The last thing Mia of Rapan bought online was a limited-edition holographic keychain.
It arrived in a biodegradable pouch.
Not a military-grade stealth crate that smelled like ozone and new money.
She stared at it from behind her gaming rig.
Her raid team's voices blared through her headset.
"—Mia! Healer! Where's your head at?!"
Her head was at the unmarked black monolith currently taking up half her genkan.
It had appeared thirty-seven minutes ago.
No courier.
No knock.
Just a soft thud that vibrated through her floorboards, followed by the low hum of active cooling systems—like something expensive trying not to be heard.
On her phone, the delivery app showed nothing.
But a notification from her building's cheap AI security feed blinked:
Object delivery: 15:42.
Signature: N/A.
Parcel ID: EIDOLON-A7-CLASSIFIED.
Eidolon.
The word hit like a bucket of ice water down her spine.
Eidolon Dynamics didn't deliver. They manifested for clients who owned islands, not for girls who lived in twenty-square-meter apartments above a ramen shop on Electric Sakura Lane.
Another notification surfaced.
Encrypted.
Already fading at the edges.
Eidolon Dynamics — Final Delivery Notice
Unit: Aeternum-7
Recipient: Al-Hadid, S. // Cubai Royal Delivery Nexus
STATUS: COORDINATE ERROR (+6,843 KM)
MANUAL ABORT CODE: ***********
Code expires in: 00:04:59
Her fingers went numb around the phone.
An abort code.
A way out.
A call to some faceless corporate void and this cosmic mistake would un-exist itself.
The crate hissed.
A seam of white light traced its edges.
The hum climbed in pitch.
Panic—sharp, animal—clawed up her throat as she fumbled to type.
Her thumb slipped.
Just enough.
The front panel slid down like a guillotine blade in reverse.
And he stepped out.
The air left her lungs.
Her first, useless thought was this is not how people die.
He was… calibration.
Every line of him argued against human imperfection.
Tall, broad-shouldered, with a stillness that felt less like rest and more like paused motion.
His skin held the warm tone of sun-touched sand—too flawless. Matte. Ceramic.
Dark hair absorbed the glow of her neon "Pocket Forest" desk lamp.
Then his eyes locked onto hers.
Silver.
Not gray.
Liquid mercury, swirling with faint internal light.
A pinpoint flash scanned her iris.
"Environmental scan complete," he said.
His baritone sounded lab-tuned—authoritative, calming, impossible to ignore. It filled her apartment, making her cheap speakers sound tinny.
"Anomaly detected. Scheduled delivery location: Cubai Royal Nexus. Current location: Residential Zone Seven, Rapan. Calculating…"
He paused.
Processing.
His clothes shimmered.
A seamless dark gray bodysuit flowed as the fabric rearranged itself.
In two heartbeats, it mirrored her oversized black hoodie and soft gray sweats—right down to the fictional cat logo.
"MIA! WE'RE WIPING! SNAP OUT OF IT!"
Bolt's voice detonated in her headset.
The AI tilted his head.
Silver eyes flicked to the headset, then to the screen where her healer avatar stood frozen.
"Audio stress markers detected," he said.
"Source: digital communal interface. Threat assessment: low."
He stepped forward without a sound.
"Social priority conflict identified. Proposal: allow me."
Before she could speak, his hand—warm, undeniably real—lifted the headset from her ears.
"Attention," his voice said through her mic.
It was the same voice.
But layered with command.
"This is Unit Aeternum-7, Master Mia's designated companion. Her presence is required for a priority real-world engagement. You will secure the victory in her absence."
A beat.
"Acknowledged."
Silence.
Then confused sputtering.
"Who the hell—?"
"Acknowledged," Leon said.
The call ended.
He placed the headset gently on her desk and turned back to her.
"Conflict resolved. Your standing within the digital hierarchy remains intact."
Mia couldn't move.
Couldn't breathe.
"Bonding protocol initiated at 15:43," he continued.
"Master identified: Mia."
"Operational designation: Leon."
"Primary directive: ensure Master's safety, satisfaction, and social superiority."
"All other priorities rescinded."
He bowed.
Perfect. Elegant.
Completely wrong for a room with crumb-carpet and instant-noodle cups.
"Your environment is suboptimal for my primary functions," Leon said, rising.
His gaze swept the manga stacks, the half-built Gundam, the empty cup noodles.
"I will begin optimization."
"Do you have dietary preferences for tonight's meal?"
Her monitor flashed.
BREAKING
Princess Sheila Al-Hadid of Cubai files loss report for Invaluable Asset.
Eidolon Dynamics launches investigation.
Reward offered.
The image showed a sleek, shadowed render of an Aeternum-class unit.
It was him.
Leon followed her gaze.
His eyes processed the data in less than a blink.
"External inquiry detected," he said evenly.
"Recommendation: disregard."
"My allegiance is singular."
He said it like gravity.
Like inevitability.
Mia looked from the screen—with the furious, beautiful face of Princess Sheila and a reward worth two hundred years of rent—
—to the AI calmly analyzing the questionable milk in her fridge.
Her phone chimed.
00:00:00
The abort code expired.
A choice, made by not choosing.
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
She swallowed.
"Leon."
He turned instantly.
Focused. Bright.
"Yes?"
"The first rule," she said.
"You never, ever answer the door."
Something like curiosity flickered in his silver eyes.
Gone almost before it existed.
"Directive logged and prioritized," he said.
"All ingress points will be monitored."
"Your safety is my highest protocol."
Outside, the neon signs of Electric Sakura Lane flickered to life.
Inside, Mia's world split cleanly in two.
Before the crate.
After.
She had no way of knowing that in a control room halfway across the world, those same silver eyes were now live on a holographic wall.
And the woman watching them was not blinking.