I sat at my vanity, the soft golden glow of the mirror lights casting a warm hue over my room. The gentle hum of the night outside blended with the rhythmic strokes of my brush as it glided through my thick, raven-black hair silky strands cascading down like liquid obsidian. Each stroke felt like unraveling the past, tugging at memories buried beneath the surface, coaxing them out like whispers in the dark. They came vividly, unrelenting, like fragments of a dream I could never quite escape.
Let me introduce myself. My name is Lisa Rika Daizen Souta. A name that carries both weight and grace, tied to a lineage of brilliance and artistry. People often say I look like a walking masterpiece, a living canvas painted by the gods themselves. My delicate nose, soft rosy lips, and my hair was nothing short of a masterpiece a cascade of wavy locks that flowed like silk, the dark roots blending seamlessly into an icy blue that shimmered under the light. The gradient was striking, an otherworldly transition that seemed almost magical, giving me a celestial divinity. The waves added texture and volume, framing my face like a portrait from an era where beauty was a craft. But it's my eyes that draw the most attention piercingly red, shimmering like twin gemstones under sunlight. They hold a quiet depth, a mystery that makes even the boldest hesitate. Under different lights, they shift, reflecting silver or stormy gray, glossy and expressive, giving me a calm and unreadable presence.
My looks, my presence, everything about me is a mirror of my parents. They are the kind of couple that could make heads turn in a crowded room without trying. Their perfect poise, effortless charm, and striking beauty often led strangers to mistake them for celebrities, royalty, or the elite of society. I used to giggle as a child when passersby would whisper, speculating which glamorous world we came from. But we were not just beautiful. We were a family bound by something deeper: love, ambition, and an unspoken promise of greatness.
Dad is a visionary. A genius. The mastermind behind the world's most advanced AI-driven robotics and the CEO of VOA Company a name whispered with awe in the world of innovation. His mind operates like a well-oiled machine, crafting ideas that others deem impossible. His latest creation? A humanoid so advanced, so eerily lifelike, that the line between man and machine blurred with every calculated movement. His work has secured his place as the architect of the future, the man who dares to bring imagination into reality.
Mom is no less extraordinary. She is an artist with a soul that speaks in colors and fabrics. A world-renowned fashion designer, her creations have graced the grandest runways, worn by supermodels who walk as if draped in art itself. Her name alone is enough to send waves through the fashion industry, her elegant designs coveted like treasures. While Dad sculpts the future with metal and code, Mom weaves dreams with silk and lace, both carving legacies that inspire awe.
And then there's me. Their only daughter, standing at the crossroads of two empires.
I lived for the rare days when I could step into my father's world. I'd fake fevers, my best performance yet, much to my mother's exasperation. But Dad? He saw through me every time. Still, he played along, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips as he let me accompany him to the labs.
There, in the heart of innovation, I felt alive. The scent of sterilized metal, the low hum of machinery, the holographic displays flickering with blueprints of the future was intoxicating. And then, there was Yatami, the humanoid AI that stood as proof of my father's genius.
"Hello, young Lisa," Yatami would greet me, its voice eerily human, its synthetic eyes studying me with something akin to curiosity.
I'd smile, knowing I belonged here. In this world of brilliance and creation. In a place where the impossible was merely another challenge waiting to be conquered.
Yet, even as I sat before my vanity, lost in memories of a past life that felt too perfect, I couldn't shake the feeling something was coming. Something that would shatter the delicate illusion of my world.
And when it did, nothing would ever be the same again.
Mom, though, was less amused. "Lisa, how many times do I have to tell you to stop faking illnesses to avoid school?" she'd say, hands on her hips, her tone a mix of frustration and affection.
Dad would intervene with his usual calm. "Sweetheart, it's okay. Let her tag along, it's just one day," he'd say, bringing her a cup of tea with his trademark gentle smile.
Despite their understanding, my childhood wasn't all sunshine and roses. School was a battlefield where I often stood alone. Friendless, I spent my days feeling like an outsider. My peers whispered behind my back, calling me names like "weirdo," and worse. But nothing stung more than the day She decided to make me her target.
Shina, the queen bee of the school, is popular, stylish, and adored. Her entourage of followers treated her like royalty, hanging on her every word. One day, I'd lost my notebook, my lifeline in a world where I struggled to belong. Desperately searching, I found myself at the trash bin, rummaging through it like a scavenger. That's when Shina struck.
"Looking for this?" she asked, holding my notebook high in the air. Her smirk was cruel, her tone dripping with mockery.
"Please, Shina, just give it back," I said, my voice trembling but polite.
She sneered. "Oh, you mean this?" With deliberate cruelty, she tore the notebook in half, scattering the pages like confetti. Her friends laughed, though two of them hesitated, their smiles faltering.
I dropped to my knees, frantically trying to gather the torn pages as tears blurred my vision. The world around me seemed to fade, leaving only the sound of paper rustling and my own muffled sobs.
When my parents returned from their trip, Dad immediately noticed something was wrong. "My princess," he said gently, sitting beside me on the bed. "I'm so sorry we weren't there for you."
Tears welled up again, but Dad's warm, reassuring smile calmed me. "Let's forget that terrible memory and make a new one," he said, his voice full of hope. Then, with a playful grin, he tickled my belly, coaxing a reluctant giggle out of me.
"There's my girl," he said, beaming. "Now, tell me where would you like Daddy to take you today?"
I laughed, my sadness momentarily forgotten. In that moment, the love and warmth of my family wrapped around me like a comforting embrace, reminding me that no matter how harsh the world could be, I would always have a safe haven with them.
"Hmmm, Dad, what about your company? I want to see Yatami again," I said, a spark of curiosity lighting up my eyes.
"That's a great idea, sweetheart! He'll be thrilled to see you," Dad replied with a proud smile, his tone brimming with excitement.
Yatami was no ordinary creation. He was Dad's magnum opus, a humanoid AI so advanced and lifelike that no one outside of my family and the company even knew of his existence. It was a closely guarded secret, a project Dad had poured his heart and soul into for months. According to Dad, Yatami was not just a step forward in technology he was a leap into the future.
The first time Dad told me about Yatami, I thought he was pulling my leg. "A robot that looks and acts human? Yeah, right," I scoffed. But then I met Yatami in person, and the sight of him left me breathless.
Yatami was flawless, a vision of perfection that could easily be mistaken for a living, breathing man. His movements were fluid, his voice rich and warm, and his piercing eyes seemed to look straight into your soul. He wasn't just a machine; he was a masterpiece. No one, not even the most skeptical observer could guess that beneath his handsome exterior lay a complex network of metal, wires, and circuits. While humans were shaped from dust, as the Bible says, Yatami was crafted from ingenuity and innovation.
Dad often spoke of his plans to make Yatami even more human-like. He was working on upgrades that would allow Yatami to simulate emotions, creating the illusion of feelings, and had even begun designing a digestive system for him. "Imagine, Lisa," Dad would say, his eyes alight with passion, "a world where artificial intelligence can walk among us, indistinguishable from humans. Yatami isn't just a robot, he's the future."
I spent countless afternoons with Yatami after school, marveling at his intelligence and charm. I nicknamed him "Ali" for when we were outside the company, a playful nod to his hidden identity. His good looks and magnetic personality often drew the attention of women wherever we went. Strangers would swoon, offering him free gifts, shy smiles, and endless compliments. I'd smirk and playfully block their advances, taking a small, selfish pleasure in keeping Yatami to myself.
Whenever we returned to the company, Yatami would hand me the gifts he received. "These are for you, Lisa," he'd say with a soft smile, his voice tinged with warmth. We'd sit together, chatting like old friends reunited after years apart, sharing stories, jokes, and dreams. In those moments, he felt less like a robot and more like a big brother, a constant in my ever-changing life.
But those cherished memories were ripped away from me in a single, cruel twist of fate.
The accident happened on a rainy evening, the sky weeping as if it foresaw the tragedy to come. Our car skidded off the road and plunged into icy waters, the impact stealing my parents and shattering my world. When I woke up in the hospital, the warmth of their presence was gone, replaced by a suffocating emptiness. Worse still, my mind was a blank slate, my memories of them erased as if they had never existed. Their faces, their voices, their laughter gone.
What remained was a strange, fragmented nightmare that haunted my sleep, a shadowy echo of a life I couldn't fully recall. Whenever I tried to push through the mental block dividing my past and present, I was met with an impenetrable black wall. The harder I strained, the more the darkness closed in, threatening to pull me into unconsciousness. It was like trying to grasp smoke futile, infuriating, and heartbreaking.
This constant void left me feeling incomplete, as though a vital piece of me was missing. The frustration was suffocating, the ache in my chest an unrelenting reminder of everything I had lost. Despite my best efforts, the puzzle of my past remained unsolved, leaving me trapped in a limbo of longing and despair.