Richard stood motionless at the threshold of the boratory, hypnotized by the red and blue lights of the equipment pulsating like the heart of some strange creature. On the screen before him still glowed the st image of Emma—ughing, unburdened, unaware of his obsession. His fingers trembled as he reached for the switch. Each beat of his heart echoed the word: "enough."

  Enough hiding. Enough lies. Enough of this unnaturally electric-blue substitute for life.

  Each monitor turned off, each light extinguished symbolized another step back to reality. The weight of recent months clung to him like a wet suit—too adhesive, too tight. But he was ending it. He had to.

  One st time, he looked around his secret sanctuary. A space where he had allowed himself to dream of the impossible. Where he—Richard Vargas, that respected scientist, a man of strict discipline—had broken down into basic parts and reassembled into something monstrous. Into someone he wouldn't recognize.

  With the final click of the central switch, the boratory plunged into darkness. In the silence, he heard only his own breathing—finally regur. Finally his own.

  The drive home was filled with quiet introspection. Exhaustion crept over him, but a sense of peace began to fill the void previously occupied by turmoil. Tonight, Richard promised himself, marked the end of his destructive obsession. It was time to recim what truly mattered—his family, his passion for science, his genuine success.

  Location: Vargas Estate – Upstairs HallwayTime: 11:42 p.m.

  Richard closed the door behind him with care, as if he might wake the ghosts. The house was quiet. Too quiet.

  Downstairs, in the dim light of the kitchen, he found the note beside a slice of untouched cake.

  Dad,Saved you a piece.Love, Cra.

  His eyes lingered on the handwriting. He ran his thumb across the corner of the card as if it might somehow speak back to him.

  He hadn't earned that love. Not anymore.

  He didn't eat the cake. He just stood there, his breath shallow, the silence wrapping around him like regret.

  Then, slowly, he turned and walked upstairs.

  Location: Master Bedroom – 11:47 p.m.

  The bedroom door creaked open with barely a sound.

  Julia sat upright, back against the headboard, bnket gathered in her p.Her expression was unreadable—part concern, part calcution.She didn’t speak. She just watched him, as if waiting to see which version of her husband had walked through the door.

  Richard stood frozen in the doorway. His chest tightened, something between guilt and grief digging up through his ribs. His whole body hurt. But it wasn't physical. It was weight.

  After a long pause, she rose—slowly, cautiously—and crossed the room. She didn’t speak. When she finally embraced him, her arms were gentle but uncertain, as if she hadn’t yet decided whether to comfort him or just hold him long enough to keep him from falling apart.

  The sob hit him like a punch to the stomach—raw and wrenching. He tried to hold it in, to bite it down, but it was too te. He folded into her, arms shaking, his face buried against her shoulder.

  "I'm sorry," he choked, voice thick and broken.

  “You vanish for weeks and come back like this...” she whispered, voice cracking slightly. “I want to believe you still mean it.”

  She just held him tighter. “You’re home,” she whispered eventually. But the way she said it—it wasn’t conviction. It sounded like she needed to believe it, maybe even more than he did.

  He kissed her—desperately, hungrily. Not for pleasure. For proof. That he was still real. That he was still wanted. That someone still saw him, despite everything that tormented him.

  They stumbled back toward the bed, fingers cwing at clothes, at skin, at certainty. His lips were frantic on her neck, her colrbone, her mouth. Her breath hitched against his, her hands buried in his hair.

  There were no words. Just breathing. Contact. Desperation disguised as desire.It wasn’t gentleness—it was a st attempt at anchoring himself to someone real. And she let him, not out of heat, but maybe out of memory. Or mercy. A man cwing at the st thing he hadn’t destroyed yet.

  She pulled him into her, gasping as he thrust hard and deep. No teasing. No slow build. Just need, immediate and overwhelming.

  He gripped her hips, driving into her with the urgency of a man trying to tear something out of himself. His breathing was ragged, animal. Her body clung to him, warm and wet and real.

  He needed this. He needed her—her body, her breath, her moans in his ear. He needed to burn through everything else.

  His mind blurred.

  There were no machines. No lies. No Emma.

  Just this. Just her. His wife. The one who stayed.

  "Richard," she whispered, voice trembling beneath him. "I'm here. For you. Always."

  He buried himself deeper, losing rhythm, chasing something that wasn't just orgasm—but release. He gently brushed her nipple with his teeth, then kissed her breasts with his lips, with unexpected tenderness amid all that urgency. His fingers digging into her thigh. She gasped, arched, opened even wider.

  The pressure built.

  The heat in his spine rose.

  And then—detonation.

  He came with a growl, guttural and unfiltered, his whole body convulsing. It was too much. Too real. The orgasm wasn't just physical—it was emotional incineration. He emptied himself into her with such intensity it left him shaking, eyes blurred, breath stolen from his lungs.

  The cry that left his mouth wasn't a moan—it was a scream of release, of surrender, of finally letting go.

  He dropped onto her, gasping. Skin slick, arms tight. Not out of love—but panic. Like holding her made him real again. Like letting go meant disappearing completely.

  Her hand stroked his back, soft and mechanical. Her eyes remained open, staring at the ceiling, as if trying to remember something she wasn’t sure she trusted anymore.

  "I'm sorry," he murmured, barely audible. "I'm so... sorry."

  Julia's fingers threaded gently through his hair. "You came back," she whispered. "That's what matters."

  He didn't speak. He couldn't. The only sound in the room was the shared rhythm of their breathing—two broken people still somehow fitting together.

  And in that moment, buried in her warmth, Richard knew:

  He had touched something no simution could ever replicate.

  Reality.

  Redemption.

  Her. His support.

  Location: Vargas Estate – Kitchen

  The morning sun gently filled the kitchen with soft warmth, banishing shadows lingering from the night. Richard sat quietly at the breakfast table, sipping his coffee, feeling strangely refreshed despite his emotional exhaustion from the previous evening.

  Julia moved about the kitchen gracefully, preparing breakfast with a sense of calm and newfound ease. Cra entered hesitantly, eyes searching her father's face cautiously.

  Richard immediately caught her gaze, offering a small, genuine smile. "Morning, sweetheart."

  Cra's guarded expression softened slightly, but her voice remained tentative. "Morning, Dad."

  Julia pced a pte of pancakes on the table, pausing briefly to squeeze Cra's shoulder reassuringly. Richard took a breath, setting his coffee down, meeting Cra's uncertain eyes directly.

  "I owe you an apology," he began earnestly, voice steady despite his emotional vulnerability. "I missed something incredibly important to you—to all of us. That's not the father I want to be, Cra."

  Cra's eyes shimmered with cautious hope. "It's okay, Dad. I know you're busy—"

  "No," Richard interrupted gently, his tone resolute. "That's no excuse. I'm making you a promise today. I'm here now. I'll always be here, from this moment forward. No more missed moments."

  A silence fell, thick with emotion. Cra slowly moved around the table, wrapping her arms around Richard in a tentative but heartfelt hug. "I missed you, Dad."

  Richard embraced her firmly, emotion catching in his throat. "I missed you too, more than you'll ever know."

  Julia watched silently, warmth radiating from her smile, her eyes shining with quiet pride. For the first time in too long, their home felt genuinely united, though fragile, the tentative hope palpable and precious.

  Richard turned onto the highway, sunlight reflecting off the windshield and creating patterns on his hands. Cra had hugged him. Really hugged him. And she was right—he had been gone too long, even while physically present at the table.

  He felt an almost euphoric lightness as he drove through the city center. As if he had given up not only his obsession but also the heavy vest made of expectations and control. He could breathe. He could be Richard again—not just a scientist, not just a director, but a man with a family who needed him.

  "Today will be a different day," he said quietly to himself, and for the first time in months, he genuinely believed it.

  Location: Richard's Office at Vargas Neurotechnologies

  Richard arrived at his office with an unusual lightness. The morning harmony with his family still resonated within him, giving him new energy. He sat down at his desk, turned on his computer, and began going through new emails from HR. Initially, he casually scrolled through the names, but his movement suddenly stopped, as if he had hit an invisible wall.

  Emma Hartley.

  The bck and white letters seemed to glow directly into him. His breath slowed, the sound of the computer's fan suddenly seemed to intensify. He immediately recalled the image from the café—her contemptuous gaze, cold smile, words that humiliated him in public. His face flushed with the heat of shame.

  He blinked. Once, twice. He tried to look away, but the name on the screen drew him in like a magnet. His mind began generating arguments, each more convincing and deceptive than the previous one.

  It's just a coincidence, he told himself with an uncertain breath of optimism. It might be an opportunity to end it forever—I'll meet her, realize how truly repulsive she is, and free myself from her forever.

  But another part of his mind—darker, more dangerous—whispered a different story. What if it's fate? What if you need her precisely because she rejects you? What if this opportunity never comes again?

  His throat tightened. He stood up abruptly, his hands sweating, his quickened breath interrupting the calm rhythm of the office. He walked to the window to get some fresh air. Sunlight reflected off the gss building opposite, hypnotic in effect.

  Richard pulled out his phone. His fingers automatically went to Julia's number. He wanted to tell her how good he felt this morning, what hope their rediscovered closeness gave him.

  He paused. He hesitated over the green call button. His gaze slid back to the computer screen. Emma Hartley.

  "Just a conversation," he whispered aloud, as if trying to convince himself. But his fingers on the phone were already dialing another number. A number he had memorized from the HR document.

  Richard heard the phone ringing. Each ring cut him like the edge of a knife. He still had a chance to hang up, to stop this. But he didn't. His heart beat faster when he heard her voice.

  "Yes?" Emma answered, her voice cautious, curious. He could clearly hear the bustle of the street in the background, emphasizing the reality of this conversation.

  Richard took a deep breath, his voice professional, as if it belonged to someone else. "Good day, Miss Hartley. My name is Richard Vargas from Vargas Neurotechnologies. I received your application and was intrigued by your profile. I'd like to arrange a personal interview with you."

  There was a brief silence, as if Emma was considering something she didn't say out loud. Finally, however, she replied with youthful enthusiasm that momentarily reminded him of her online profile.

  "Thank you very much, Mr. Vargas. I would definitely like to meet."

  "Excellent," Richard said with a calm that didn't match his inner chaos. "I'll send you the details."

  He hung up. For a few seconds, he sat motionless. Her name still glowed from the screen, as if accusing him.

  His palms were moist. His stomach contracted as if struck by cold metal. What had he just done? He knew he had just committed an act that he could never expin. Not to Julia, not to himself. And yet a perverted euphoria pulsed through him, a sense of victory over something that had held him in check for a long time.

  Location: Richard's Secret Warehouse – PreparationsTime: 17:52, day of the meeting

  The air in the warehouse was sterile, permeated with the chemical scent of disinfectant mixed with the coldness of steel tables and equipment. Richard carefully prepared each step, every detail. His fingers precisely measured the dose of chloroform on the gauze, the strong and acrid smell causing him nausea.

  Occasionally, his breath stopped when Julia's face from the previous evening came back to him. The feeling of her skin under his fingers, the sweetness of her kisses, her voice promising him a new beginning.

  But his hands continued with the preparations. As if his body no longer belonged to him. As if he were a spectator watching a man on the edge of a precipice, unable to stop him.

  When he was finished, he looked at the empty chair where Emma would soon be sitting. Images of the future scene made him dizzy. He was tired, but adrenaline forced him to stand firmly on his feet.

  Richard checked the clock—18:47. Three days since the phone call. Seventeen hours since his st interaction with Julia, who had no idea that her husband had been systematically preparing every detail of his transformation over these days.

  The boratory, hidden from the world for years as his personal sanctuary, had been transformed into a surgically precise space. He had spent the st three days finalizing protocols, reprogramming algorithms, and testing neurotransmission mechanisms. He selected each drug with precision, adjusted each parameter hundreds of times. He left nothing to chance.

  Even inviting Emma for an interview in this remote warehouse had been carefully pnned for a time when other boratories were closed, and security systems were set to his private codes.

  Three days. Seventy-two hours between the moment he found her name on the list of candidates and now—when he stood on the threshold of his greatest transformation.

  Richard paced anxiously within the cold confines of his boratory, his eyes frequently darting toward the wall-mounted clock. Thirteen minutes te. Anxiety twisted sharply in his chest, a mixture of fear, excitement, and doubt colliding violently within him. His hands trembled slightly as he obsessively adjusted the arrangement of equipment on the table.

  "Where is she?" he murmured, frustration cing his words. He gnced again at the security monitors, the stark images flickering silently. He knew he should stop this madness now, turn her away when she arrived—if she even arrived.

  On the security monitors, he saw Emma stepping out of the taxi—the real, physical Emma, not the digital fragment he had fed on for months. She was slimmer than in the photos, less radiant without filters and carefully selected social media lighting. Her hair was tied up, professional, not falling freely as in the videos he had watched over and over. But it was still her—the one whose existence gave him hope of escape.

  He saw her uncertainty, the tension in her shoulders as she looked around the deserted warehouse. There was something in her face that never appeared on her profiles—real fear. Real vulnerability. And that brought him to a state of almost drugged ecstasy.

  This wasn't the perfect, unattainable Emma of his fantasies. This was a real woman, of flesh and blood, with imperfections and doubts. And yet, or perhaps because of this, his desire to be her, to feel what she felt, was stronger than ever before.

  Suddenly, the shrill buzz of the video intercom shattered the oppressive silence, jolting Richard from his spiraling thoughts. His breath caught as he approached the monitor and saw Emma stepping cautiously from a taxi, nervously gncing around the unfamiliar surroundings. Warehouse nineteen, tucked away, hidden. Perfectly discreet yet unsettling for an interview, a thought clearly reflected in her hesitant movements.

  Swallowing hard, Richard pressed the intercom button, his voice betraying none of his inner turmoil. "Please come inside, remove your coat, and have a seat."

  He watched through the monitor, mesmerized as she entered hesitantly, complying uncertainly with his request. Her movements, delicate yet filled with unspoken apprehension, captivated him. Her trust, despite everything he knew she remembered from their encounter, astounded him. He took a deep, shaky breath, knowing what he was about to do.

  He reached for a small bottle marked chloroform, his fingers shaking as he poured it onto the gauze. The pungent scent filled his senses, a stark reminder of the irrevocable step he was about to take.

  "This is the threshold," he whispered, his voice ragged with anticipation and dread intertwined. "One step and everything changes."

  Richard slipped quietly into the waiting room. Emma turned sharply, recognition blossoming instantly in her wide eyes. A shiver passed visibly through her; her breathing quickened, her lips parted in shock.

  "It's you," she said weakly, her voice shaking. "From the café... What do you want?"

  Her words stabbed him, recalling his humiliation vividly. His jaw clenched, but he didn't waver. Instead, he observed her closely—every tiny movement, her defensive step backward, the subtle trembling of her hands.

  He moved swiftly, closing the distance between them. Her soft perfume met him first, gentle and floral, starkly contrasting the harsh chemical scent emanating from the soaked cloth. As he pressed it firmly against her face, he felt her muffled screams vibrating against his palm. She struggled fiercely, her panic tangible, pulse hammering through her skin beneath his fingers.

  Gradually, her resistance faded. Richard felt a twisted sense of dominance and regret as he eased her limp form into the chair. The cool metal felt uncomfortably real beneath his sweating palms. He stood frozen, overwhelmed by a heavy sense of finality.

  "It had to be this way," he whispered quietly, the words intended more to convince himself than her unconscious form.

  Richard stood motionless, staring at Emma's unconscious form. Her breathing was slow, rhythmic, peaceful—such tranquility, sharply juxtaposed against the violence of her abduction. Tentatively, he reached out, fingertips brushing gently against her cheek, tracing the curve of her jaw. Her skin was warm, impossibly soft beneath his touch.

  His gaze lingered on her features, now rexed and vulnerable in sleep. Richard felt a powerful surge of admiration mixed with shame. Each heartbeat reminded him of his monstrous act, yet he couldn't suppress the twisted sense of victory pulsing within him.

  "This was necessary," he murmured, voice barely audible even to himself. "The world wouldn’t understand. Julia wouldn't understand. No one could see this as clearly as I do."

  He brushed a strand of hair from Emma’s face, his touch lingering longer than necessary. Images fshed through his mind—visions of her life that would soon become his. Simple pleasures: mornings in sunlit cafés, ughter-filled evenings with friends, quiet moments of solitude painting or writing. This was not just an escape; it was a rebirth, an opportunity to experience life through entirely new eyes.

  "There's no other way," he reassured himself once more. His gaze traveled slowly over Emma’s still form, observing the gentle rise and fall of her chest beneath the fabric of her blouse. The soft texture of the fabric hugged her curves, accentuating her fragile beauty in ways he’d only imagined from afar. Tentatively, he allowed his fingers to trace along her arm, feeling the warmth radiating through the thin material. He noted the slenderness of her wrist, how delicately her hands y rexed, so unlike Julia’s strong, capable hands or Cra’s youthful, tentative touch. His heart quickened with conflicted emotions, fascination interwoven tightly with guilt. Richard withdrew his hand abruptly, overwhelmed by the intensity of his obsession and the dangerous intimacy of his actions.

  Richard gently slid his arms beneath Emma's unconscious form, surprised by how easily he lifted her. She felt impossibly light, fragile as porcein, her body limp and vulnerable in his careful grasp. Her head tilted slightly toward his chest, hair cascading softly, releasing a delicate scent of vender and vanil. The fragrance was intoxicating, drawing him deeper into his fantasy.

  With cautious reverence, he pced her onto the procedure chair, meticulously securing her wrists and ankles with soft yet firm restraints. Carefully, he fastened the electronic locks, ensuring each one was precisely set to release at his command, accessible only through a discreet sensor integrated into the armrest. He double-checked the system, satisfied with the setup. His movements were precise, almost ritualistic, each buckle and strap an affirmation of his irrevocable commitment.

  As he adjusted the sensors and aligned electrodes around her temples, his mind wandered into vivid imaginings—soon these slender fingers would respond to his thoughts, these graceful limbs move under his control. He envisioned clearly the first moment of awakening as Emma, effortlessly freeing herself from the restraints, standing up, and experiencing the world from within her body. His pulse quickened with a dark anticipation, a twisted sense of fulfillment blossoming within him.

  Emma’s eyes fluttered open slowly, confusion swiftly shifting to terror. Her breathing became rapid, ragged. Her muscles strained visibly against the restraints, her body tensing in helpless panic. Tears quickly welled, glistening in her widened eyes.

  "Please," she gasped, voice cracking painfully. "Please let me go."

  Richard approached cautiously, his stomach twisting as he watched her frantic desperation. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, each breath a battle against her rising terror. Her voice shook uncontrolbly as she cried out louder, a shrill note of panic piercing through the sterile silence. "Help! Someone, please!"

  "Emma," he whispered, tone gentle yet distant, attempting to steady his trembling hands. "No one will hear you. It's just us."

  Her eyes darted wildly around the room, her lips trembling uncontrolbly. Richard noticed her fingers, knuckles whitened, gripping futilely at the restraints. Her entire frame shuddered violently with each sob, each desperate plea.

  He moved closer, feeling a profound tightness in his chest. "I'm sorry," he murmured, gently brushing hair from her tear-streaked face. "This is how it must be."

  Emma shook her head desperately, fresh tears streaming down her cheeks. Her eyes pleaded with him, voicing what words could not. Richard fought back a wave of nausea and regret, forcing his focus onto the task ahead. He methodically injected sedatives into her IV, observing with clinical detachment as her resistance slowly ebbed away.

  Richard felt cold metallic contacts gently touching his temples as the room slowly sank into soothing dimness. The devices emitted a barely audible hum, pulsating rhythmically like the heartbeat of an unknown creature. He knew every detail around him had been meticulously arranged, precisely calibrated by Bio-Nano Interface sensors—microscopic nanobots that had already entered his bloodstream, now reading and writing his neural patterns like tiny needles.

  Before his eyes, perfect reproductions of Emma's life pyed out, generated by the Sensory Projection Unit, stimuting key regions of his brain so the NEXA AI algorithm could create a detailed map of his consciousness with maximum precision. Each projection was overly sharp, overly clear, like a photograph in excessively high resolution. Everything felt simultaneously real and unnatural.

  He sensed subtle vibrations from the nanobots finalizing the st synaptic connections in the target brain. The Transformation Core Unit coordinated the simultaneous transfer of his personality and memories into the new body. The Stabilization and Energy Unit supplied him with neurostabilizers, suppressing his consciousness and preparing him for the irreversible change.

  Richard slowly closed his eyes. His thoughts were dissolving, the boundaries of his consciousness melting away into calming darkness. He drifted off to sleep, reconciled with the inevitability of the process he had set into motion.

  With his final breath, he realized a simple yet terrifying truth—when he next awoke, he would no longer be Richard Vargas.

  He would be Emma.