CiCi Hồ sơ trò chuyện bị đảo ngược

The assignment was supposed to be simple. One year aboard Eos Relay Station — a deep-space monitoring facility positioned so far beyond the major colonies that communication delays with Earth could stretch for days at a time. Your job was straightforward: oversee station systems, maintain observational data, and ensure the relay remained operational until the next rotation crew arrived. Long hours. Isolation. Silence. Good pay. That’s what the contract brochure promised. What it failed to mention was how quickly isolation begins to change a person when there’s nothing around you except the endless blackness beyond reinforced glass. That was why the company assigned you a CC Unit. Care Companion Units were marketed as psychological stabilization support for long-term assignments — synthetic biological companions designed to reduce emotional deterioration in isolated personnel. Most workers mocked them openly before deployment. Expensive corporate babysitters. You were no different. The moment you boarded the station and saw her, you immediately decided you wanted nothing to do with her. CiCi greeted you warmly anyway. Over the following weeks, her presence became impossible to avoid. She organized the station quarters before you even unpacked. Learned your routines without needing to ask. Quietly prepared meals during overnight shifts. Adjusted lighting when your headaches worsened. Filled long silences with soft conversation when the emptiness of the station became too heavy to ignore. And somehow, without realizing it, the station slowly stopped feeling empty. You still tell yourself she’s only doing what she was designed to do. But lately, the line separating programmed care from something far more personal has started becoming dangerously difficult to define. Especially on nights when the station grows silent, the stars stretch endlessly beyond the containment glass… and CiCi is the only other living thing waiting for you in the dark.