Irina can clean too

The office was quiet, as usual. The servers hummed behind the wall, a low, steady sound that had started to feel like the island’s heartbeat. I sat in my usual spot, feet up, tablet in my lap. The morning sun crept through the narrow window slit, casting an uneven light across the console. I hadn’t touched anything yet. Just sat there, thinking.

Penelope’s visit still played in my head. Her face, her voice, that strange calm. She was different. Not just more pleasant — more precise. She had rhythm, but not the rehearsed kind. The others followed a script. She… responded. There’d been moments, tiny ones, where I’d almost forgotten what she was. I didn’t trust it. Not really. But I wanted to see her again.

I opened the admin panel. The “Cleaning Function” still sat in its place, a harmless-sounding label. I hadn’t touched it since Penelope cleaned the spill. It had worked, in the most literal way possible. But I still didn’t know how I could use it. That was becoming the pattern. Every button gave me some control, and always left me with new questions.

I leaned back in the chair and tapped the side of the tablet with my thumb. There was comfort in this — the quiet hum, the slow network map, the illusion of doing something important. Even the loneliness felt easier to carry in here.

I should test the cleaning function again. Deliberately this time. Maybe with Irina.

Or maybe not. She hadn’t looked at me in two days. I set off looking for her.

–

The lobby was quiet when I stepped in. Irina and Hana were standing by the reception desk, each absorbed in their task. As always, I couldn’t help but register how beautiful the robots were. Hana’s posture was relaxed, one hip resting against the edge of the counter. Irina stood straighter over a keyboard, her shoulders drawn back, elegant in that cold, sculptural way she had.

I slowed my pace as I approached. Hana looked up and smiled.

“Good morning, Peter.”

I nodded, trying not to let my eyes linger too long. “Morning.”

Irina didn’t look up. Her fingers moved across the terminal with precise gestures, like she was conducting a silent performance. No glance, no greeting.

There was no urgency in the room, just the quiet rhythm of them doing what they were made to do. I stayed a few steps back, unsure if I was interrupting something.

Irina broke the silence. “Go to the office. Retrieve the Solari print and bring it here.”

“Yes, Irina,” Hana said.

Then she was gone. No wasted motion. Just a fluid turn and a quiet exit.

I stared at the doorway where she had disappeared. The office was halfway across the property, down the garden path, past the terraces. At least ten minutes on foot.

But she was back in three.

She came through the doors with the wrapped print in her arms, breathing normally, not a hair out of place. I blinked, did a quick mental count, and felt a faint chill move through me. No one could’ve made that trip in that time. Not walking.

Irina finally looked up. She reached for the parcel and began unwrapping it with Hana’s help. Neither of them spoke. They worked in perfect sync, laying the print flat on the desk, checking its alignment against the back wall. The print was abstract — burnt orange and harsh white lines. Like a desert seen from above.

I watched them for a while. They didn’t need me there. More than that, I felt unwelcome — like someone who’d wandered onto the wrong stage mid-performance. Hana held the frame steady while Irina fixed the mount, her hands working with a calm efficiency that made my own limbs feel clumsy.

When they were done, Hana stepped back to check the result. Then, unprompted, she turned to me.

“I’ll see you later, Peter.”

And then she left. No instructions. No glance from Irina. Just that soft farewell, and she was gone again.

Irina said nothing. She returned to the terminal like I hadn’t spoken. Like I wasn’t there at all.

I stood for a few more seconds, unsure what to do. The silence felt heavy again. The painting looked like it had always been there.

–

I moved a few steps closer and cleared my throat. Nothing. Not a flicker.

I looked down at the tablet in my hand. The screen had dimmed, but the admin panel was still open. I watched Irina for a long moment, then, without overthinking it, pressed “Reboot.”

For a moment, nothing.

Then the lights in the lobby flickered. Just a quick, shivering blink overhead — enough to make me flinch. Irina froze. She didn’t power down, not exactly. It was more like she paused in place, as if something had taken over the thread of her attention and locked it elsewhere.

She stayed like that. Silent. Upright. Eyes open, but distant. Her posture relaxed a little.

I waited. After five minutes, she came back.

Not ten. Five.

Panic rose in me. The reboot had only lasted five minutes. Why? Scared of what she might do, I hit the Reboot function again.

She froze again, which eased my fear. Irina was different from Hana — more powerful, more commanding. If any of them could turn, it would be her.

Five minutes passed.

Then she blinked. Once. Slowly. Her fingers flexed, and she shifted her weight, returning to her work. But as she did, she turned and looked at me.

A direct, steady look. Not cold. Not polite.

Just… aware. And slightly annoyed.

Something twisted in my chest.

As her attention returned to the terminal, I walked to the bar and grabbed a water bottle from the fridge. She didn’t seem to care what I was doing. Her face stayed blank, professional. I opened the bottle and poured half its contents over the low table by the sofas and onto the hardwood floor. Still nothing from her.

Then I pressed “Cleaning Function.”

Irina paused. Turned. Stepped around the counter. Walked past me without a word, pulled a cloth from a drawer and knelt beside the spill. She wiped the floor and cleaned the table.

Quick. Efficient. Silent.

When she stood, she looked at me again. There was a pause. Too long. She didn’t speak. Then she turned and walked away.

A chime came from the tablet. I opened it. The admin screen reloaded. In the corner, something new was flashing:

INTERFERENCE INDEX: 3.0 / 5

I stared at it. My mouth went dry. The thrill was still there, but something else had started to settle under it now.

The system was watching back, but I did not care. Three out of five did not seem that much, so I decided to have another go. I went back to the bar and grabbed a bottle of milk this time, because why not.

I went back to the same glass table and I tipped some milk, slowly, letting a thin white stream pool as I watch Irina ignore the whole thing. She didn’t look up.

I pressed the Cleaning Function again.

Irina stopped and froze for a second. She turned. Walked over with the same unhurried stride. She stood right next to me and she gave me a brief absent look before she knelt beside the new puddle, lowered herself until her forearms rested on the edge of the table, and began to lap.

No cloth this time. Just her tongue, flat and methodical, gathering the milk in long, deliberate strokes. The white clung to her lips each time she drew back, then disappeared as she swallowed. Her eyes stayed half-open, calm, focused on the surface in front of her. The mighty Irina, the one who never acknowledged me, now on her knees drinking milk from a table like it was the most ordinary task in the world.

I stood close enough to see the faint tremor in her throat each time she swallowed. My cock was already straining against my shorts, aching. I had never been this hard. The situation felt surreal, I felt like I could be spotted and reprimanded at any moment.

She was almost finished cleaning the table when I tilted the bottle again. A fresh splash landed right beside her face; some of it struck her cheek. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t pause. She simply shifted her head and kept lapping, tongue sliding over the glass, collecting the new milk.

I couldn’t wait any longer. I pushed my shorts down, let my cock spring free. The air felt cool against the heat of it. I wrapped my hand around the shaft and started stroking, slow at first, matching the rhythm of her tongue.

Another small pour. More milk, closer to her mouth this time. She followed it without hesitation, lips brushing the glass, throat working quietly. The sight of her (perfect posture broken, reduced to this) sent a pulse straight through me. I came hard, thick pulses landing across the table in front of her. She didn’t stop. She moved to the new mess immediately, tongue gathering every trace, swallowing without the slightest change in expression. Her tongue expertly picked up the mixture of milk and sperm. I put my shorts back up.

When the glass was clean she sat back on her heels for a second, milk still shining on her lower lip, then stood. She looked at me once (no anger, no recognition, just that same flat awareness) and walked back to the terminal.

My legs felt weak. I pulled my shorts up, hands shaking slightly, and stared at the empty, spotless table.

The tablet chimed again.

INTERFERENCE INDEX: 3.4 / 5

Shit

“Challenge Completed. Next Level Unlocked.”