Mikal lowered the gun, chest heaving as he stared at the crumpled robot. Its lifeless form lay sprawled on the polished floor, sparking occasionally, but for the moment, it was no longer a threat. He turned and stalked into the kitchen, bare feet thudding against the sleek imported tiles his mother ,Eve, had insisted on. She’d curated this space obsessively—“A kitchen worthy of a chef,” she’d said, hoping her “precious twenty-eight-year-old” would follow in his uncle Franco’s culinary footsteps.

  But Mikal didn’t cook. He thrived on takeaways and chaos.

  Yanking open drawer after drawer, he rummaged through the immaculate setup, cursing under his breath. Finally, his hand closed around something solid—a wooden rolling pin. He hefted it, testing the weight. It was pristine, unused since it was bought. But now, in Mikal’s hands, it became something else entirely.

  From the bedroom came the sound of servos grinding. He froze, head snapping toward the noise. The robot wasn’t done. It was dragging itself forward, one sparking claw scraping across the floor, the rest of its body a mangled wreck. Smoke coiled from its circuits, and its damaged lens blinked erratically.

  Someone was still guiding it. Someone, somewhere, still playing.

  Miles away, Adam leaned back in his chair, a smirk spreading across his face. The joystick twitched in his hand as he nudged the crippled bot forward. One arm was enough. He took a sip from a bottle, the alcohol buzzing pleasantly in his veins as he watched Mikal approach, the rolling pin clenched like a medieval club.

  Adam chuckled at the absurdity of it all.

  Mikal wasn’t laughing. Fury surged through him. He crossed the room in two strides, flipped the robot onto its back, and raised the rolling pin. Sparks erupted as he brought it down, metal and plastic skittering across the tiles.

  “You think you can break into my home?!” he roared. “You think you can mess with me?!”

  Each blow landed harder than the last. The robot’s lens cracked, its feed blurring.

  Adam leaned closer to his screen, grinning.

  “Go on, keep hitting. Your expensive toy.”

  Another strike. Then another.

  “Hope your momma can afford a new one, tough guy,” Adam drawled, finishing off his drink and dropping the bottle among the others scattered around his workstation. His bladder screamed, but he wasn’t leaving—not while the show was this good.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  He grabbed a waste bin, unzipped, and relieved himself without removing the headset. The sound echoed faintly through his mic.

  On the other end, Mikal froze mid-swing, brow furrowing.

  “Are you—are you pissing?!” he shouted, incredulous.

  Adam zipped up. “Sorry about that. Where were we?”

  “Who are you?!” Mikal snarled. “I swear, I’ll find you. I’ll—”

  A low whir cut through the tension. Mikal hadn’t noticed the second robot—Seb’s—slipping into the room. Adam had sent it earlier, just in case. The realization hit a heartbeat too late.

  A metal foot crashed into Mikal’s face, sending him sprawling.

  The second blow—a calculated punch from a steel fist—snapped his consciousness. Blood pooled beneath his limp body as the robot loomed over him, its lens flickering coldly.

  Mikal was dead.

  Adam stared at the feed, momentarily stunned. He hadn’t planned this. He should have been panicking. Instead, he scoffed and reached for another bottle.

  “Well... that’s awkward.”

  Sparks danced in the dim room as the robot stood over Mikal’s body. Somewhere deep in Adam’s mind, a voice screamed to shut everything down. But the drunk, reckless version of himself—the one grinning now—was in control.

  He leaned toward the joystick.

  “Guess we’re in it now.”

  He didn’t dwell. Killing Mikal hadn’t been the plan. In fact, there hadn’t been much of a plan—just an impulsive act, fuelled by too much lager and a dangerous curiosity about what the bot could do.

  Sober Adam would’ve been horrified.

  He would have tested the robot’s capabilities with precision, inch by inch, documenting responses, calculating limits. He wouldn’t have said a word.

  He would’ve broken Mikal’s hand. Just one. A clean break. A taste of his own medicine.

  And he would have stopped there.

  Sober Adam wouldn’t have lost control. He wouldn’t have delivered the final, bone-crushing blow—the one that caved in Mikal’s skull and turned a calculated warning into a killing.

  But this wasn’t sober Adam.

  This was six-beers-deep Adam, bloated with confidence and stripped of caution.

  He staggered out of the lab, air thick with stale booze and piss. Empty bottles littered the workstation. The bin beside his desk sloshed faintly as he brushed past it.

  He stumbled into the elevator and pressed the button with a trembling finger. As it descended, he leaned against the cold steel, stomach lurching.

  When the doors slid open, he was met by Alice—a fresh-faced, twenty-three-year-old office manager. Her figure-hugging dress and morning poise contrasted sharply with his dishevelled state.

  “Been here all night, Adam?” she asked, polite but visibly recoiling at the smell of alcohol radiating off him.

  Adam blinked, bloodshot eyes barely focusing.

  “All night,” he slurred. Then grinned. “Nice breasts.”

  Alice’s smile vanished, her expression hardening. Adam brushed past her, swaying slightly as he stumbled into the noise and bustle of New York.

  The city was waking. So was reality.

  But Adam, still drunk and untethered, didn’t feel it yet.

  He raised a hand to hail a cab, oblivious to the consequences of what he’d done… and the storm that Mikal’s father was about to unleash.

  For now, he was Mr. Hyde.

  But Dr. Jekyll was sobering up—fast.