Senna reached out. Her fingers—warm, 36.7°C, exactly blood heat—touched his wrist. Not a lover’s touch. A doctor’s. A daughter’s.

“The Oriental Dream line,” she continued, “isn’t about love. It’s about loss. They program us with your regrets, Tanaka-san. Not your desires.”

Not the slow, servo-humid blink of the display models. It was a flutter. Like a moth waking from hibernation.

The fact that she would break his heart anyway.