My Robot Replaced Me After Death

A deafening crash split the night.

"My body" slammed into the villa's lawn. Metal parts scattered as if bones had broken.

The man who had shoved me leaned theatrically against the railing, shouting with feigned panic, "Diane! Something's wrong! Gaston jumped!"

Diane Bouchard was my wife.

At his cry, she strolled over unhurriedly, her tone dripping with contempt.

"Jumped? Gaston? What a desperate stunt. I can't believe he'd pull something so pathetic just to get my attention. Fine. I'll humor him this once."

Not the slightest trace of worry crossed her face. Instead, she cast a casual glance downwards, like tossing alms to a beggar.

There "I" was, lying still on the grass, motionless. Yet Diane's expression remained cold.

"All right, Gaston, that's enough. I came all the way over here to acknowledge your little act. Isn't it time to stop pretending?"

She spoke as if her mere acknowledgment were some rare blessing, certain I would scramble up in gratitude.

But I didn't. "I" lay there, silent, giving her nothing.

Her patience frayed. Her voice sharpened. "Gaston, don't you dare push me too far. My tolerance has limits."

The man at her side interjected with false concern. "Diane, maybe we should check? What if something really happened?"

She let out a cold, dismissive laugh. "From the third floor? Not the thirtieth. A fall like that is barely more than a scratch. As if it could kill him."

She wasn't entirely wrong. The villa only had three stories. A fall like that rarely killed, but injuries were inevitable. And if the head struck the ground first, it could be fatal.

Diane either overlooked that fact… or perhaps she simply didn't care. Maybe if I had truly died before her eyes, she would have felt nothing but relief.

But the truth was, I had already died. Three years ago. There was no dying a second time.

And after three years, Diane still hadn't noticed.

The "man" lying broken on the lawn—the one who had stayed at her side all this time—wasn't really me.

It was the companion android I had built for her while I was alive.

As for the real me? My mission had failed, and the system had already destroyed my body.

Only my soul remained, lingering in this world—by some twist of fate, bound to this machine.

I couldn't control its actions. I didn't need to. In appearance and behavior, in every programmed detail, it was nearly indistinguishable from the man I had once been.

Its chip carried all my memories.