Chapter 2
Emmie's eyes were cold and unyielding, like a wall of ice you couldn't break through. Conor gave a stiff nod and backed away into the living room.
Early the next morning, as soon as Emmie headed out with her shopping basket, Conor quickly dug through the trash bag by the entryway. Beneath a mess of fruit peels and leftovers, he found a crumpled shipping envelope.
The recipient field just said "Test Subject 1", and the address was the place he'd always thought of as home.
Conor's hands shook as he pulled a camera smaller than a button out of the small black pouch.
He'd snagged it off a black market forum for extra cash. Emmie usually took about forty minutes to buy groceries, so this was his only window.
He climbed onto a stool and tucked the camera deep into the thick leaves of the pothos on the study windowsill, pointing the lens straight at the computer screen.
Thirty minutes later, Conor was at his desk at work, opening the hidden live stream. The feed was a little shaky, but still clear. Emmie had come back, slipped off her coat, and headed straight for the study. She didn't bother with the main lights, just flicked on the dim, yellow desk lamp.
On screen, Emmie looked like she'd finally dropped some heavy armor. Her shoulders sagged, her face went blank—almost like a wax statue. She typed in a complicated sixteen-digit password with practiced fingers.
An encrypted document called "Conor Observation Diary" opened up.
Conor stared at the screen, his pupils contracting in fear. The document was crammed with every bit of data about him.
[March 12: Subject ate three pieces of roast beef, more than yesterday—suggests he's getting more comfortable at home.]
[March 14: Subject's pupils widened and breathing sped up by 30% when childhood trauma was brought up. Recommend further encouraging "mother figure" behaviors.]
[March 17: Subject started testing boundaries; curiosity hit a critical level.]
At the end of those cold, clinical data entries, a line of bold red text stood out.
[Next phase goal: Induce emotional dependency in the subject. Key operation: Exploit his craving for stability to lower his guard.]
Conor's stomach twisted, as if the coffee he'd just swallowed had turned into corrosive acid. He wasn't her husband, not even some contract partner. He was nothing but a test subject, trapped in a cage and watched from every possible angle.
His anger finally overpowered his fear.
At one in the morning, Conor listened to the steady breathing from the next room, but he knew Emmie wasn't in the bedroom.
He dug out the spare key for the study from the very back of his drawer. The agent had left it when they handed over the keys. He'd always assumed Emmie had changed the lock, but he'd just tested it and found she hadn't.
The sound of the lock sliding open was so faint that it was like a fingernail brushing against fabric.
The study was empty. The computer screen cast a ghostly blue glow over Conor's pale face. Emmie must've rushed out—the coffee on the desk was still steaming, just barely.
The screen was frozen on a chat window. The other person's avatar was a blurry black silhouette, labeled as "The Overseer."
The Overseer: [Number One, you're moving too slow. If he doesn't reach 'complete psychological reconstruction' by the end of the contract, we'll initiate forced cleanup.]
Emmie: [Understood. I'll step up the suggestions tonight.]
Conor's fingers hovered shakily above the keyboard as he clicked open a hidden folder on the desktop labeled "Alternate Families."
The moment the files loaded, Conor felt every hair on his body stand on end.
Inside were dozens of stitched-together family portraits. In each photo, Emmie Walker wore a different outfit and sported a new hairstyle.
Sometimes she was a gentle, teacherly wife, leaning against a portly businessman; other times, she was a sharp, professional woman, holding the arm of a corporate elite.
Her expressions, her gaze—even the angle of her smile—were meticulously adjusted to match the type of man beside her.
Some of the men looked old and worn, others young and full of life, but they all had the same look in their eyes—that dazed, utterly healed, and completely captivated expression.
Conor scrolled quickly, his hand trembling, until the last photo popped up.
For a split second, he forgot how to breathe. The man in the picture wore a faded plaid shirt, his smile bright but tinged with a hint of self-effacing humility.
That face—he could never mistake it. It was Zain Barker, his college roommate, who had jumped from the dorm rooftop three years ago after a long battle with depression.
In the photo, Zain was gripping Emmie's hand tightly, while Emmie turned her head to smile at him. The curve of her profile was identical to the one in the wedding portrait hanging outside the study right now.