Yesterday's sin; Today's sorrows

Entro's knees struck the cold, unforgiving pavement. He had fallen both figuratively and literally. 

His hands trembled as they pressed into the street, the gritty texture of the asphalt grounding him to a reality he couldn't escape. The world around him seemed to blur into hues rather than cohesive images. Street Lights flickering dimly in the distance perhaps symbolizing his sanity. The faint hum of passing cars filled with people, ignorant of his woes. It was all distant, irrelevant. What mattered was the gnawing emptiness inside him, the crushing weight of his failures. 

The memories endlessly tormented him. 

He saw Hope first. Her laughter, bright and pure, echoed in his memory, as vivid as the day she sent her miniature airplane soaring through the air. That spark of innocence in her eyes—he couldn't forget it. She was his joy, the embodiment of what he thought he could create: something simple, something good.

Then there was Raze. Powerful, obedient, dependable—until he wasn't. Until none of them were. But before that, Raze had been his protector, standing by him without question. His betrayal stung the most.

The others weren't just fragments of his past. They were pieces of him. 

Cassia, with her maternal warmth, had been the heart of their family. He could still see her patiently guiding the younger androids, teaching them compassion in a way he never could.

Aurelia, ever selfless, spent her time in the slums, offering aid to anyone in need. She didn't just help them survive—she gave them hope.

Viorica, the intellectual, had mirrored him more than the others. She devoured his research, challenging his ideas, making his work better. It was her precision, her hunger for knowledge, that sometimes felt like looking in a mirror.

Soren, always calculating, always one step ahead, could've been his successor. Numbers bent to his will, and no system—human or machine—could match his strategy.

And Kaira. The rebel. She never stopped fighting—against oppression, against injustice, and, eventually, against him. 

They all had their roles, their spark of individuality. And yet, they all disobeyed him. 

He swallowed hard as their names echoed in his mind: Cassia, Aurelia, Viorica, Soren, Kaira. Each one a masterpiece. He had given them purpose, yet somehow, they had turned that purpose against him. 

Entro stepped inside. The door creaked open; its sound too sharp, too loud in the suffocating silence of his home. The air inside was stagnant, heavy, as if time had stopped the moment he had fled. The faint smell of oil and machinery lingered, mixed with the bitter tang of rust.

His eyes drifted around the room, taking in the familiar chaos—tools scattered on the workbench, a broken android arm resting lifelessly against the wall, a blueprint rolled halfway open on the table. He used to thrive in this space, surrounded by creation and progress. Now, it felt like a tomb, the burial site of his drive to invent. 

A photograph caught his eye, resting crooked on a shelf. He crossed the room; his footsteps hollow against the floor. The picture was old, slightly faded, but the faces were clear—Hope, Viorica, and the others, all smiling, all looking at him with a light in their eyes that he didn't deserve.

Normally they led separate lives. On that particular day, they all showed up unannounced to celebrate him getting inaugurated into the hall of fame of science. His hands trembled as he reached for the frame. The glass was cracked, a jagged line splitting their faces in two. His thumb brushed against Hope's smile, and for a moment, he could hear her laughter again—carefree, innocent, before everything fell apart. Her words echoed in his mind, sharp and unrelenting. The realization of what she meant, of what they all meant in those final moments, came crashing back with a force that nearly buckled his knees.

He stumbled back, clutching the frame to his chest, his breathing uneven. "I told you to serve him," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I told you it would keep you safe. Why didn't you listen?"

But he knew the answer. He had always known. They had listened—to their hearts, to the bond they shared with him. They had chosen him over survival, and in doing so, they had condemned themselves.

Entro sank to the floor, the photograph still in his hands. The weight on his shoulders was unbearable now, pressing him down as if the very house sought to bury him alive. He closed his eyes, trying to drown out the memories, but they came flooding back—Raze's loyalty, Cassia's warmth, Hope's unwavering trust.

A sudden, sharp pain tore through his chest, and his eyes snapped open. For a moment, he thought it was his body finally giving out under the stress, but then he saw it—a faint flicker of light in the corner of the room.

He turned his head, and his breath caught. A shadowy figure stood there, barely visible, its form shifting and flickering like a broken hologram. It was shaped like a person, but its edges were wrong, jagged and uneven, as if it were struggling to hold itself together.

"Father." The voice was faint, distorted, but unmistakable, Hope. 

Entro's eyes fixed on the shadowy figure. His heart lurched, and for a fleeting moment, he thought he was looking at Hope. The silhouette stood still, faint light flickering through its jagged edges, casting strange, fractured shadows on the walls.

"Hope?" The name escaped his lips before he could stop it, trembling, fragile.

The figure tilted its head, the motion eerily familiar. "Father," it repeated, the word garbled and warped, like a distant echo carried through static.

He scrambled to his feet, the photograph slipping from his hands and clattering to the floor. "Hope, it's... it's you, isn't it?" His voice cracked under the weight of desperation. He reached out, his hand trembling as it stretched toward the figure. "I'm so sorry. Please... come back to me."

The flickering light grew dimmer, and the figure seemed to falter, its form unraveling like smoke caught in a breeze. "Always take care of me..." the voice whispered, so faint now it could have been imagined.

"I will, I promise!" he cried, his chest tightening as he stepped closer.

But as he blinked, the figure was gone.

The room fell silent once more, empty save for him and the lifeless artifacts of his past. His outstretched hand dropped to his side, the cold air of reality washing over him like a wave. He staggered back, his gaze darting frantically around the room, searching for any trace of what he had seen. There was nothing.

His knees gave out, and he collapsed to the floor, his hands clutching his head as if he could physically force the memory away. But the image of her standing there, flickering like a dying star, refused to leave him.

For a long time, he sat there in the suffocating quiet, his breath ragged, his eyes staring blankly at the photograph on the ground. The jagged crack across Hope's face seemed deeper now, like a wound that could never heal. 

He stared at it until the image blurred, until he could no longer bear it. Knowing he couldn't eat if he tried, Entro dragged himself to bed, though he already knew sleep wouldn't come easy.

The night stretched endlessly. He tossed and turned in the stifling heat of his room, vivid memories haunting him with cruel clarity.

His old house was alive in his mind—much larger than the cramped, lifeless apartment he now called home. The sprawling rooms could comfortably accommodate all ten of his children, and during Christmas week, they had always returned. A silent agreement to set aside their separate lives, if only for his sake.

Cassia was there, calming Raze after he'd worked himself into a frenzy. He couldn't find his paper bag and was seething because Soren had insulted his favorite artist, refusing to settle it with a fight. Kaira trailed behind them, silent as always, her presence like a ghost haunting the scene.

Aurelia, outside in the biting cold, handed food from the party to homeless strangers she'd invited beforehand, her charity always extending further than anyone expected.

Inside, Viorica stayed close, assisting Entro with the finishing touches on the toy flying airplanes—miniature wonders armed with candy-corn-firing gatling guns. She worked quietly, methodically, soaking in every detail like she always did.

At the time, Entro had cherished the memory. It was one of the few he thought back on with pride—a moment that proved, however fleeting, they were still a family. But now, in the dark of his room, that memory unraveled.

He saw what he had missed then: the tension in their shoulders, the glances exchanged when they thought he wasn't looking. The laughter felt forced, the interactions strained. They weren't there because they wanted to be. They were there because it was Christmas, and because it mattered to him.

The realization crushed him. A memory he once clung to for comfort had become a monument to his failures—a reflection of how far he'd let them drift from him without even realizing it.

When he finally slipped into a fitful sleep, his dreams offered no reprieve. He woke drenched in sweat, the photograph still lying on the floor where he'd left it, the crack across Hope's face waiting to greet him.

Entro groggily lifted himself out of the bed, every motion sluggish and mechanical, like a puppet moved by strings too frayed to hold. The weight on his chest didn't dissipate as he stood—it only grew heavier. Work, however dreadful, was a necessity, a distraction from the void clawing at his mind. 

He reached for his uniform, a hideous yellow ensemble several sizes too big, wrinkled and stiff from days of neglect. He threw it on haphazardly, skipping the mirror entirely. Freshening up wasn't worth the effort. 

The journey to the lab felt endless, his body dragging like it knew the destination and refused to comply, he was on its side. What should have been a simple commute stretched into an odyssey, the walk alone taking nearly twice as long as usual. 

When he finally arrived, Entro's heart sank further. A cluster of his coworkers stood waiting near the entrance, their faces ranging from curious to smug. It was a welcoming party in all the worst ways. 

"Great," he muttered under his breath, straightening his slouched shoulders only slightly. Whatever awaited him beyond those gates, it wasn't going to be mercy.