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."

In the past, Ian and I had always been at odds. And every time we clashed, Diane never bothered to ask questions. She would stand unconditionally at his side.

When I was alive, that used to cut me to the bone. Now, it no longer mattered.

At dinner, Ian gave a small cough.

Diane immediately barked at me, "What are you standing there for? Go pour him some water!"

"My" body turned and fetched a glass of warm water from the kitchen. Ian frowned.

"It's too cold. I want it hot. Boiling hot, do you understand?"

So "I" returned and replaced it with a cup fresh from the kettle.

A glint flashed through Ian's eyes. As he took the glass, he deliberately let it slip, and the scalding water splashed across my hand.

How childish. My body was waterproof and heat-resistant.

But Diane didn't know that. In her eyes, I was still flesh and blood, with skin that should blister and peel under such heat.

"Ian, are you all right?"

Of course. Her first concern was for Ian.

"I'm fine, Diane. Gaston must have slipped. Don't blame him."

Only then did she spare me a glance.

"Useless. You can't even hold a cup properly. You ruin more than you help."

I wasn't even permitted to sit at the table. I stood there meekly, enduring her scolding.

What a pathetic scene—me, the rightful master of this home, reduced to serving tea and water like a servant while my wife entertained her lover.

But that was her order.

And in my programming, her commands carried the highest priority.

I knew Ian was different from the other men she brought home. He was special to her. No matter what, even if I exposed him for shoving "me" off the balcony, she would never believe it.

Later, "I" limped back inside, reaching up now and then to touch the back of my head.

For once, Diane's brows knit. She called out, "Gaston, are you… actually hurt?"

"I" stopped, shook my head.

When I was alive, I always concealed my illnesses and injuries, not wanting her to worry. Of course, the android had been programmed the same way.

She seemed to falter, lost in thought—perhaps recalling how "I" had landed, head-first against the ground.

Then she sighed, as if conceding something, and stepped closer. With a sharp tug, she pulled my arm aside.

"Let me see. Don't tell me you've gone and cracked your skull."

She brushed aside my hair and touched the back of my head.

Her fingers found a shallow dent.

But no blood. Not a drop.

From the third floor I had fallen, my skull dented against the ground, and yet, there was no bleeding.

Her eyes wavered with suspicion, edged with fear. She stared for a long moment. And then, inexplicably, she smiled.

She must have convinced herself that I had reinforced my body beforehand.

"Gaston, if you're going to play the victim, at least put some effort into it. Pretending to jump, faking an injury… now you're resorting to such cheap tricks just to get my attention. How impressive."

She was mocking me. Or perhaps… not entirely.

Later, back in the bedroom, "I" lay down on the bed.

Robots don't need sleep, but they do enter standby mode to self-repair. I hadn't expected Diane to come.

She stood at the bedside, looking down at me. Her gaze was complicated and unreadable.

"Next time, try a different tactic. You should know I hate it when people use their lives to threaten me."

"I didn't."

The voice function had recovered. The tone was steady, without a flaw.

Her face remained cold. "Gaston, even now, you want to keep pretending? Back then, you could never stand Ian. Every time you saw him, you quarreled. I knew it was jealousy, so I told you not to compete with him. And you've held a grudge until today?"

I couldn't understand. What did Diane truly want from me?

She hated the living me, who got jealous and sulked when she drew too close to other men.

She also hated the mechanical me, who obeyed her every word without complaint.

Perhaps, so long as it was me, she would always hate.

"I" sat up on the bed, staring at her in quiet confusion.

Her expression hardened. Then she climbed onto the bed, straddling me.

"Gaston, do you still love me?"

That question should have been mine to ask.

But "I" answered anyway. "Diane, I will love you forever."

Something in her eyes softened. She leaned down, pressing her ear against "my" chest. What she heard was the perfectly simulated rhythm of a human heartbeat… and faint beneath it, the whisper of…

"Where is that sound of electricity coming from?"

Her eyes flicked warily around the room. But she dismissed it quickly, turning back with a faint frown.

"Gaston, since you claim to love me, then prove it."

Her hand reached for my belt.

For the first time in three years, Diane had taken the initiative to claim my body.