W accepted my explanation, attributing that "deviation" to a minor tactical adjustment. But the invisible reins had clearly tightened.
New targets came one after another, and the "optimized plans" W supplied grew ever more "comprehensive," leaving almost no blanks for me to fill in myself. They even began specifying the precise surroundings at the moment of death and the possible reactions of bystanders, refining each script until it was airtight. All I needed to do was "transcribe" those details into the notebook with my pen.
Efficiency reached a new extreme. The strain dropped to an unprecedented low. The loss of memories became as natural as breathing, no longer causing any noticeable disturbance. I even began to grow accustomed to this state of "steady payment," as though the things slipping away had never belonged to me in the first place.
Under this supremely efficient feeding regimen, the "thing" inside me grew ever quieter, melding ever more deeply with my hollow shell. Those newly formed shackles were no longer an external restraint. They were on the verge of becoming the very framework of my soul.
I played the role W expected of me perfectly-absolutely rational, efficient, obedient.
Until that target appeared.
The target's code name was "Nightingale." Not one of the usual powerful figures or criminals, but a journalist-a journalist about to publish a major exposé after relentlessly investigating scandals within the "Reformists," the political group W supported. W supplied the following charges: [Spreading false information, undermining social stability, endangering the reform process]. Recommended execution method: death in a carefully orchestrated, "random" street robbery and murder while traveling to a secret meeting with a source.
I stared at the cold text on the encrypted screen. For the first time, my finger did not immediately select the "optimized plan."
An exceedingly faint yet