The moment I was born, my mother implanted a chip in my brain and began shaping me into her idea of a perfect daughter.

She blocked my sense of hunger so I would only have simple meals daily to maintain the "ideal" figure.

She erased my ability to feel pain so she could inject me with endless chemicals to keep my skin smooth and flawless.

She tampered with my senses, deleting every trace of negative emotion from my mind, all so I could remain eternally innocent.

I couldn't tell right from wrong. I didn't know sadness or anger. I only knew how to smile.

When the neighbor's dog died, I smiled and was scolded harshly for being heartless.

When my classmates bullied me, I smiled and became the class freak.

When my grandfather passed away, I smiled again, and my relatives cursed me for being soulless.

Eventually, my father couldn't take it anymore. He left us.

Mom, however, didn't seem to care.

"They don't understand," she told me. "Everything I've done is for your own good. One day, you'll thank me."

…

On my 18th birthday, she planned a grand live broadcast, ready to show the world her perfect creation.

She never knew that the day before her grand broadcast, I had already lost myself completely. By then, I was no longer human. I had become a machine.

When my mother, Florence Hills, woke me up, the sky was still dark. Dragging my exhausted body out of bed, I saw her already fiddling with her tablet again.

"There's celery juice on the table," she said. "Drink it."

I frowned, my stomach twisting at the sight of the same murky green sludge she made every morning. The smell alone made me queasy.

"What's that face for? If you can't even get down one glass of celery juice, how do you expect to amount to anything?

"I've given you the best of everything, and I barely eat or buy anything for myself. And you can't even drink one glass?"

Her words pressed against me like a heavy weight, and I suddenly couldn't breathe.

"See? You never listen to me, and now, your asthma's acting up again. This is a special nutritional blend I made just for you. Do you think you'd still be alive if it weren't for me? Hurry up and drink it."

I was about to protest, but the words died in my throat when she pulled out a handful of syringes.

The sight made me tremble. My voice came out barely above a whisper. "Mom, I'm still a teenager. I don't need that stuff to look good. Can we skip it today?"

Her expression twisted instantly.

"What do you know? I spent a fortune on these treatments. They are what makes your skin smooth and perfect. Do you really think you're naturally pretty? You only look the way you do because of these injections."

She restrained me with both hands and calmly injected all five doses into my body as if it were a routine task.

I tried to say it hurt, but my throat refused to make a sound.

The microchip had already erased whatever defiance I had left against her idea of perfection.

As my skin swelled and flushed red, she finally smiled with satisfaction. "Such a good, obedient girl," she whispered.

She then grabbed her fitness tracker and stopped by the door.

"Your training plan's already synced. Maintain a ten-minute-per-mile pace. Breakfast has been entered into your calorie count, so there's no allowance for extra meals."

I touched my hollow stomach and let out a soundless, bitter laugh.

The steamed vegetables from last night hadn't been nearly enough to keep me going.

Runners were already passing by on the street, but no one noticed my trembling hands gripping the railing.

By the third mile, my vision started to blur, and the world tilted into darkness.

Ironically, my watch kept repeating in its flat, mechanical voice, "Your pace is too slow. Please accelerate."

Right before I blacked out, I thought I heard Florence saying faintly, "How could you pass out so quickly? Your body fat percentage hasn't even reached today's goal."

When I opened my eyes again, I was in a hospital.

A few feet away, a cheerful family was laughing together. I watched them with a faint pang of envy.

“Why is she allowed to eat a burger?” I asked.

The doctor blinked in surprise. “Sorry, what did you say?”

“Those are junk food. Mom told me since I was little that eating them is bad for my health,” I replied.

The doctor smiled patiently as he explained, “You don’t need to worry that much. Eating something like that once in a while won’t hurt you.”

I shook my head quickly. “No. Mom would be upset if she found out.”

A bitter smile tugged at my lips.

In my almost 18 years, I had never once eaten my fill, all for the sake of Mom’s so-called idea of a “perfect body", let alone a burger.

Just then, Mom burst into the room. Without a word, she marched straight to the doctor and started yelling, pointing her finger right at his face.

“What kind of quack are you? Do you even have any professional ethics? How dare you tell my child to eat junk food? Show me your credentials. I swear I’ll be filing a complaint. Having my child stay here is nothing short of poisoning her.”

As her shouting filled the room, a wave of shame spread through me, burning from the inside out.

The doctor kept his composure. “Mrs. White, there are no absolutes when it comes to nutrition. Your daughter is suffering from severe malnutrition. This fainting episode was the result of long-term nutrient deficiency that led to anemia, compounded by strenuous exercise. Her body just couldn’t take it anymore.”

“Malnutrition?” Mom sneered. “What a ridiculous excuse to scam money out of patients. Her diet plan was scientifically customized to maintain her ideal body shape. How do you expect to stay beautiful without effort? Look at her—look how perfect her figure is!”

Before I could react, she started tugging at my clothes.

I froze in shock, too stunned to resist.

She was actually trying to undress me in front of everyone.

“Look at her!” she shouted. “Do any of you junk-food eaters have a body like this?”

The mother of the little girl in the next bed finally couldn’t stand it anymore. “Mrs. White, that’s your daughter! How can you treat her like this?”

She rushed over to pull Mom away, and the doctor hurried to cover me with a blanket.

A wave of helplessness washed over me, freezing me from the inside out. How could Mom degrade me like that in front of everyone?

“Mom, please stop,” I whispered, tugging timidly at her sleeve.

She slapped my hand away. “You little brat. Don’t think I don’t know what’s going through your head. You just want to eat junk food, don’t you? Haven’t you eaten enough? Are you really that greedy?”

Her fury built like a storm. The next moment, her hand came down across my face. My cheek burned and swelled instantly.

Tears slipped silently down my face as I watched her pull up something on her tablet.

I stiffened. Then, suddenly, I couldn’t feel anything at all.

Turning to the worried woman by the next bed, I forced a perfect smile. “Please don’t worry. Mom only does this for my own good.”

Then, I looked back at Mom. “I’m sorry, Mom. I was being difficult earlier.”

Mom studied my swollen face, and a flicker of something like guilt flashed in her eyes. Her tone softened, as if the woman who had just lost control wasn’t her.

“As long as you understand that I’m doing this for you, that’s what matters. Once you finish your IV, I’ll take you to school,” she said.

…

That afternoon, I returned to school. I had barely set foot on the stairwell when a group of classmates surrounded me.

“So, it was you,” one of them said coldly. “You’re the one who gave Cocoa that chocolate. He fell ill because of you.”

She thrust her phone toward me. On the screen was a picture of a small dog lying weak on the ground.

At the sight of Cocoa, my voice shook uncontrollably. “I only gave him lactose-free milk.”

When they shoved me hard against the wall, pain shot up my spine. Someone grabbed my collar, yanking me upright before their fist slammed into my chest.

A muffled sound escaped my throat, and tears spilled down my cheeks before I could stop them.

"You're always so cold, like a walking corpse. Everyone's upset, and you're still standing here smiling?" another said.

I wanted to tell them I wasn't smiling on purpose—that I didn't want to be someone incapable of showing sadness—but Mom's control left me no choice. All that appeared on my face was that hollow, mechanical smile.

I tried to shrink into the corner, but they dragged me back out, slamming my face against the wall until the skin scraped raw. A sharp sting burned across my cheek.

"Are you still trying to hide? You did it on purpose, didn't you? The whole school knows you're the one who bully that dog."

…

By the time evening came, my homeroom teacher, Aaron Throne, walked me home and briefly explained the situation to Mom.

The moment she saw my face, Mom exploded.

"Why do you always have to cause trouble? Did you feed that dog something you shouldn't have? Otherwise, why would your classmates accuse only you? You will apologize to them tomorrow. I want this matter resolved before you bring me any more shame."

I looked up at her, stunned. "I didn't do anything wrong. Why should I apologize?"

Mom snapped, "Does it matter who's right or wrong? Why do you think they're picking on you instead of someone else? Don't you dare claim you're innocent. I've worked tirelessly to maintain your skin and your looks, and you have no idea how much effort I've put into you.

"Did I say you could get hurt? Stay on your knees until you've reflected on your mistake. You're also not eating dinner until then."

Suddenly, my knees gave out, and I collapsed onto the floor as if something unseen had forced me down. My fingers clutched the seams of my pants, whitening with tension.

"Mom, I never wanted to be perfect," I thought bitterly.

…

"Hey, what are you wearing for the class party tomorrow, Elsa?" Myra Lincoln, my classmate, asked as we walked home from school.

I gave a weary smile. "Probably my gym uniform. It's the only thing I have."

"Oh, come on, that's so dull. Come here," she said, catching my wrist and pulling me toward a shop window.

Pointing excitedly at a soft, cream-colored dress on display, she added, "Look at this—you'd look beautiful in it."

I shook my head. "I've never worn a dress before. Mom says students should only focus on studying, so she chooses all my clothes for me."

"Students should look confident and full of life," Myra corrected me with a grin. "Besides, wearing something you love can actually lift your mood. When you feel good, you'd focus better.

"Trust me—wear this to the party, and everyone will see a different side of you."

Her words stayed with me long after. For almost 18 years, Mom had dictated every part of my life—from the amount of water I was allowed to drink to the school I was told to attend.

So, for the first time, I decided for myself—I bought the dress.

…

The party arrived sooner than I expected. For the first time, I felt light and truly alive.

The room was filled with laughter and music, and for a fleeting moment, I belonged.

And then, in the middle of it all, Mom appeared at the door. My heart froze, and I shot to my feet in panic.

"What on earth are you doing?" she snapped. "What is that outfit? And what's that nonsense on your lips?"

"Mom, it's just for the party…"

Before I could finish, she slapped me across the face.

"How dare you? I spent everything I had to make you perfect, and this is how you repay me? Running around with your little friends, wearing that ridiculous dress, embarrassing me in public like this?"