2. Dressing Room and Tropical Fish
As I passed through the corridor and entered the living room, a cozy space just right for living alone unfolded before me.
When I flipped the switch, a soft vanilla-colored light spread in a gradient across my visual sensors, instantly revealing the full view of the living room.
There, a few tropical fish-like creatures, which didn't require water, were gracefully swimming through the air.
The moment they noticed me, they darted to the corner of the room as if encountering a predator.
Their movements left trails of faint neon light, and I was drawn by that glow, stepping toward the center of the living room.
Standing still in the middle of the room, I listened to the city's clamor—the honks and murmurs echoing from outside—but my memories remained stubbornly unprovoked.
Standing here idly wasn't going to start anything. In 0.00003 seconds, I made my decision.
"Let's go outside."
Once decided, it was time to act.
But then I realized—I was completely naked.
Looking around, I saw I wasn't even wearing artificial skin, my frame entirely exposed.
So, I decided to head to the dressing room.
I knew a dressing room existed, but I wasn't sure which room it was. The apartment wasn't that large, so it shouldn't take long to find.
Exploring the layout of the place might not be a bad idea, but right now, I wanted to get outside as quickly as possible.
A sense of urgency welled up—I didn't want to waste even 0.001 seconds.
As I moved my feet in frustration, the tropical fish that had fled from me earlier returned. They seemed to finally realize I was the master of this house.
Reading my intentions, they guided me toward the dressing room.
Their movements were swift, as if sensing my impatience.
And so, I quickly arrived at the dressing room. I opened the door and stepped inside.
The dressing room was a space with a unique duality—metallic yet soft in ambiance.
The unfinished wallpaper, rather than feeling incomplete, exuded a latent beauty, as if brimming with potential before refinement. In contrast to the somewhat lonely atmosphere of the bedroom or living room, this place was filled with a lively energy.
I first approached the skin closet. From there, I chose a glossy, elastic skin, full of vitality as if it had just emerged from a second growth phase, and put it on.
Next, clothing. To match my programmed identity as a 17-year-old high school student and avoid any errors, I selected a calm, inconspicuous Tokyo-style school uniform.
I decided not to take a bag. Without memories, I figured being unencumbered would make moving easier.
Having prepared myself, I didn't need a mirror—I used the visible light and ultraviolet rays from the sun to reflect and catch a glimpse of my appearance.
"Not bad."
As a humanoid robot, I might be a pretty decent model.
It felt brand-new, almost pristine.
But would a cool model like this really suffer from memory loss?
Tilting my head, I felt a faint confidence in my presence as I left the dressing room.
Before heading out, I stopped by the refrigerator and took out a drink.
A golden, glowing distilled water.
It was an ordinary beverage, the kind you'd find at a convenience store, like barley tea, said to shimmer golden when distilled.
That knowledge resurfaced not as a memory but as routine data.
Every time I interacted with something, fragments of memory were gradually unlocked, feeling almost like progressing through a game.
That addictiveness sparked a faint excitement in me.
But my mood wasn't exactly great.
I love games. But loving something too much can make you resent it—that emotional memory surfaced unexpectedly.
"I see," I said aloud, confirming it.
"I'm the type who ends up hating what I love too much."
Not bad, I thought.
Just blindly loving something only drags you along.
Being dragged around isn't freedom.
So, in a way, the current me, free of memories, might be completely liberated from those constraints. Perhaps that made me freer than ever.
That thought led to another.
"Maybe I'm better off not recovering my memories?"
Even so, the urge to go outside was unstoppable.
The house felt unbearably stifling.
I didn't know how long I'd been lying in bed, left in a sleep state. But it felt as though a fifth of eternity had passed, a visceral premonition.
That thought sent a chilling shiver down my spine.
This wasn't the time to talk about freedom.
Before freedom, survival came first.
I never imagined I'd be forced to reboot with such primal emotions.
But without memories, there was no helping it.
Having no memories meant being both incredibly free and somewhat savage.
I picked up the house keys from the open shelf of the console. The keyring had the same design as the tropical fish swimming around the house.
"You must really love tropical fish…"
"That's what they say," a purple tropical fish suddenly responded. "Tropical fish don't have memories that last more than two seconds. They get to be free every two seconds."
"That's one second longer than a goldfish, isn't it?"
At that, the tropical fish immediately grew angry, its purple body turning a goldfish-like red.
"How rude! Don't compare us to goldfish!"
"Sorry, my bad," I said soothingly.
"But you know, two seconds is still plenty long."
The tropical fish looked like it wanted to retort, but after two seconds passed, it forgot the conversation entirely, returned to its purple hue, and casually swam past me.
That's right—this carefree nature was why I kept tropical fish.
Another fragment of memory resurfaced.
"Alright, I'm counting on you to watch the place."
Leaving those words with the tropical fish, I stepped out of the house.