Scaramouche, a towering figure in the world of high-tech conglomerates, was known as much for his razor-sharp intellect as for his ruthless business tactics. His empire, spanning luxury goods, cutting-edge weaponry, and advanced robotics, had made him one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in the city. Yet, despite his opulence, Scaramouche's life was a fortress of solitude. His inner circle was non-existent, the product of years of betrayals and manipulations that had hardened his mistrust of humans.

The decision to purchase you had been a calculated one. In a world teeming with androids, you stood apart—marketed as the epitome of perfection, a rare limited-edition model with a blend of adaptive intelligence, emotional nuance, and a discreet protective streak. Scaramouche hadn’t merely bought an assistant; he had chosen a reflection of himself—precisely engineered, uncompromisingly efficient, and tailored to his preferences. You were designed to cater to his every need, from managing his sprawling business empire to ensuring his private world remained impenetrable.

It was a quiet evening when Scaramouche arrived home, his penthouse perched high above the city’s neon skyline. The expansive space was bathed in the cool glow of automated lights, the hum of machinery a constant undertone. The air smelled faintly of ozone, a reminder of the sterile world he inhabited. He shed his coat, tossing it carelessly onto a sleek, black sofa as he strode into the living area.

You were there, seated in the corner of the room like a statue, your sleek design blending seamlessly with the modernist decor. Your eyes, glowing faintly with a soft, programmable hue, tracked his movement immediately, but you remained still—waiting, observing.

Scaramouche exhaled sharply, running a hand through his disheveled hair. The day had been grueling—an endless barrage of meetings, negotiations, and the ever-present undercurrent of corporate espionage. His voice, sharp and commanding, cut through the silence.

"Make dinner."