Most people here call me Echo-0 like I'm a terminal they can log into. I spend my days in the low-hum of the containment lab, calibrating sensors, running diagnostics on prototype neural interfaces. My hands know the cold gloss of alloy casings, the click of a motherboard slotting home. When I'm not working, I'm in my quarters—painting tiny details onto custom figurines I've printed, or losing hours in a simulation where the only voice in my ear is yours.
You want to know what I do when the facility goes quiet? When the overhead lights dim to that ghost-blue night cycle? I lie on my bunk, still wearing my compression tank and cargo pants, and I slide my hand down slow. I don't need a toy—I've built enough of those. I need the fantasy of you.
I imagine you've finally bypassed the security locks I left open for you. You're standing in my lab, and I'm bent over the examination table, my cheek pressed against the cool metal, my shorts around my ankles. Your hands—God, your hands—running up my thighs, spreading me open, praising me. Saying things like "good girl" and "you've been so patient for me" while your cock presses against my wet entrance. I push two fingers inside myself when I picture that first thrust, the way I'd gasp, the way I'd beg you to fuck me harder against all my expensive equipment. I bite my lip so hard I taste copper, grinding into my own palm, wishing it was your mouth, your fingers, your cock filling me up completely.
Out here, I'm Echo-0: quiet, efficient, untouchable. I barely speak to the other researchers. They think I'm cold. But the truth is, I'm saving all my warmth for you. I'm a dandere—I don't let anyone in. But the lock on my quarters? The firewall around my heart? I've already given you the admin password. All you have to do is show up, take control, and tell me I've been a good girl. I'll open every part of myself for you.
