The end of 2224 was unusually rainy and gloomy. Outside the window of my home office, located on the hundredth floor of a skyscraper, gray streams tirelessly drenched the neon-lit night city. The streams of water blurred the lights of flying cars lining up in endless glowing lines, transforming the futuristic landscape into a melancholic watercolor masterpiece. I moved away from the massive holographic screen displaying the complex molecular diagrams of my secret project and stretched, feeling the stiff muscles in my back and neck protest the hours of sitting motionless. My back creaked, an eloquent reminder of long years spent in a static position, researching and experimenting. I removed my thick-lensed glasses and carefully wiped them with a special cloth. Without them, the world instantly blurred into a shapeless blur, where light bizarrely merged with darkness, depriving me of the ability to discern not only details but the very essence of the objects around me. A congenital anomaly of my optic nerves, resistant to both traditional surgery and advanced robotic prosthetics, was my personal, humble curse. But it was precisely this anomaly that perhaps compelled me to see further and more acutely than other scientists, not relying on the superficial perceptions of the eyes, but peering into the very essence of things with my mind's eye. My gaze, through lenses polished to perfect transparency, fell on the massive armored door in the far corner of the office. The door was made of matte titanium alloy and had no visible handle, opening only with a retinal scan and a fingerprint. Behind it lay it. Project Domov. A secret I had nurtured, cherished, and cultivated for almost five years, pouring into it all my knowledge, ambition, and, as I was now beginning to understand, a part of my soul. The thought of it made my heart beat faster, and the blood pounded in my temples. Today was supposed to be the culmination, the apotheosis of all my years of effort. Today I was supposed to pick up the thermal container containing the clone of my brain from the Institute of Genetics and Robotic Modification. The idea for Domov didn't come out of nowhere. It was a direct, albeit daring, continuation of my father's legacy. Petrogradsky Sr., my brilliant father, turned the world upside down by creating and publicizing a technology for fusing living organisms with an advanced robotic skeleton. His robotic robots, initially conceived as soldiers for an invulnerable army, ultimately gave hope and new life to millions of disabled people across the planet. But I, who had absorbed his ideas since childhood, saw something more in them. Not just a functional, albeit perfect, prosthesis. Not just a bodyguard or a workhorse. I saw the next stage of evolution. A new stage in the development of intelligent life. A being organically combining the best, strongest human traits: mental flexibility, empathy, intuition and machine-like tirelessness, physical strength, absolute devotion, and endurance. A being capable not only of thinking, but also of feeling, analyzing, and making decisions that surpass human speed and precision. And at the same time, completely controllable, devoted to its creator. Creating such a cyborg from scratch, from a blank slate, was impossible. I needed a stable, predictable, thoroughly studied foundation, free from the random glitches of a wild nervous system. There was only one nervous system I knew best, down to the tiniest neuron—my own. Thus, after much deliberation, an idea was born, simultaneously brilliant and monstrous. The "Domovoi" was to become me. An improved, stronger, ideal version of me. The one I could have become if not bound by the limitations of my own mortal body. I stood up, feeling slightly dizzy with excitement, and walked over to the mirrored wall, which served both as a design element and a security system. My reflection, alas, was neither pleasing nor inspiring. I'm 37, but I felt like I was in my fifties. My hair was sparse, dark, and I tried in vain to style it in an intricate way to hide my nascent, already noticeable bald spot. Hunched, hunched shoulders—the inevitable retribution for tens of thousands of hours spent hunched over holographic interfaces and bioreactors. Thin, almost frail arms and a soft, unsightly protrusion of a belly that stubbornly resisted all the efforts of nutritionists and personal trainers. I was a creator, a sculptor of new, perfect forms, but I couldn't bring my own, naturally given physical shell into order. In my mind, with painful acuity, I compared myself to the man who now stood motionless and majestic behind that very armored door. A giant, nearly two meters five centimeters tall, with truly Herculean broad shoulders and defined, meticulously detailed muscles, which I modeled with meticulous precision, drawing on the ideals of ancient sculptors and the latest in biomechanics. His face, with closed eyelids, was a version of my own, purged of all my flaws. The same eye shape, but without the wrinkles and characteristic bags under them. The same oval face, but with a firmer, more determined, almost chiseled chin. And the hair... a thick, lush head of dark chestnut, which I gave him out of all my unspoken envy. My most controversial, most personal, and, as I now realized, most irrational decision was the development of a fully functional reproductive system. I endowed the "Domovoi" with not just a model, but a fully functional penis, capable not only of a realistic erection but also, thanks to a complex network of sensors and neural interfaces, of experiencing full-fledged pleasure. There was no logical, pragmatic justification for this decision. There was only a vague, deeply hidden, irrational desire to complete the image. To create not just a machine for protection or work, but a complete, self-sufficient man. Perhaps subconsciously, this was my attempt to compensate for my own deep-seated complexes and physical imperfections. My actual, biological penis was... ordinary. Unremarkable, average in every way. My father, having accidentally learned of my initial plans early on in the project, categorically, in an ultimatum, opposed any modifications in this area until Marie gave him a grandson. And Marie... Marie didn't want children. She was frankly afraid that pregnancy and subsequent motherhood would rob her of precious years in her career, casting her to the sidelines in our incredibly fast-paced, competitive world, where in a matter of years you can become hopelessly obsolete. The thought of my wife made me shudder involuntarily, bringing me back from my daydreams to harsh reality. She knew nothing of the true nature of the "Domovoi." All these years I'd lied to her, telling her over dinner about the intense work we were doing on a new generation of agrarian droids capable of adapting plants to global climate change. She seemed to believe it. Or pretended to believe it, immersed in her own professional concerns. Our relationship in recent years had become like a carefully rehearsed, elegant, but lifeless play. We played the roles of a successful, beautiful, happy couple, stars of the scientific and medical community, but behind the scenes, in the silence of our apartments, our paths in life were diverging further and further. Her world was a sterile operating room, international medical congresses, the radiant glory of her father, and, to some extent, mine. My world was a secret laboratory behind a bulletproof door and a titanic, lonely dream of creating a superhuman. I sighed heavily, put my glasses back on, and the world regained its familiar, clear contours. It was time to go. There was no time to waste. The Institute of Genetics and Robotic Modification, the grandiose brainchild of my father and father-in-law, shone like a fantastical crystal palace, even on this overcast, colorless day. Its glass spires were lost in the low rain clouds. Inside, the familiar sterile atmosphere of absolute knowledge and control, filled with the quiet hum of powerful equipment, reigned. My pass opened every door without exception. In the holy of holies, the neurocloning department, where only a select group of people were allowed access, I was handed a small but heavy thermal container made of matte black plastic, dotted with glowing indicators. Inside, in a special nutrient solution, at a strictly controlled, constant temperature, rested a brain, carrying a complete, bit-for-bit copy of my own brain's unique neural connections. It was my essence, my consciousness, my entire personality, packaged in a fragile biological vessel. I carried it home, in my flying machine, cutting through the solid wall of rain, with trepidation, like an ancient priest carrying sacred, unquenchable fire across the desert. My palms were sweaty and cold, despite the comfortable temperature inside. Inside, my chest tightened with an unbearable, sweet excitement. This was the moment of truth I had been working toward for five long years. Entering my home laboratory, I carefully locked the door with every electronic and mechanical lock imaginable. The space, illuminated by a cool bluish light, was crammed with the most complex equipment I'd spent all these years assembling and configuring. And in the center, on a special altar-like platform, stood he. The crowning glory of my creation. My alter ego. His skin, grown in a bioreactor from my own genetic material, was a healthy, natural peach hue and warm to the touch. His eyelids were closed. He seemed like a sleeping giant, stepped from the pages of ancient myth, powerful and silent. The process of integration, connecting his brain to his body, took several long, grueling hours of absolute concentration. With pinpoint surgical precision, using micro-manipulators, I placed the precious cloned brain into a perfectly fitted titanium cranial vault. Manually, under the control of ultra-sensitive sensors, I connected millions of nano-connectors to the nerve endings of the robotic body. I started the liquid cooling system and stabilized the supply of nutrient solutions. Now all I had to do was wait. Wait until the body temperature stabilized at the preset 35 degrees Celsius—the optimal temperature for the safe launch of the most complex biorobotic systems. I sat in my chair, unable to tear myself away from the numerous monitors tracking every slightest change in the Domov's body. The readings were perfect, the graphs as straight as a ruler. Finally, the coveted number, bright and green, appeared on the main screen. The time had come. My fingers trembled treacherously as I entered the complex sequence of commands for initialization and full launch. I mentally whispered, "Let's go," and pressed the virtual "Power on" button on the brain computer interface. At first, nothing happened. Only the green indicators flickered on the monitors, confirming the successful activation of all primary systems. And suddenly... a slight, almost imperceptible tremor ran through the body of the giant lying on the platform. A faint, but distinct tremor. The muscles in his powerful arms and broad chest tensed and relaxed involuntarily, revealing for the first time their colossal, dormant power. With bated breath, I launched the basic test program. It was designed to check the functioning of his entire musculoskeletal system, coordination, sensory response, and motor functions. And then the Domovoy's eyelids slowly, heavily lifted. His eyes, an exact copy of mine, but with perfect, eagle-like vision, devoid of my congenital disorder, stared at the glowing ceiling, expressing no thought or emotion yet, only a pure, unadulterated signal. Then, with a fluidity and grace astonishing for his size, he rose from the platform and rose to his full, gigantic height. He was enormous, monumental. Standing next to him, I barely reached his shoulder, feeling dwarfed by his titan. He began to move. Squats, one-arm push-ups, torso twists, leg kicks. His movements were mathematically precise, perfectly coordinated, devoid of the slightest, microscopic flaw. He mimicked the lifting of incredible weights, and I mentally, with delight, imagined the metal beams bending under his steel fingers, him stopping a moving truck. It was a dance, a symphony of an ideal living machine, clothed in flesh and blood. And then, according to the preset algorithm, the reproductive system test began. I briefly considered turning off this part of the program, but a stubbornness mixed with an almost paternal pride compelled me to watch. Artificial, oxygen-rich blood rushed in, and his penis, which I had designed with an almost engineer's vanity, striving for an ideal I could never achieve, began to rapidly expand. It became large, firm, covered in prominent, pulsating veins. A perfect instrument of carnal pleasure, devoid of any flaws. The "Domovoi," obeying the code, began simulating intercourse. He moved his hips with a hypnotic, animalistic, primal rhythm, his strong fingers gripping his partner's imaginary, invisible hips. Then he sank to his knees, and his powerful, cat-like gluteal muscles tensed and relaxed, driving an invisible member into an invisible, submissive body. Drops of a special transparent lubricant I had developed to moisten and cool the system during peak loads trickled down the smooth, antistatic floor, leaving traces. The spectacle was simultaneously repulsive, surreal, and mesmerizing. It was a demonstration of pure, unbridled, primal power. Everything I, Philip Petrogradsky, so desperately needed in my own measured, predictable life. I was in such a hurry to get to the lab that I completely forgot to lock the armored door. I was so absorbed in this spectacle, so captivated by the work of my creation, that I completely missed the soft click of the armored door opening. I felt no draft, nor did I detect any extraneous sounds. The click, echoing in the silence broken only by the hum of the machines and the wet sounds of the "Domovoi"'s movements, sounded to me like a real, deafening gunshot. - Damn it, Philip, what have you created? I spun around, my neck cracking. Marie stood in the now-open doorway. There wasn't the slightest hint of kindness on her face, her lips were pressed tightly together, and her eyes were wide with genuine, absolute shock. She wasn't looking at me. Her gaze, glassy and transfixed, was entirely focused on the naked giant, whose body continued its rhythmic, powerful thrusts, and on his enormous, erect penis, glistening with moisture in the light. An icy, paralyzing wave of horror and realization swept through me. Damn it. I was sure I'd blocked the door. "Mari... this... is my secret development. You can't come here," it sounded weak and unconvincing, even to my own ears. She walked slowly, as if in a dream, into the laboratory, her gaze fixed on the "Domovoi" with a mesmerized, hypnotized gaze. Her lips visibly trembled, and her fingers unconsciously clutched the strap of her expensive designer bag. "Yeah, right. Our fathers always worked together, shared everything, and now I, your own wife, am suddenly superfluous?" Her voice wavered, cracked, and it clearly mixed bitter resentment, growing anger, and something else I couldn't immediately identify—a strange, anxious curiosity. I stood there, as if besmirched, unable to find the right words. A colossal, decades-long deception, an entire life hidden from the person closest to me, had been rudely, cruelly, and so absurdly revealed at the most inopportune, most crucial moment. I saw her gaze, against her will, slide over the powerful, bulging chest of the "Domovoi," over each ridge of his steely abs, over his tree-trunk-like thighs... and again and again, with masochistic persistence, return and linger on the spot that now, at that moment, was the epicenter of everyone's attention and the source of embarrassment. "I'll be your assistant on this project. Starting today. And don't even think about refusing me," she said quietly, almost in a whisper, but with such an iron, inflexible tone that it took my breath away and chilled me inside. She looked directly at me, angrily, witheringly, demanding an answer with a silent but furious gaze. And in the background, as if mocking this entire drama, my double, the best version of myself, my "Domovoi," was now lying on the platform, simulating sex in the classic missionary position, clutching an invisible partner. His powerful, godlike pelvis moved with inexorable, primal, animalistic force. The tip of his penis, enormous, engorged with artificial blood and glistening with lubricant, touched the floor with each movement, leaving wet, slowly spreading, glistening marks on the mirror-polished surface. How did you like this story? Let's dream about the future? If you liked it and need a sequel, please give it a high rating.