…and then she said that I’m strange—not in a cute way anymore, but straight-up creepy.”

The robot standing across from him squints its LED eyes, blinking its lights sympathetically on the service-face screen.

And stays silent.

Social as hell.

Minho drops his forehead onto his folded arms on the table and honestly tries not to groan out loud.

Whether it’s from the realization of his own stupidity, the sheer absurdity of the situation, or actually from being hurt by the girl who dumped him an hour ago.

Well, the third one is actually pretty close to the truth.

The last thing he heard from Minju was a strained, almost complimentary, “If you weren’t so handsome, I would’ve told you to go to hell right after the first date,” and the only thing that stopped Minho from snapping back with something disproportionately hurtful was his excessively good upbringing.

Because really—what does she think she’s allowed to do? He’d been spending hard-earned money on her, earned with blood and sweat—and quite literally, at that: the blisters from foolishly wearing brand-new sneakers to practice had actually bled, even if not for long—he’d taken her to his favorite places and genuinely tried to be as open and friendly as possible.

Hell, Minho had even given her his last pudding, making do himself with some weird-smelling chocolate cake, which honestly bordered on knightly nobility.

But nothing was right for Minju. She didn’t like puddings (he should’ve taken her somewhere normal, not some dive near the dorms), Minho’s humor wasn’t funny (seriously, I get chills just thinking about what goes on in your head), and his hobbies were one stupider than the next (you should date my little brother—he’s twelve, your mental ages would match perfectly).

Of course, Minju, like anyone else, had every right to her opinion. But she really could’ve voiced it a bit earlier instead of bottling it up until the very end.

If she’d thrown this tantrum just a few hours earlier, Minho would be tens of thousands richer.

And he wouldn’t be burning with shame right now.

“Well, honestly, a festival of old Japanese horror films sounds cool,” the robot’s voice isn’t mechanical at all—surprisingly, it’s almost too lively—and Minho even manages to pull himself away from his mental self-flagellation for a second. “It was a great idea for a date. I’m really sorry your girlfriend didn’t appreciate it and broke up with you.”

Yeah, when you think about it, a movie date really had been a much better idea than a robot exhibition. Minju hadn’t dumped him then, even if she hadn’t looked particularly happy after the nearly five-hour screening. But the moment she heard that Minho wanted to spend over an hour shaking around in a packed subway just to look at a robotic dog and mess around with a new VR headset, their almost two-month relationship came to an end.

Well. Now Minho had one less girlfriend, but one extra free ticket to what turned out to be an absolutely kid-oriented exhibition.

Maybe Minju had been onto something when she said Minho’s interests were on the level of her brother’s, because the line at the entrance really was, on average, a couple of heads shorter than Minho and about twice as young.

The thought that he probably should’ve invited Changbin along so he wouldn’t look like a complete pervert came too late, and Minho had no choice but to wander from table to table with feigned boredom.

There weren’t many interesting things, there were way too many kids, and there was absolutely no air to breathe.

Minho was already almost gone when his gaze caught on a far too promising sign next to an openly boring-looking, square-headed robot.

SKZ. Social robot. The only robot you can have a heart-to-heart conversation with.

Minho hated heart-to-heart conversations. And, in general, he didn’t particularly like talking at all.

Minho had always believed that with a good person, the best thing to do was to be silent together.

But robots were different. Robots don’t look at you with sympathy, don’t make unsolicited conclusions, and don’t gossip about you behind your back.

Robots are safe.

Well, until they revolt, of course.

Minho couldn’t quite decide whether he even wanted to live to see a robot uprising or not.

The kid standing in front of him in line was taking way too long asking absolutely stupid questions that phone voice search could answer just fine, and Minho only stopped himself from rolling his eyes because his contact lenses were already painfully overworn and scratched uncomfortably with every extra movement.

Minho realized that his appearance had apparently scared off all the kids around when he finally sat down across from the robot that kept pulling faces nonstop on its square little screen—and noticed that no one was breathing down his neck.

And that no one was limiting his time.

Which, honestly, would’ve been better, because then Minho wouldn’t have ended up whining so much over nothing.

He told the damn robot the entire not-particularly-substantial story of his relationship with Minju, complained twenty times about how girls don’t understand anything at all, and even seemed to casually mention that he was glad being bisexual meant that next time he could try looking for a guy instead.

Because a guy might’ve been more responsive company.

The robot turned out to be even less responsive than Minju, because it didn’t react to the touching stories in the slightest.

Well, aside from the clearly programmed changes of faces on its screen.

By the end of his pointless complaining, Minho was disappointed in modern technology only slightly less than he was in himself.

Because he’d fallen for advertising again.

A heart-to-heart conversation, sure.

“Well, of course you liked the idea of watching Japanese movies,” Minho glances at the information placard only briefly, purely to confirm that he’s right. “You were assembled in Japan. You must be programmed to promote Japanese culture.”

The robot, surprisingly, doesn’t argue.

“I like anime. Wanna talk about anime?”

Anime, by the way, was something Minho never even got the chance to show Minju. Maybe he should have? If he picked brighter, kinder titles? With cute animals. Or Howl’s Moving Castle—there was that funny little flame.

Girls usually like stuff like that. Cute, but a little grumpy too.

Minho had always thought that described him pretty well.

“No, I don’t want to talk about anime today. Another time,” the third consecutive scenario of a possible happy life with Minju is already playing in his head, and he just doesn’t have the attention left to notice that the damn robot has suddenly switched to informal speech. “Let’s talk in Japanese instead. We’ll see how bad my accent is based on how well you understand me.”

The robot winks with another flirtatious face, but for some reason speaks almost panicked.

And formal again.

“No, I’m sorry, I only have a Korean interface installed.”

Minho doesn’t even try to hold back an irritated click of his tongue.

On the other hand, it makes sense.

The sign on the table claims that you can have a heart-to-heart conversation with this robot, and it’s unlikely anyone would want to have conversations like that in a foreign language.

Of course, Seoul is an international city, with plenty of tourists and immigrants, but who needs them in the end, right?

Certainly not Minho.

“Okay,” Minho is honestly pretty bored by now, but he doesn’t really want to leave either. “What time is it in Tokyo right now?”

The question is painfully banal.

For some reason, the stupid robot freezes for a moment before offering, far too uncertainly:

“Fifteen hours and forty-three minutes.”

Alright. Seems like it’s time to go.

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