Jin-hee pushed the glass door open. The café smelled of steamed milk and synthetic vanilla, clean and sharp. A soft chime rang, but no human looked up. The only movement came from the robots.
The barista robot swiveled its head toward him, optical sensors glowing softly. "Order?" it asked, its voice calm, precise, and mechanical.
"Latte. Extra hot," Jin-hee said, sliding a credit chip across the counter. The robot's metallic fingers moved so fast he barely saw the motion. In seconds, a steaming cup appeared, perfectly frothed, the foam shaped like a tiny lightning bolt.
Jin-hee carried it to a table by the window. He watched the rain-slick streets, the neon reflections, the people walking by without looking up. Delivery drones zipped overhead. Cleaning bots scrubbed the sidewalk in perfect rhythm. Teens scrolled through their holoscreens, hands lazily resting on their laps while robots refilled their drinks.
Even in the café, humans did nothing. Tables cleared themselves. Music played from invisible speakers, tuned perfectly to everyone's mood. Orders were remembered before they were spoken. Robots moved with grace, precision, and efficiency. Humans had become spectators in a world run entirely by machines.
Jin-hee sipped his latte, savoring the warmth and the slight bitterness, the only thing that felt truly human in the room. Around him, robots carried trays, adjusted chairs, and polished counters. A tiny spark flickered from the barista's wrist joint as it handed him a napkin. It was almost invisible, but Jin-hee noticed—a reminder that even perfection had its small, hidden pulses of life.
He shook his head, staring at his cup. Everything was too clean, too efficient, too… precise. Humans had given up. They were comfortable. They were soft. They were… quiet.
Jin-hee took another sip. Another ordinary moment. Another ordinary day. And yet, in that quiet, he felt something stir deep inside him—a tiny spark of awareness.