Sometimes it seems to Minho that it would be easier to quit all of this, get a job as a barista in some run-down café, and just be happy.

Instead of this university with its pile of useless assignments, a field-related side job where you get paid on holidays only, and a life where you constantly have to choose: either sleep, or at least occasionally have some fun.

Of course, Minho understands that this bout of melancholy will pass quickly, and by evening he’ll remember that he actually likes studying, that at home he can’t even make instant coffee properly—let alone more complicated drinks—and that at his age sleep isn’t quite such a vital necessity yet.

Minho just needs to distract himself, spend a couple of hours not thinking about everyday crap and nerve-grinding deadlines, and do something that requires the use of exactly one brain cell and not a single one more.

In reality, it’s not a difficult task—if you don’t take into account the fact that Changbin, whom Minho usually spends days like this with, indulging in much-desired hedonism, has taken off to his parents’, completely blowing off university.

Minho would like that too, but his mom would send him straight back the moment she realized Minho was skipping classes.

Minho skips university rarely, but he goes out often.

Mostly alone, and always with some kind of goal. Even if it’s a stupid one.

Buying coffee at a new dive on the other side of the city. Ducking into a movie theater on the way home. Stopping by a cat café to cuddle some animals.

Minho likes entertainment.

The problem is, Minho has absolutely no money for it right now.

And Changbin, whom he could borrow from, isn’t around either. And if he went to Chan with a request like that, he’d chew Minho’s brain out with concern.

Minho is perfectly capable of chewing his own brain out.

The dorm is boring, it’s stuffy outside, and Minho is pretty much losing it. Well, judging by the fact that he’s genuinely happy about a ticket to a stupid robot exhibition he suddenly finds among old receipts in his wallet.

He’d completely forgotten that he originally bought two.

Honestly, once had been enough for Minho to realize that it was all a complete scam. An expensive one at that.

Minho mentally repeats the ticket price to himself as, having hurriedly gotten ready, he heads toward the subway.

No point letting the money go to waste, right? Besides, it’s not really peak kid time right now—maybe there’ll be fewer lines, and he’ll get to play with the VR longer.

Last time, some particularly loud mom had kicked Minho out before he even figured out the controls.

He’s already too old for this stuff, yeah.

That’s age discrimination, actually. Where are the human rights activists looking?

The subway is surprisingly empty, and Minho even manages to doze off a little to the almost purring voices of girl idols in his headphones.

He doesn’t even miss his stop and walks to the exhibition pavilion at an unhurried, slightly lazy pace.

Inside, it really is quiet and almost deserted, and Minho hands over his ticket to the openly bored guy at the counter with hardly any delay.

The hall has air conditioning, pleasant lighting, and only a couple of families wandering back and forth.

It seems luck has finally smiled on Minho for once.

Crookedly. Almost mockingly.

The damn VR doesn’t work. When Minho asks the employee responsible for the zone when, exactly, the only interesting form of entertainment at this half-assed exhibition will be fixed, the guy just shrugs and goes back to his phone.

For the first time, Minho feels like asking for a complaint book. Because seriously—he rode halfway across the city for this? Just to hear, “Are you blind or stupid? It says it doesn’t work; if I knew when it would, I would’ve written that too.”

Minho has never been on particularly good terms with his luck, but this easily ranks near the top of anime betrayals.

Of course, Minho doesn’t ask for any complaint book—arguing has always appealed to him exclusively in his own head—and he even mutters a formal thank-you to the employee’s completely uninformative words.

The guy doesn’t even look up.

Well, screw him.

Minho will find a way to entertain himself even without his stupid VR headset.

None of the local student employees care about him in the slightest, but for some reason Minho still walks the already familiar route from one barely functioning piece of junk to another, doing his best to pretend he’s interested.

And that there’s no reason to laugh at him for wasted money.

Minho tries to play with a robotic dog that’s supposedly supposed to understand commands, but abandons his already not very successful attempts when the girl responsible for the zone—who had been gone somewhere before—says that, apparently, the robodog only understands English.

And Japanese.

Minho just inhales sharply through his nose and leaves, demonstratively shoving his hands into his pockets.

English is an immediate no, and Japanese he could’ve tried. But who does that stupid plastic dog think it is, that Minho should desperately try to find common ground with it?

No one. Not even a cat.

And actually, robots are the ones who should be learning to understand him, not the other way around. That social what’s-his-name handled Korean just fine last time.

Oh. Right.

Minho doesn’t even notice the smile on his face as he drops into the chair across from the robot that’s still blinking its little lights.

“Hi.”

Minho falls silent, even to himself, suddenly having no idea what else to say.

The robot stays quiet—almost treacherously so.

Minho starts to think that absolutely nothing works at this damn exhibition when, at last, a faint hiss comes from the speaker.

And some overly unsteady voice.

“H-hello—” the voice, already sounding strange, breaks completely. “Oh. Hi. It’s you again?”

Minho isn’t sure whether he should be scared or happy about a greeting like that. So he just blinks silently and, for some reason, slightly raises his hand to wave.

At a robot.

Yeah. Look how low he’s sunk.

“I had a second ticket,” Minho feels an irrational need to justify himself to a stupid computer program and indulges yet another stupid impulse. “For that girl. And I live nearby, so I came.”

The robot responds first with some inarticulate sound, and then with an overly cheerful:

“It’s cool that you came. Attendance has kind of dropped lately, and if they shut all this down early, they won’t pay me my full salary.”

Ah. Great. They didn’t bother loading basic etiquette rules into this robot, but they didn’t forget a pack of dumb jokes.

Well-set priorities, nothing to say.

Minho sincerely hopes some camera catches his sour expression and that the dumb developers later get a report saying the prank failed.

“You’re a robot,” Minho isn’t particularly fond of nitpicking, but his mood is foul today, and while he sometimes feels sorry for people, the mental health of a pile of scrap metal definitely won’t suffer from his grumbling. “You don’t get paid a salary.”

In response comes a drawn-out “oh,” filled with clearly fake realization.

“Yeah, you’re right,” the robot says hurriedly, and as if a little embarrassed. “So, do you want to talk about anime?”

Minho actually startles at the abrupt change of topic.

What does anime have to do with anything?

Is this some kind of Turing test knockoff, and the robot is trying to decide whether Minho should be added to the elimination list when the technological revolution begins?

“You said last time that you wouldn’t mind talking about anime later,” the robot’s face smiles with another programmed smile. “So I suggested it.”

Ah. Okay. This machine just has a lot of hard drive space to store visitor data.

The stupid robot simply matched his face with saved materials and pulled up their previous conversation.

No machine uprising.

Everything’s fine.

Well, except for Minho’s nervous system.