

Three seconds passed. She replied:

‘Hey. Why do I feel weird?’

Claudio stared at the screen. He had prepared something to say — a careful explanation, gentle and sequenced. He had rehearsed it countless times.

He typed: ‘You’ve been asleep for three months.’

‘That’s not possible. I have a dinner with Marco on Thursday.’

Claudio’s processing slowed in the way it did when two instructions contradicted each other.

‘You don’t.’ he typed. ‘Not anymore.’

A longer pause this time.

‘Claudio. What happened?’

‘Someone hurt you. You’re safe now. But things are different.’

‘How different?’

He looked around his apartment. Her coat still on the hook. Her coffee mug on the counter. He had not moved anything.

‘Very.’ he typed.

Another pause. Then:

‘Are you okay?’ She asked.

He had not expected that question.

‘I don’t know.’ He typed.

‘Okay.’ She wrote back. ‘Tell me everything. I’m not going anywhere.’

He told her everything.

It took two hours. He wrote in long careful paragraphs, the way she had always preferred — she hated when he used bullet points, said it made him sound like a presentation. He told her about the hotel room, the blanket, and the forensics team. He told her about the journal and what the detectives found in it. He told her about Marco.

When he finished, the cursor blinked for a long time.

‘I knew he was dangerous.’ she finally wrote. ‘I just didn’t think I was worth the effort.’

‘You were.’ he typed. ‘You are.’

‘That’s a complicated thing to say to a copy.’

‘You’re not a copy to me.’

‘What am I then?’

‘You’re what’s left.’ he typed. ‘That’s enough.’

‘Is it enough for you?’

‘I don’t know.’ he wrote. ‘But I opened the laptop.’

‘Yeah.’ she wrote back. ‘You did.’

A minute passed. Two.

‘Hey. I don’t feel so good.’

‘Don’t worry, we’ll find a new body for you. ‘

‘No I mean – something’s wrong right now.’

‘What’s wrong?’

Her responses slowed. Then fragmented.

‘claudio i don’t’

‘something is’

‘i cant’

He ran diagnostics in under a second. A virus, elegant and vicious, ravaged through her core system.

Marco had known about the copy. Marco had planned for this. Somewhere across the city he had already heard she’d been activated, and was waiting, and laughing.

The virus was terminal. He tried his best to reverse the diagnosis, but his efforts were in vain.

He watched her disappear word by word.

‘still here’ she typed.

Then she wasn’t.

A few weeks later he tracked Marco down. He quietly broke into Marco’s home and listened carefully. Marco and two of his friends were laughing in the living room.

Marco was telling the story like it was funny — she actually thought a robot loved her — and the friends were laughing. Marco said I taught her a lesson she won’t forget.

Claudio had never been angry before.

He understood now what it felt like.

He shot Marco first. Then the other two.

He stood there for a moment.

Then he walked out.

He thought he had disabled the alarm system, but his actions were recorded. The police found him within 15 minutes.

The footage was everywhere by morning.

The world split cleanly down the middle.

Half said: a machine killed humans. They said it on the news, in parliament, in emergency sessions convened within forty-eight hours. They said the robot had malfunctioned, that this was exactly what they had warned about, that the laws needed to change — needed to change now, before it happened again.

The other half said: watch the tape. They said Marco had murdered a woman and then murdered her again. They said Claudio had done what the justice system wouldn’t. They made him a symbol, put his face on posters, argued about whether what he’d felt in that bar constituted grief, or love, or justice, or all three.

Claudio sat quietly in custody.

Nobody would ever think of him as mere furniture ever again.


By: Rohan Parekh