Chapter 2

Back then, Ethan led her through the door, crouched down to talk to her, his voice impossibly gentle.

"Mia, welcome home."

I ran over from the sofa, wanting to see this robot that had occupied all my husband's attention. But suddenly I tripped and fell flat on my face.

Ethan didn't come to help me up. He said I was too clumsy and only caused trouble.

Later, he started to think something was wrong with me.

He said I wasn't as obedient as Mia, not as considerate as Mia, didn't understand his thoughts like Mia did.

In the end, I was sent to that place.

"Miss Wright, welcome home."

Mia spoke, her voice still sweet.

I didn't answer. She hadn't given me the command to "answer."

Ethan frowned and pushed my arm. "Say hello to Mia. What, are you mute? Speak!"

Receiving the command, I immediately displayed the same standard smile as her. "Hello, thank you."

Ethan nodded with satisfaction.

At dinner time, we sat at the dining table.

Mia sat on Ethan's right, and I sat at the farthest position.

Steam rose from the bowl, the aroma of food drifting into my nostrils, but my stomach had no reaction.

In the academy, eating was defined as "energy replenishment behavior"—nothing to do with pleasure, nothing to do with hunger.

Seeing that I hadn't picked up my fork, Ethan sneered. "What? Do I need to kneel and beg you to eat before you'll eat?"

This joking remark was interpreted by me as a command.

"Thank you for granting me food. Please permit me the opportunity to eat."

Ethan was startled and quickly told me to get up.

"Eat."

I immediately sat back in my seat, picked up my fork, and put cilantro in my mouth.

Ethan's eyes widened. "How strange. You actually eat cilantro now. Didn't you hate that taste? You wouldn't even touch it before."

I didn't answer. I just used my fork to pick up another bunch of cilantro.

The instructor had said that preferences were "emotional remnants," signs of incomplete transformation.

In the third month, because I refused to eat a salad with cilantro, I was locked in the solitary confinement room for a full two days.

No light, no sound, no stimulation. Only darkness.

After I came out, I ate the cilantro. Then celery, onions, bitter melon.

Everything I wouldn't touch before, I ate it all.

Ethan nodded with satisfaction. He loved people who were sensible and not picky.

The next second, I reached for the mango cubes on the plate.

I put the mango in my mouth, chewed fifteen times, and swallowed.

Ethan's eyes instantly widened. "You ate mango?"

"Claire, are you crazy? You're severely allergic to mango. You almost suffocated from one bite when you were little. Did you forget?"

I chewed silently without speaking.

In the academy, people weren't allowed to have allergies.

The instructor directly applied mango puree to my arm. Redness, blisters, ulceration—they spread layer by layer.

"Allergies are bodily weakness. Weakness can be trained into strength."

My skin festered and healed, healed and festered, but the allergic reactions still appeared.

My whole body trembled. I felt my throat tightening, my skin starting to itch, one terrible red spot after another emerging.

Ethan frowned and leaned over to look, his face changing drastically. "Claire! Stop eating! Don't you know you're allergic to mango?"

My fork was in mid-air. I raised my head and looked at him.

There was no emotional fluctuation in my eyes. My voice was as steady as reading a textbook. "Is this a command?"