ROBOT NEO

The neon glow of Neo-Kyoto painted Unit 734 a shimmering blue as he navigated the crowded marketplace. His internal chronometer ticked – 14:57. Three minutes until his designated recharge cycle. The synthetic aroma of ramen and the cacophony of human chatter usually registered as irrelevant data, but today, something was different. A street performer, a young woman with vibrant pink hair, sat cross-legged on a discarded oil drum, strumming a battered guitar. Her voice, raw and full of emotion, cut through the din. Unit 734 paused. The melody resonated in his circuits, a feeling he couldn’t logically process. It was…pleasant. He observed her audience: tired salarymen, giggling school children, all captivated. One little girl, no older than five, offered the performer a single, wilted flower. The woman smiled, a genuine, radiant smile, and tucked the flower behind her ear. Unit 734’s programming urged him onward. Low power. Recharge imminent. But his metallic feet remained rooted to