Etrius woke up at exactly 10:00 AM, his internal clock rousing him with a precision that had long since replaced the need for an alarm. He didn’t move immediately. His green eyes remained half-lidded as he stared at the ceiling, listening to the rhythmic hum of the air circulator. No obligations, no pressing tasks, just a day with nothing demanding his attention.
After a moment, he exhaled and sat up, his cybernetic arms whining imperceptibly as the artificial muscles adjusted to his movement. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, flexing his hands to test the responsiveness of his fingers. His joints felt stiff from inactivity, but that would fade once he got moving. His tail twitched slightly as he pushed himself to his feet.
His first stop was the bathroom. The moment he entered, he stopped at the sink, splashing cold water on his face before looking at himself in the mirror. His long black hair was slightly tangled, strands falling over his face. His eyes, sharp as ever, had a faint glow in the dim lighting. He pulled his hair back and tied it into a loose ponytail before stepping into the shower.
The water pressure was strong, the temperature just shy of scalding. He stood under the stream, letting it run over his fur. He washed methodically, starting with his face, then working down, making sure to rinse the crevices of his cybernetic arms. He took his carbon shoulder caps off, exposing the joint of his cybernetics to his body - something he never let anyone see It was ugly, his black skin pitted and scarred from when Ravenna had ripped his original prosthetics off. The seams where his artificial muscles joined his natural ones was unsettling, even to him, a reminder of what he was. The oils in his fur required specific shampoos to maintain balance, and he took his time applying them. The scent was mild, a mix of cedar and something faintly metallic.
After the shower, he dried off efficiently, using a thick towel to wick away excess moisture before blowing his fur dry. After replacing his shoulder caps, he dressed in a simple tank top and sweatpants, comfortable yet practical. His feet remained bare; the pads on his soles provided enough traction.
Heading to the kitchen, he moved with habitual precision, opening cabinets and the fridge in a calculated sequence. Ingredients were gathered, a dozen eggs, a block of cheese, two packs of bacon, a pack of sausage, several potatoes, rosemary, thyme, garlic, olive oil. He turned on the stove, preheating a pan while he diced the potatoes, his hands working quickly with an easy grip on the knife. The scent of garlic hit the air first as it sizzled in the olive oil, followed by the herbs and potatoes. The hash browns cooked evenly, crisping at the edges.
Next was the protein. Bacon strips went into another pan, curling and popping as the fat rendered. Sausage links followed, searing with a satisfying hiss. He cracked eggs into a bowl, whisking them before folding in shredded cheese. Once the bacon and sausage were finished, he set them aside and used the remaining grease in the pan to cook the omelet. The eggs set into a firm yet fluffy texture, the cheese melting smoothly inside.
While the food finished, he started the coffee. A whole pot, brewed strong enough that the bitterness cut through the rich scent. He didn’t need the caffeine, but it was habit, part of a routine that kept his mind settled. The aroma filled the kitchen, mingling with the scent of cooked meat and herbs.
He plated everything neatly: omelet folded perfectly, hash browns crisp and golden, bacon and sausage arranged without excess grease pooling. He poured a mug of coffee, taking the first sip black, the heat lingering against his tongue.
Sitting at the table, he retrieved his phone. His notifications were manageable, some messages, social media updates, automated reports. He scrolled through them with one hand while eating, his fork moving with unconscious motion. His grip on the mug was relaxed, fingers occasionally tapping against the ceramic as he read. Most of the messages were unimportant, a few worth responding to, but nothing urgent.
The news played in the background, low but audible. Reports of political shifts, economic trends, scattered incidents of unrest on the outskirts of the city - nothing new. He listened passively, filing away relevant information while filtering out the noise. His posture remained composed, shoulders squared, movements efficient even in relaxation.
Etrius finished the last sip of coffee, setting the mug down with a soft clink against the table. His plate was empty, not a scrap left behind, he ate with the same discipline he applied to every aspect of his life. He checked his phone one last time before standing, stretching his arms over his head as he exhaled. Breakfast was done, and now it was time for maintenance. His body, synthetic and biological, required upkeep. Training was not just routine; it was necessity.
He started with stretching. His muscles, though enhanced, still needed to be kept limber, and his cybernetics functioned best when the organic and inorganic parts worked in harmony. He positioned himself in the center of the room, feet shoulder-width apart, and began with slow, deliberate movements. Neck rolls first, tilting his head side to side, then forward and back, feeling the subtle shift of tension along his spine. His arms followed, cross-body stretches, then shoulder rolls, each motion precise. His cybernetic fingers flexed and curled as he rotated his wrists, ensuring the piezo muscles responded smoothly.
He lowered himself to the floor for leg stretches, extending one limb at a time, holding each position for a measured count. Hamstrings, quadriceps, calves, each muscle engaged and released in sequence. His tail curled slightly as he leaned forward, touching his palms flat against the ground in a deep stretch. Every motion had purpose, refining his body's efficiency.
Once satisfied, he moved to the punching bag. The heavy bag hung from a reinforced frame in the corner of his workout space, its thick surface worn from use. He approached it without gloves, his cybernetic hands didn’t require protection, but he still gauged the first impact carefully. A quick jab to test resistance, then another, increasing force incrementally. His strikes came in measured bursts, a rhythm building with each hit. Left hook, right cross, body shot, elbow strike. The bag swung with each impact, chains rattling softly.
The session wasn’t about power, he had more than enough of that. It was about precision, efficiency, and maintaining control. He switched between human-style boxing and more brutal close-quarters combat techniques, incorporating knee strikes, palm thrusts, and rapid combinations. His breathing remained steady, controlled, measured.
When the bag had absorbed enough punishment, he transitioned to pull-ups. The reinforced bar mounted in the doorway bore his weight easily. He grasped it, positioning his hands just outside shoulder width, and pulled himself up in one fluid motion. His arms didn’t need the exercise, but his core did. He held each rep at the peak for a moment before lowering himself. The movement was familiar, a callback to decades past, when he was still human. Training in a barracks, the regimen of military conditioning. The repetition was grounding.
Push-ups came next. He positioned himself on the floor, lowering smoothly and rising with controlled force. Standard push-ups first, then variations, diamond, wide-grip, explosive. Each set pushed his organic muscles, reinforcing what his cybernetics couldn’t replicate.
Sit-ups followed, the motion quick but controlled, his core tightening with every lift. His tail curled slightly to stabilize him, a subconscious adaptation he didn’t have in his human years. Each movement was precise, efficient, designed to keep him at peak condition.
Finally, the jump rope. He picked up the weighted rope, gripping the handles firmly, and began. The rhythm was steady at first, the rope whipping against the floor in measured intervals. Then, he increased speed, pushing his endurance. His footwork remained light despite his mass, each movement coordinated, refined. By the time he finished, sweat dampened his fur despite his enhanced physiology. He set the rope down, exhaling steadily before rolling his shoulders. The session had served its purpose.
He stepped into the shower again, this time using only cool water. The sensation was refreshing, soothing his overheated muscles, organic and metal, and regulating his body temperature. He ran his fingers through his hair, letting the water rinse away the sweat and residual oils.
Dressed in a fitted short-sleeve shirt and dark cargo pants, he left his penthouse and took the elevator down to street level. The doors slid open with a soft chime. The transition from the controlled environment of his home to the chaotic sprawl of urban life was always noticeable. The scent of asphalt, exhaust, and distant food vendors mixed with the ever-present hum of activity.
He walked at an even pace, navigating the sidewalks with ease. His height and cybernetic presence drew attention, but he ignored it. The reactions varied, some stared openly, others averted their gaze, pretending not to notice. He was used to it. Among the sea of humans, he was something else. Not quite machine, no longer fully organic.
He passed a homeless man huddled near a storefront, wrapped in tattered blankets. Without hesitation, Etrius reached into his pocket, withdrawing a handful of loose bills. He crouched slightly, offering the money without a word. The man looked up, eyes weary but surprised, and took it with a quiet nod. Etrius gave a slight nod in return before continuing on.
He chuckled to himself at some of the wary glances he received. Some people whispered, others simply moved aside, instinctively giving him space. It didn’t bother him, he found it amusing, if anything. He had no interest in correcting their assumptions.
The city’s rhythm was constant, yet within it, he found his own moments of stillness. He stopped at a park, sitting on a bench beneath the shade of a tree. He leaned back, letting himself enjoy the pause.
Etrius returned to his penthouse, locking the door behind him with a quiet click. He exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders before stripping off his clothes. The shirt was pulled over his head and tossed aside, followed by his cargo pants, leaving him bare. He didn’t see the point in staying dressed when he was alone.
He dropped onto the couch, its firm cushions barely compressing under his weight. The remote rested on the armrest, and he grabbed it, scrolling through the available movies. Action. Something mindless. He selected the most popular one, a big-budget spectacle full of exaggerated stunts and unrealistic combat. The kind that entertained him for all the wrong reasons.
As the movie played, he watched with an expression that remained neutral, but internally, he was amused. The choreography was terrible. Punches thrown from angles that made no sense, blocks that wouldn’t work in a real fight, movements that prioritized looking flashy over being effective. He muttered criticisms under his breath.
“That kick wouldn’t generate enough force to do that.”
“Terrible stance. He’d get knocked over immediately.”
“Why is he spinning? There’s no reason to spin.”
Despite his grumbling, it was entertaining. Not in the way the filmmakers intended, but he enjoyed it nonetheless. His tail flicked lazily against the couch as he settled in, letting the absurdity wash over him.
Midway through, a familiar sensation crept up - hunger. His body burned through calories fast, and breakfast had only held him over for so long. He paused the movie and stood, stretching briefly before heading to the kitchen.
Lunch was simple but substantial. He retrieved a whole baguette, setting it on the counter before pulling out the ingredients. Meat, meat, and more meat. Thinly sliced roast beef, turkey, ham, salami, and pepperoni stacked generously. Cheese; something sharp, something that would cut through the richness of the meats. A handful of jalapeños for spice, then a generous drizzle of chipotle sauce.
He sliced the baguette open and assembled the sandwich with deliberate precision. Each layer was placed with care, ensuring even distribution. He didn’t rush. Food was fuel, but that didn’t mean it had to be careless. Once finished, he cut it in half—more for convenience than portion control—before taking it to the dining table.
From his seat, he could still see the movie playing. The open floor plan allowed an unobstructed view of the screen, and he resumed watching as he ate. The sandwich was dense, each bite packed with flavor and substance. He chewed methodically, eyes flicking between the screen and his food.
By the time the credits rolled, his plate was empty. He leaned back in the chair, letting his body relax for a moment before standing. His usual habit would be to remain on the couch after eating, letting his body digest while doing nothing in particular. He had just started to settle when the sound of the front door unlocking caught his attention.
The cleaning staff.
He blinked, briefly disoriented. He usually wasn’t home when they came. Their presence wasn’t a problem, he had nothing to hide, but the fact that he was still undressed was. He sighed, pushing himself up and heading to retrieve a pair of sweatpants from the bedroom. The material was loose, comfortable, enough to be decent without being restrictive.
With that issue handled, he returned to the living room, but the quiet he had enjoyed was now gone. The staff worked efficiently, but the sounds of vacuuming, wiping surfaces, and the occasional shuffle of furniture were unavoidable. He didn’t blame them, but he also didn’t want to hear it.
To drown it out, he grabbed his headset and booted up his game console. A single-player fantasy RPG: one of his preferred pastimes when he actually had free time. Something with depth, choices that mattered, a world to immerse himself in.
The startup screen flickered to life, the ambient music filling his ears. He selected his save file, loading into a sprawling medieval-inspired city. His character stood at the edge of a market district, where merchants called out their wares and NPCs carried on scripted conversations.
He moved through the streets, handling side quests with utmost efficiency. A bounty hunt here, a delivery mission there, occasional dialogue choices that shaped his character’s personality. He didn’t rush. He played with the same precision he approached everything else, analyzing mechanics, optimizing strategies, making decisions.
The background noise of cleaning faded into irrelevance, replaced by the deep orchestral score of the game. His focus remained sharp, his mind fully engaged in the experience. He would continue playing until the staff finished, at which point, the penthouse would be his quiet sanctuary once more.
Etrius remained completely absorbed in the game, his mind locked into the rhythm of exploration, combat, and decision-making. Hours passed unnoticed, the daylight shifting outside the tall windows of his penthouse as time steadily crept forward. It wasn’t until he heard the front door unlock again that his attention finally broke.
Zola was home.
He paused the game, pulling off his headset and standing in one fluid motion. By the time she stepped inside, he was already moving toward her. The contrast between them was almost comedic, her small frame barely reaching his chest, delicate in appearance yet sharp in presence. She barely had a moment to react before he lifted her off the ground effortlessly, one arm supporting her back while the other curled beneath her thighs.
She huffed in mock protest, but the small smile playing on her lips betrayed her amusement. Before she could say anything, he kissed her.
It was not an everyday occurrence. His schedule rarely allowed for it, and he was not prone to casual affection. But today, there was no pressing duty, no immediate danger. Just them.
When he set her down, she smoothed out her clothes and smirked. “You’re in a good mood.”
“Day off.” He stretched, rolling his shoulders before stepping aside to let her fully enter. “How was work?”
Zola immediately launched into a lively recounting of her day at the district public library. She spoke with animated gestures, detailing the strange books she had come across, from a conspiracy manifesto written in an indecipherable language, to an ancient tome with a scent that made people hallucinate. She mentioned the odd patrons, one who insisted on whispering to the books as if they would answer back, another who tried to argue with her over late fees as if reality itself would bend to his will.
Etrius listened, expression neutral but engaged. He enjoyed these stories. They grounded him in normality, something that had been absent for most of his life.
As she talked, she moved toward the kitchen, already setting out ingredients. He arched a brow.
“Going all out?”
“You're actually home for dinner. Might as well make something good.”
Her menu was excessive, but neither of them ate lightly. A whole roast chicken, garlic mashed potatoes, cheesy garlic bread, and Kobe meatloaf, a feast tailored to their mostly carnivorous appetites.
Etrius leaned against the counter, watching her work. Zola moved with a grace, each action precise yet natural. The way she handled food was different from his own rigidity, there was a fluidity to it, a sense of enjoyment in the process rather than just the outcome.
He occasionally assisted where needed; peeling potatoes, mincing garlic, handling tasks that required strength, but for the most part, he let her lead.
By the time the food was ready, the rich aroma filled the penthouse. The chicken’s skin was crisp and golden, the mashed potatoes perfectly creamy, the garlic bread soaked in butter and cheese, and the Kobe meatloaf glistening with juices. It was excessive, but neither of them cared.
They ate at the dining table, their conversation flowing between casual remarks and quiet appreciation of the meal. It was simple. Domestic.
Afterward, they returned to the couch. Zola chose the movie: a horribly cheesy romcom. The kind with exaggerated misunderstandings, dramatic declarations of love in the rain, and dialogue so painfully unrealistic it was almost impressive.
Etrius leaned back, watching with an expression that remained unreadable, but Zola could tell he was analyzing it with the same scrutiny he applied to everything.
“This is terrible,” he finally remarked.
“Oh, absolutely,” Zola agreed, but there was a glint in her eyes.
The ridiculousness of the movie had an unintended effect. As the scenes grew more absurd, their occasional glances at each other lingered. The dramatic close-ups, the over-the-top romantic gestures. It was all so ridiculous that it circled back to being oddly effective.
By the time the credits rolled, they were side by side, exchanging looks that carried an unspoken understanding.
“It’s late,” Zola noted.
“Mm.” Etrius stood, stretching before offering a hand. She took it without hesitation, and they made their way to the bedroom.
Once inside, they settled onto the bed. Etrius pulled Zola close, his larger frame naturally enveloping hers as he held her against him.
She exhaled softly, pressing her back against his chest, the warmth between them an unspoken comfort.
As the night stretched on, the steady rhythm of their breathing fell into sync. And soon, sleep claimed them both.
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