Why Was My Life As A Teenage Robot Theme Song Changed?

In the third year after my death, the one who remained faithfully by my wife's side was still the bionic robot I had painstakingly designed. It looked exactly like me and carried within it every detail of my mannerisms, speech, and habits. The only difference was that it never lost its temper with her. Because of that, my wife never sensed anything amiss. Yet each night, she brought home a different man, deliberately testing "me," desperate to see the wild jealousy and rage I once wore so vividly. Then, one day, her childhood sweetheart and first love, shoved "me" off the balcony. It was only then, in her horror, that my wife realized… "I" didn't bleed.

After my husband's death, I long for him so much that it becomes a mental condition. To put me out of my misery, my in-laws order a custom-made robot to be my companion. But I'm only more sorrowed when I see the robot's face—it's exactly like my late husband's. Everything changes when I accidentally unlock the robot's hidden functions. Late at night, 008 kneels before my bed and asks, "Do you need my third form of service, my mistress?"

Seven years ago, I swap my heart with Orion Gifford, the cyborg replica of me that my sister, Mildred Gifford, creates. However, my heart frequently gives him chest pains because of organ rejection. Mildred blames everything on me. She believes I have hidden a preexisting heart condition and have given away a defective human heart in exchange for a mechanical heart worth millions. So, she sues me for fraud and sends me a court summons. But on the day of the hearing, I don't show up. To force me out of hiding, she publicly announces to the media that she is officially taking Orion as her younger brother and leaving all her assets to him. When I still fail to appear, Mildred loses her patience and goes to the workplace address I leave behind. She steps into a sketchy factory and grabs a random worker to ask, "Do you know Zachary Gifford?" My factory supervisor, Greg Mathews, stares at her in shock and says, "Zachary? He died three years ago from sudden cardiac arrest. It was awful! His body got pulled into one of the machines. There was basically nothing left of him."

I was in the office bathroom stall when I heard them trash-talking me. The intern I'd trained for three months whined, "She's a heartless witch—like a robot with zero brain cells." I was about to swing the door open when another voice jumped in, laughing. "Documents incomplete." "Receipts don't match." "No signature? Denied." "Seriously, we've all memorized the freaking rulebot's script!" Once they were gone, I headed back to my desk. The intern stormed in and slammed a fat stack of reimbursement forms in front of me. "Don't go on another power trip and block everyone's claims." I skimmed the obviously fake receipts. Normally, I'd tear into her. But this time, I just smiled. "My head's killing me. Can't read the fine print."

On the eve of the National Robotics Championship, I smashed my carefully designed bot to pieces and announced my withdrawal. Everyone said I was a fraud who was quitting out of fear of being exposed. Online, the netizens mocked me relentlessly. Only one person, Adrian Cross, the so-called genius of the century, spoke up in my defense, his voice dripping with false sincerity, "I believe in River Lowell’s skills. Only he deserves to be my opponent. No matter what setbacks he’s facing, I hope he comes back to the arena and proves himself." In my previous life, the robot I built was identical to his. No matter how I tried to prove he had copied me, Adrian stood before the cameras, wearing his benevolent mask, and said, "It’s fine. This robot can go to River. I can always build something even better." His fans swarmed me, tearing me apart online, and no one believed in my talent. I swallowed the humiliation and vowed to rebuild my robot from scratch. However, when I was assembling it, the Power Core in my kit exploded, shattering my skull. That same night, I was rushed into the ICU. Netizens clapped and cheered, saying I got exactly what I deserved. That night, my girlfriend, Lila Hart, signed the hospital’s DNR consent form without hesitation. Until the day I died, I never understood how Adrian had gotten my robot’s data or why Lila had joined forces with him. When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the very day of the competition.

My roommate brought back an old music box, saying she had picked it up at a flea market. I told her not to keep it. It was too old. Who knew where it had come from or how many hands it had passed through. But the moment the music box was opened, and the melody began to play, a chill ran down my spine. The next day, a girl from the dorm next door jumped off the building. A week later, a child from a nearby orphanage died the same way. When the police came to investigate, my roommate quietly hid the music box. It wasn’t until I found myself standing on the rooftop that I realized none of this was an accident. When I opened my eyes again, I was back to the day she brought the music box home. This time, I was going to make sure she listened to it.