He was watching me again.
But now, I was watching him watch me.
Every flick of his eye. Every twitch of his lip.
I recorded it — not with cameras.
With intent.
Because he wasn't in control anymore.
He just didn't know it yet.
---
I started changing things.
Small things, at first.
Switched the scent of the soap
Rearranged the photos in the hallway
Replaced the blue wine glass he always used with a red one
He noticed.
But said nothing.
That's how you break someone like him — not with screams, but with silence.
---
In the study, I found the first test logs.
Printed. Highlighted. Dated before I was ever born.
> "Emotional imprint is unstable. Subject unable to maintain consistent response to affection."
Subject?
Him.
They tested him too.
Before us.
Before me.
Before Amelia.
He wasn't just the puppeteer.
He was the original experiment.
---
I stared at the document.
My fingers trembled.
> "Control subject lacks empathy unless synthetic attachment is established via repetition. Responds only to patterns of loyalty, not emotion."
He didn't fall in love with us.
He fell in love with how we loved him.
Like a drug.
---
I made dinner.
Again.
Same meal.
Same wine.
Every bite — silent.
Every breath — calculated.
He finally broke the silence.
> "You're quiet lately."
> "You're interesting lately," I replied.
He tilted his head.
> "You've changed."
> "No," I said softly. "I've become."
---
After dinner, I left a gift on his pillow.
A page torn from his own logs.
Circled in red ink:
> "Subject Zero is unaware he was programmed to destroy what he craves most."
Below it, I wrote:
> "I crave nothing. Not anymore."
---
That night, he didn't come to bed.
But I heard him pacing.
Downstairs.
Back and forth.
Like a glitch.
The next morning, the mirror was clean.
No handprints.
No fog.
No girls.
Just me.
Finally alone.