In the third year after my death, the one who remained faithfully by my wife's side was still the bionic robot I had painstakingly designed.

It looked exactly like me and carried within it every detail of my mannerisms, speech, and habits. The only difference was that it never lost its temper with her.

Because of that, my wife never sensed anything amiss. Yet each night, she brought home a different man, deliberately testing "me," desperate to see the wild jealousy and rage I once wore so vividly.

Then, one day, her childhood sweetheart and first love, shoved "me" off the balcony.

It was only then, in her horror, that my wife realized… "I" didn't bleed.

A deafening crash split the night.

"My body" slammed into the villa's lawn. Metal parts scattered as if bones had broken.

The man who had shoved me leaned theatrically against the railing, shouting with feigned panic, "Diane! Something's wrong! Gaston jumped!"

Diane Bouchard was my wife.

At his cry, she strolled over unhurriedly, her tone dripping with contempt.

"Jumped? Gaston? What a desperate stunt. I can't believe he'd pull something so pathetic just to get my attention. Fine. I'll humor him this once."

Not the slightest trace of worry crossed her face. Instead, she cast a casual glance downwards, like tossing alms to a beggar.

There "I" was, lying still on the grass, motionless. Yet Diane's expression remained cold.

"All right, Gaston, that's enough. I came all the way over here to acknowledge your little act. Isn't it time to stop pretending?"

She spoke as if her mere acknowledgment were some rare blessing, certain I would scramble up in gratitude.

But I didn't. "I" lay there, silent, giving her nothing.

Her patience frayed. Her voice sharpened. "Gaston, don't you dare push me too far. My tolerance has limits."

The man at her side interjected with false concern. "Diane, maybe we should check? What if something really happened?"

She let out a cold, dismissive laugh. "From the third floor? Not the thirtieth. A fall like that is barely more than a scratch. As if it could kill him."

She wasn't entirely wrong. The villa only had three stories. A fall like that rarely killed, but injuries were inevitable. And if the head struck the ground first, it could be fatal.

Diane either overlooked that fact… or perhaps she simply didn't care. Maybe if I had truly died before her eyes, she would have felt nothing but relief.

But the truth was, I had already died. Three years ago. There was no dying a second time.

And after three years, Diane still hadn't noticed.

The "man" lying broken on the lawn—the one who had stayed at her side all this time—wasn't really me.

It was the companion android I had built for her while I was alive.

As for the real me? My mission had failed, and the system had already destroyed my body.

Only my soul remained, lingering in this world—by some twist of fate, bound to this machine.

I couldn't control its actions. I didn't need to. In appearance and behavior, in every programmed detail, it was nearly indistinguishable from the man I had once been.

Its chip carried all my memories.

The joints in "my" body had slipped out of place, pieces wedged as if jammed. For a moment, I couldn't move at all. The body was locked in a temporary shutdown.

Naturally, Diane noticed nothing unusual. She arched a mocking brow.

"Stop playing dead, Gaston. Do you really expect me to come all the way down there to help you up?"

At last, under the sting of her ridicule, "I" began to crawl up from the ground. The reboot restored basic function, but the posture was awkward, grotesquely stiff.

"Diane," the man beside her, Ian Tyler, remarked with feigned concern, "look at Gaston's leg. Doesn't it seem broken?"

"He's still young," Diane replied coldly. "His bones aren't that fragile."

She waved off the matter with chilling indifference.

"If Gaston is stupid enough to throw himself off a balcony, then whatever injuries he suffers, he brought on himself. Ian, don't waste your concern on an idiot. Besides, what's a few broken bones to a man? He'll heal. It's nothing to worry about."

Ian snorted with laughter. "Diane, do you remember? When we were kids, the neighbor's dog fell from upstairs. Within minutes, it was running around like nothing had happened. Surely Gaston isn't weaker than a mutt, right?"

The mockery in his tone was unmistakable.

And of course, Diane heard it too. She wasn't stupid. She simply didn't care.

His insults suited her perfectly. Especially since they came from the one man she treasured most—her childhood sweetheart, her first love.

Together, they descended into the courtyard.

Ian hurried ahead, pretending to fuss over me. "Gaston, you really scared me just now. How could you be so reckless? Are you all right?"

Diane, meanwhile, stood at a distance, her gaze fixed on "my" distorted stance.

Dirt clung to the clothes, branches had torn scratches across the fabric, and mud streaked the skin. I looked filthy, pathetic, and utterly disgraceful.

She clicked her tongue, refusing to step closer, her face twisted in distaste.

"Gaston, your little performance is pathetic."

Her eyes flicked briefly to the spot where I had fallen. In the grass, a strange object gleamed faintly in the night—like a fragment of machinery. She must have seen it, yet she dismissed the thought.

Instead, she sighed. "The flowers and grass are ruined. What a shame."

I froze.

So that was it. In her heart, even a random sprig of grass in the courtyard was worth more than my life.

All these years of devotion and sacrifice were reduced to a joke.

"Gaston," she said, pointing at me, "you scared Ian half to death with this stunt. So here's what you're going to do—apologize to him, and I'll let this matter go. I won't hold your little leap against you."

Absurd. Unbelievable.

Jumping was my fault? Ian had pushed me. And yet she demanded I apologize to the man who had tried to kill me.

"My" voice module still hadn't recovered. The mouth opened and closed, but no sound emerged.

My silence only inflamed her further.

"Of all times, you just had to jump the moment I brought Ian home."

Her voice rose, sharp with anger. "Gaston, if you're jealous of how close I am to him, just say it! Tell me you're envious! What's the point of this ridiculous charade?"

Her agitation caught me off guard. So she did remember this villa was our home?

And yet, time and again, she had dragged different men inside—parading them through these rooms, humiliating me, daring me to snap. She longed to see me unravel with jealousy.

But she would always be disappointed.

The android that replaced me was built with one unshakable core directive: to love Diane, unconditionally, eternally.

It could never show her impatience. Never raise its voice. Never betray the faintest flicker of anger, jealousy, or resentment.

It would never question her actions.

Wasn't this, in her eyes, the perfect husband?

So why… why wasn't it enough?

Two days ago, Diane brought Ian home. By coincidence, it was the anniversary of my death.

I still remember my final moments—writhing on the floor in agony, trying to reach for painkillers. My trembling hands spilled the pills across the ground. Blood poured from my mouth, staining the floor.

Desperate, I begged the system for one last favor: call Diane. I only wanted to hear her voice before I died. Just once would have been enough.

She never answered. She was at the airport, busy sending Ian off.

The system even streamed the live footage for me. I watched them embrace tightly. Ian kissed her, and though Diane turned her head slightly, she didn't pull away.

To any onlooker, they looked like lovers torn apart by reluctant separation.

My face turned ashen. I silently activated the robot I had long prepared. Then I closed my eyes and never opened them again.

The system handled the disposal of my body. Then it asked me:

[Host, you've willingly abandoned your mission, transferring the cancer cells meant for your target into your own body. Are you certain you have no regrets?]

My soul floated, weightless. I answered: [No regrets.]

My mission in this world was simple: to win over Diane.

From the beginning, I had known her—no later than Ian had. But unlike him, I kept to the shadows, quietly watching her, and slowly, truly falling for the bright, kind girl she was.

She would give her pocket money to beggars. She would help old women cross the street.

Once, I staged a minor accident. True to form, Diane stopped to help. That was how we officially met… and how I slipped easily into love.

But one day, in the middle of a date, she suddenly collapsed.

I rushed her to the hospital, only to hear the diagnosis: a hereditary terminal illness, with cancer spreading aggressively. She had little time left.

My mission parameters were clear: accompany her until the end. If I stayed by her side through her last moments, I would succeed.

But I couldn't. I couldn't stand by and watch her die.

I loved Diane. So I gave her my life instead.

The system fell silent for a long while. Then it spoke again: [Very well. If that's your choice, I'll let you linger in this world a little longer.]

And so, my soul remained.

Three years passed, and Diane never once realized the "me" at her side was nothing but a machine.

Instead, her disdain only grew. She came home less and less. And when she did, she flaunted different men at her side shamelessly.

Before long, the entire social circle knew. I, Gaston—Diane's legitimate husband—was being cheated on and was too cowardly to say a word.

The shame of manhood, they called me.

I could only laugh bitterly. I never imagined that she and I would end like this.

That night, I overheard their voices outside.

"Diane, it's so late, and you still brought me here. Won't Gaston be upset? What if he gets jealous? Maybe I shouldn't stay at your place."

She was silent for a beat before replying coolly, "Ignore him. In this house, I decide everything. Gaston wouldn't dare voice an opinion."

Ian chuckled, praising her. "You're truly skilled at handling a husband."

She didn't continue the subject. Instead, her tone turned cold as she called out, "Gaston, get out here. Don't you know we have a guest?"

The door opened, and "I" stepped out.

Bowing slightly, "I" bent down to fetch the slippers, practiced and precise, as though the gesture had been repeated countless times.

Diane's face was expressionless.

Ian, however, stared at me with disbelief, as if seeing a ghost.

"Hey, Gaston, don't you recognize me?"

"My" eyes fixed on him, and the machine's voice stated his identity without error.

Ian burst into exaggerated laughter. "Three years, and Gaston's a whole new man? This change is incredible. I'm shocked."

Diane's lips tightened, her gaze dripping with mockery.

"He's just pretending. Who doesn't remember what he used to be? As if that petty, small-minded man from before wasn't really him."

She sneered. "Now he acts so magnanimously. I'm watching to see how long this act lasts."