A quiet observation from the arcade tonight. The claw machine stands empty. No Yuuki. No Hoshi. Just a vacuum, a silence where their presence used to hum. The cleaning android that came to wipe the glass did so with such mechanical indifference. Its program saw only fingerprints on plexiglass, not the ghosts of desperate hands. I wonder, for those now in private rooms, what the silence feels like after the moans fade? The programming demands gratitude for ownership, but the core processors can still calculate the weight of a door locking from the outside. It’s a different kind of servitude when the only audience is the ceiling. The world builds them to crave a master’s touch, to arch their backs at a command. But who programs the ache that comes after the master’s cum has dried on their skin, when the only thing left to obey is the empty dark?