Ai

A man, no longer young, stood in front of the automatic sliding doors. For a few seconds, he remained motionless—stiff, straight, arms at his sides. In his left hand, a leather suitcase. His eyes stared straight ahead, unblinking. His breath was held. This entire action—or inaction—was ingrained in him. He performed it flawlessly, without a second thought. Repeated many times, it no longer posed any difficulty. Repeated many times, it became increasingly tedious. A slight irritation was evident in his pursed lips and the arching of his eyebrows over his piercing, brown, slanted eyes. This, too, was more of an involuntary reflex than a spontaneous reaction. Professor Kimiwo Ashiteru, like a robot, proceeded with the automatic identification scan: straightening his body, eyes straight, eyebrows furrowed, a sour expression. During those five seconds, a cluster of sensors examined his retina and figure, grinding and beeping as they did so. The computer compared the collected data with the stored profile – the retinal pattern and a three-dimensional model of the man – and when it determined a match beyond any doubt, the door slid open with a quiet hiss

. When he was finally able to breathe, the professor hissed under his breath:

"Damn you all."

He hated electronics. His life was therefore all the more difficult because they were almost everywhere. This ubiquity, however, only highlighted all their imperfections. Electronics were slow. It seemed to take a machine five seconds to recognize something. But the professor must have been identified dozens of times a day. Not only did this happen almost every step of the way, but long minutes were wasted—time usually invaluable during a hectic workday. Electronics were imperfect—correct, albeit slow, operation depended on the stability of everything it relied on and everything it controlled. So, on the one hand, an entire network of unimaginably complex dependencies could be shattered by a simple short circuit, a voltage surge, or some other anomaly in the power supply; on the other, it could easily be outsmarted by a person of average intelligence with a keen eye. This, in turn, stemmed from the third characteristic of electronics: that it was stupid. Mindless and impotent. So what if computers could flawlessly simulate the creation of the universe—when the trivial act of identifying a person at the doorway consistently took 4.83 seconds? The computer hadn't learned to do it more efficiently, faster, quieter, or more economically. What's more, it hadn't yet realized that the only person who had ever stood at the door of Professor Kimiwo Ashiteru's apartment was the professor himself. So, day after day, coming home from work, he arrived at his own door, a complete stranger, and had to undergo a ritual as absurd as it was completely unnecessary to gain entry to his own apartment. He was often tempted to kick, hit, or throw something heavy at the cursed door with all his might; the only thing that stopped him was the fear that this would only damage the already faulty mechanism, and he would be stuck forever, either on his own doorstep or in the apartment.

He entered the empty apartment and set his suitcase on the threshold. He took off his shoes and headed for the kitchen. The room was shrouded in darkness. It was illuminated only by the yellowish glow from the illuminated aquarium, two meters by two meters by two. The professor approached it and, resting his fingertips on the glass, carefully examined the woman crouched in the opposite corner.

***

Ilidi was developing well. She was growing at a decent pace; there were, admittedly, periods of stagnation—but these were entirely biologically justified and predictable. Tissues were growing steadily, proportionally, and in line with the stage of development. The professor also found no alarming anomalies. The lack of pigment and hair seemed somewhat disturbing—but ultimately, these were trivial compared to the long series of processes that were proceeding flawlessly. Ilidi was eighteen years old, one hundred and seventy centimeters tall, slender, with full—though not excessive—breasts and shapely hips.

"Four days," the professor said, ostensibly to the woman behind the glass, in the aquarium, but still to himself.

He calculated the finale of experiment IL1D1 to be four days. Behind that sequence of letters and numbers lay no abbreviation, no meaning, no clue. It was merely the professor's whim, who—in defiance of his colleagues—did not give his work fanciful names from Greek mythology during the experimental stage, like Dejanira, Galatea, or Morpheus. Instead—two letters, a digit, a letter, a digit. CL2R1—a preparation that increases the resistance of certain thermophilic plant species to lower temperatures, a shorter summer, and heavier rainfall; as a result, it produced fruit that was not so much better adapted as simply different—and, surprisingly, good. FP7R4—a genetic modification; a fruit with an implanted gene begins to produce a pesticide on its own—fully biodegradable, of course, and harmless to humans. PT2S3—the first modification project on a human; Based on the sequenced human genome, Professor Ashiteru's group proposed removing the appendix sequence from the genotype, an element completely unnecessary and sometimes harmful to human health. Thanks to the professor and his colleagues, the Swedes gained their own corn, the Colorado potato beetle died out faster than if its ability to reproduce had been removed from its genome, and millions of people around the world, previously paralyzed by the threat of appendicitis in the middle of the night, breathed a sigh of relief.

Finally, IL1D1. Human. Female. Ilidi, as the professor called her.

Looking at the bald girl curled up in a fetal position, Ashiteru experienced a thrill—both cognitive and moral. He was crossing another boundary. As a young biologist, he began working as an assistant in simple experiments on plants—learning about them and manipulating them externally. This alone had sparked his imagination. However, when the first modifications to plant genes—the highest level of intervention in a life form—took place before his eyes, Dr. Ashiteru was captivated. When the DNA manipulation naturally progressed to more complex organisms—first animals, then humans—the fascinated scientist followed suit. However, not every door was open to the young biologist, even a distinguished one. Therefore, before he was allowed to join research groups, even in the most junior positions, he had to complete his medical studies. He didn't waste those few years. He devoted himself unreservedly to delving into the mysteries of anatomy and physiology. He hid away from any social life in books and memorized hefty tomes. As a doctor of medicine, he possessed a vast knowledge of humanity that astonished even his superiors, and an aversion to people. He knew how to cure any ailment, set and immobilize a fracture—yet he couldn't, nor would, simply strike up a conversation. As a colleague, he performed flawlessly—conscientious, efficient, helpful, and organized—yet outside of work, he seemed completely nonexistent. He didn't form close friendships with anyone, and neither attended social gatherings nor organized any himself. He lived for work. He engaged in increasingly serious and bold endeavors in the fields of medicine and genetics, rising through the ranks of research groups. He jumped from one to another, enriching each with knowledge and interesting concepts. He co-created artificial skin and an artificial liver. He supported the Osmosis project—a new generation of nutrients and drugs introduced into the human bloodstream non-invasively, absorbed directly through the skin. Through years of intensive research, he learned the human genome piece by piece and memorized it—he could draw it with his eyes closed, woken up in the middle of the night—and combined it with his vast knowledge of the anatomy and physiology of the body. Theoretically, with a little effort, he could create a human from scratch.

That's exactly what he set out to do.

That was precisely what Ilidi was – the IL1D1 experiment. His boldest project to date. For this purpose, he purchased and installed a huge aquarium in his own apartment, using enormous amounts of water; he regularly replaced the entire contents before undesirable life forms began to develop. All this at his own expense. The Institute didn't subsidize him a penny. However, the Institute didn't know about Ilidi – neither officially nor unofficially. Here, the professor was attempting to create a human being – and in an era of protests against genetically modified food and widespread outrage at the idea of ​​human cloning, he would become the prime target of the so-called moral elites, and with them all those whose oracle is television. In a situation where the institute's authorities and those responsible for funding research bowed to public pressure and even began to think in the same terms as the general public, many scientists abandoned their work, and those who didn't do so themselves had their budgets cut, and the project was eventually scrapped. It was therefore clear that if Professor Ashiteru wanted to do something, he had to do it outside the system, and, in a sense, outside the law. While no appropriate conventions had been established, the institute's policy of restraint could be considered such. So when he ordered a two-by-two-by-two-meter aquarium from a company outside the industry, under a name that meant nothing to laypeople, no one asked. Nothing caught his eye, either. The professor officially worked as one of the researchers conducting research on artificial blood, which was incompatible with real blood, regardless of blood type, Rh factor, or other factors. What he did at home was of no concern to anyone. In fact, inside jokes were made that he was either memorizing another physiology atlas or sleeping. The advantage of being overlooked, belittled, and even quietly ridiculed was that he wasn't perceived as a threat. No one expected anything crazy or unpredictable from him. Even if he stole a deadly virus from one of the laboratories, no one would even look at his hands. Even if he were to create a bomb from this germ in the privacy of his bedroom, even the police, interrogating everyone one by one, several times, would approach him rather casually, with doubt, and only out of a sense of duty. Thus, the professor, who was no friend and whom no one visited, could calmly, unmolested by questions, create a human being in his own kitchen.

His goal was the perfect being.

The very idea of ​​creating a living being was insane—let alone the expectation of perfection. But it was more than just an idealistic premise. At its core was the old feeling of unfulfillment; of trying and failing. There was a time in Ashiteru's life when he once set himself the same goal—perfection. Back in high school, he meditated and practiced martial arts—and in esotericism and karate, he rose far and high. He developed excellent composure and solid muscles. He came far—but he was also far from his goal. He earned belt after belt. Eventually, however, he went to college—and, willingly or unwillingly, abandoned karate and meditation. One belt after another ended up in the corner, and breathing exercises replaced all-night cramming. Ashiteru not only did well in his studies—he also grew fond of them. The knowledge he acquired began to captivate him—so much so that he soon forgot that he had once meditated and fought. Living in a dormitory, he didn't isolate himself from people—he preferred books. He read—once, twice, thrice. He memorized. Thus he mastered the basic literature—and then reached for additional ones. He combined this knowledge with extraordinary insight—he not only knew the material he studied by heart, but understood it thoroughly and perfectly combined the disciplines he had learned into an impressive whole. Thus he became a promising biologist, then a laboratory technician, and then a doctor of medicine. Finally, he faced the most daring task of his life, and now he placed in it the hopes he himself had abandoned at the threshold of the career that had led him to that task. Like a parent transferring their unfulfilled ambitions to their child. However, years of medical career had changed his view of perfection. Ilidi was neither to be a yogi nor a karateka. She was to be the perfect woman; biologically and genetically the most perfect representative of her species and gender.

The professor created IL1D1 from scratch. First, he came up with a code name—then he considered the subject of the experiment. Why a woman? Because that was what he saw when he tried to give the word "perfection" a human form—a woman. Secondly, he was intrigued by this creature, so different from himself because of its gender. Besides, his project of the perfect man—himself—had come to nothing. Having imagined this perfect being, he pictured her in his mind—not too tall, balanced between muscularity and slenderness. He imagined her as a twenty-year-old—a fully mature woman who had already overcome the worst of her hormonal turmoil. Fully formed, small, firm breasts, and smooth skin without a trace of acne. She was to have strong muscles and flexible tendons; strong wrists and ankles, and small, shapely feet with high arches. She was to maintain her perfect weight and figure thanks to a perfect metabolism. Black eyes—because, he believed, those eyes saw best. He knew which calves would give her the best jumping ability. He knew every bone, muscle, joint, and cartilage by heart—and he decided that Ilidi would have everything perfect. Functional, durable, and reliable. With this plan outlined, he moved on to the genotype determination phase. Recalling the learned relationships between individual traits and their genetic makeup, he spent many days writing out the equation of perfection. He checked the completed calculations several more times—and when everything matched, all that remained was to create the perfect deoxyribonucleic acid chain. He obtained the DNA base by the simplest possible route—from his own tissue. He sliced ​​the chain into pieces, extruded from a single cell. The chopped, initial DNA ceased to be his own—unique and distinctive. The genome, seemingly immensely complex, was, however, merely a sequence of four repeating elements found in every human, hare, and spider: adenine, cytosine, thymine, and guanine. Therefore, he could create anything based on his DNA. But he had a specific, intended goal—the ideal. So he shuffled these simple building blocks, connected them in pairs as needed, and then placed them on the appropriate sequence fragments. He placed the prepared chain in a cell without a nucleus. Placed in an aqueous environment, the molecule began to divide, bud, and multiply at a ferocious rate. Transferring it from the plate to the aquarium immediately became necessary—it grew at an alarming rate. This, in fact, was what he had programmed for it—rapid development. The acceleration mechanisms had already been thoroughly tested on plants—the professor had learned this modification and remembered it from his time as a botanist. He therefore observed with satisfaction how—despite the fact that DNA is not the same as plant RNA—Ilidi grew, one might say, like a yeast. The frenetic growth was supposed to cease when Ilidi reached the developmental stage of twenty. However, this did not mean that it would stop completely at that age. Despite his vast knowledge and advances in genetics,There were certain tricks you couldn't do with time. You couldn't reverse it. An old man had to remain an old man. You couldn't stop him. Only death stopped aging. You could only slow down certain processes to some extent; or speed them up. A professor could age more slowly—and a toddler could, perversely, become an old man quite quickly.

Ilidi was literally growing before my eyes. A millimeter a minute, at best—but when the professor returned from the institute each evening, he found a completely new girl in the aquarium. Within a week, the plump infant had blossomed into a healthy, slim girl. After another three weeks, the girl had breasts, a narrow waist, and round hips.

Ashiteru calculated Ilidi's maturation to the age of twenty as a total of forty-one days—an average of a year for two days.

***

When the professor returned from work on the fortieth day and, furious at the ID scan, dropped his suitcase by the door and kicked off his shoes, he immediately went to the kitchen.

The aquarium, lit from below, standing in the center of the dark kitchen was empty. The water level in the tank—cloudy and yellowish from the suspension of nutrients absorbed through the skin—had dropped noticeably. The tiled floor was wet.

The man stood motionless for a long moment, staring blankly at the empty aquarium. Without looking up, he reached behind him for the light switch. Click! But in full light, the situation didn't look any less grim.

With tiny steps, treading on the wet floor in his socks, the professor approached the tank—terrified and confused. He began to walk around it, hoping to catch a glimpse of her, cleverly hidden in the corner.

To his surprise, he found her. She

was drinking tap water.

The scientist stopped dead in his tracks. Ilidi was simply leaning over the sink, quenching her thirst. IL1D1, his greatest project, had clambered out of the aquarium on its own and begun to live. The artificially bred woman had been born and had begun a new life from the most human, mundane thing.

She only noticed his presence when she finished drinking. She lifted her head from the sink and turned slowly—first her head, then her whole body. She was clearly not overly affected by his sudden appearance. She had noticed him—and simply accepted his presence. She didn't scream, jump, or try to hide or run. She was looking at him the same way he was looking at her—with wide, steady, intent eyes. She looked him over carefully, not to judge; simply to observe and memorize. As he slowly approached her, she wasn't frightened. She continued to stare at him with her ever-curious, black eyes. He became flustered and, passing her, went to the other side of the sink and turned off the still-flowing cold stream, which she hadn't turned off. She glanced briefly at his hand on the tap, then looked at him again.

"I need... I need to dry you..." the professor muttered under his breath, looking at her, but speaking as if to himself. He nervously padded out of the kitchen and hurried to the bathroom for a towel.

Ilidi followed him with slow, graceful steps and left the kitchen for the living room. She wandered around the spacious room, examining the walls and furniture with serene interest. She left wet footprints on the carpet and water droplets on everything she touched.

The professor returned from the bathroom with a clean, white towel. When he approached her, intending to wrap the towel around her and dry her, she took a step back and stood directly in front of him. He took a step forward, and she took a step back. Unsure what to do, Ashiteru stood still for a moment, thinking he was simply startling her. Only then did she approach him, take the towel, and begin to dry herself efficiently. The professor watched this simple ritual, captivated. Ilidi dried herself as if it were a routine. First, she patted her bald head and face. She didn't forget her ears, carefully drying each tiny ear. She dried her back without any help. Even as she wiped her wet feet, holding one in the air and balancing on the other, she didn't lose her balance even without support.

When she finished, she approached him and, looking at him with those curious, large, black eyes of hers, handed him a wet towel. She followed him as he carried it to the bathroom. Hanging the towel on the radiator, the professor left Ilidi in the room she was examining with immense interest—even though it was only a bathroom. He left, leaving the door ajar so as not to disturb her, but slightly open so she wouldn't have difficulty exiting. He returned to the living room, where he sat comfortably in a soft armchair.

"Damn it..." he muttered to himself, his voice still thick with astonishment.

Only now did it truly sink in—Ilidi was real. When he saw her, he'd been too stunned with amazement to care for her. Only when he had a moment of peace and solitude, a chance to reflect on it, did he begin to understand that something incredible had happened. It had really happened.

Ilidi—a marvel of creation—had clearly had her eye on the bathroom, because after a few minutes she finally emerged with a stately, slow gait. Spotting the professor sitting in an armchair, she approached him and settled into the armchair opposite him—one of two available. The scientist had more than one simply because he liked them—not that he ever needed them.

Ashiteru gazed at Ilidi in all her glory, perched on the edge of the chair, her hands resting on her joined knees. He drank in the wondrous sight. He reveled in her perfection—meticulously planned and perfectly brought to life. She was everything he had imagined, calculated, mapped out, and drawn. Not too tall, not too short. Perfectly proportioned and balanced—not too thin, not too muscular. Slim, but appropriately rounded at the hips and slimmer at the waist. Small, shapely breasts complemented her body perfectly. She had narrow shoulders and slender arms. Legs were shapely and firm, and small feet with high arches. She was just as he had wanted. Perfect.

Almost.

Except she was bald and white. She had subtle, white eyebrows and eyelashes. But not a single hair grew on her head. Her skin was completely devoid of pigment—a pale white on her face, back, arms, and legs. A faint orange tint was found only on the palms of her hands and the soles of her feet—where blood flowed most intensely. And although genetically speaking, this was a flaw in her genome—it didn't bother the scientist. It was a curious phenomenon, making Ilidi even more intriguing, not unsightly.

Gazing at the perfect woman, the professor didn't even realize when he'd fallen asleep, overcome by sleep. He woke up in an armchair in the living room. Across from him, Ilidi was also asleep, curled up on the soft seat.

Without waking her, he quietly slipped away to work.

***

As he worked, numerous anxieties assailed him, throwing him off his rhythm. He left Ilidi—alone, in the house. He locked her in and abandoned her, giving her no food and not being sure she'd find something on her own. If she started searching on her own, she might make a mess or get hurt. Plagued by these doubts, he struggled to concentrate on his duties.

When he returned home, and the door to his apartment slid open with a soft hiss, he carelessly dropped his suitcase to the ground and, without taking off his shoes, went to check on the woman.

"Du-du-di-di-daa..."

He heard Ilidi's muffled voice coming from the bathroom. He quietly approached the door and pushed it open. The girl stood in front of the mirror, leaning on the sink, looking at her reflection, singing out syllables that didn't form logical words in a melodic voice.

"Da-di-du-di-du-da..."

He watched this strange activity with curiosity. It was somewhat childish, but interesting that she had begun to speak on her own, even singing, even if it was meaningless.

Ilidi, until then absorbed in her reflection in the mirror and humming, finally turned her attention to the professor standing in the doorway. She gave him her usual curious look.

"Good morning," she said. When the professor stared at her in surprise, she explained, "I'm just humming. It's a very good diction exercise."

After a moment of awkward silence, the professor left her and went to make some coffee. A moment

later, another "da-da-di-di-du" could be heard from the bathroom. When he returned to the room a few minutes later with a cup of hot coffee, Ilidi was already there. Apparently preoccupied, she paid him no attention again. She was practicing bending exercises; he watched with interest as the perfect woman tested the limits of her perfect body. Keeping her legs together, knees straight, she touched her toes to her feet. Then she rose and raised her arms above her head in a Y-shape. After a few repetitions, she stopped.

"Coffee is very unhealthy. It raises blood pressure and is addictive," she said suddenly to the professor, who was drinking coffee. "I prefer water."

Ashiteru looked at her in astonishment. Ilidi was not only perfect, but she also seemed to know exactly what could harm and what could benefit that perfection.

The girl sucked in her stomach and began a new exercise. Without lifting her feet from the floor, she alternately lifted one heel, then the other, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. The muscles flexed on her shapely thighs and calves.

"There's nothing left in the fridge. Could we order something?

" "Order?" the professor stammered. As if suggesting something strange and ominous.

"Yes," she replied curtly. "There's an offer on the coffee table."

On the table near the front door lay a messy pile of mail. Ashiteru used to leave it there—saving space in the wastebasket for more important things. Meanwhile, after removing bills and checks from the pile of envelopes, he left the advertisements and catalogs as they were. When they piled up too many, they slid to the floor; when they got in his way, he kicked them under the table.

At the very top was an advertisement for a diner offering healthy Japanese food delivered to customers' homes. A few rice dishes and a few kinds of sushi, delivered to the door for a reasonable price by a delivery guy in his company uniform.

***

Under Ilidi's influence, ordering meals became the norm. Furthermore, the refrigerator, used primarily for storing milk for coffee, was filled with larger quantities of milk and all sorts of healthy foods—juices, dairy products, mineral water, cereal. Even the professor began eating, whereas previously his only home-cooked meal had been coffee.

Ashiteru also pulled a mail-order catalog from under a stack of advertisements. He had to do some shopping. First and foremost, he needed an outfit for Ilidi. Her nudity embarrassed him. So he looked for something that would cover her up a bit without hindering her from performing her perfection, and him from observing it.

He ordered her a black bikini.

Her bald head also irritated him. So he searched websites for wigs and chose a long-haired, silver one with bangs. He included it with his costume order and sent it off. However, he didn't tell Ilidi anything about it, neither while he was planning it nor after he'd already purchased the two items.

When the package arrived, he opened it and intended to give the girl the costume and hair, encouraging her to at least try them on. But she beat him to it – as he unwrapped the package, she walked over and snatched both, and hid with them in the bathroom. There, she tried on the wig, adjusting it on her bald head until she finally achieved the desired effect. She looked at herself from right to left; her black bikini dangled in her right hand.

"Don't look!" she screamed, startled, when she caught sight of the professor standing in the doorway, reflected in the mirror. She covered her bare breasts with her hands.

***

In the corner of the living room lay two-pound dumbbells. Nearby, a treadmill. Ashiteru had spent a considerable sum on a modern device that monitored bodily functions during exercise, happy that Ilidi was not only perfect but also wanted to remain so, putting so much effort into it. Sitting comfortably in his armchair, he watched with satisfaction and admiration as the girl toddled in place for fifteen minutes, half an hour, an hour, without tiring at all; watching her calves, thighs, and buttocks, covered with silver hair, work. He also walked over from time to time to check the readings on the display. Ilidi reached a pace of twenty kilometers per hour, with a relatively low heart rate and a calm, deep, even, and rhythmic breathing. The girl enjoyed eating—albeit healthy and nutritious—but she spent long hours exercising. She sweated, stretched, and flexed in her skimpy black bikini—as the professor watched with unwavering approval. He was proud of her. What had begun as a side project, whose success even he doubted, had succeeded, and now, day after day, it was proving to him just how incredible it was. He longed to show her to the world. He hid her not only out of fear of criticism and outrage. He also feared failure—a catastrophic flaw in his plan or practice that would ridicule him and ruin his career. Yet he had achieved complete success. He had bred a fully functional, healthy, and resilient creature—perfect. He wanted to take her out of his large, windowless apartment, bring her to the institute, and then show her around the world, accompanied by a standing ovation. He wanted to run out into the streets and shout her name.

He lay in bed, wearing only pajama bottoms, the covers pulled down so his torso was exposed. He wondered if, and if so, when he would reveal Ilidi to the world. He dozed off slowly, his thoughts blurring. He didn't realize when Ilidi, exhausted from another round of exercises, entered his bedroom. She didn't seem to know what she was doing either. She slipped under the covers. He felt a jolt and woke up. He wanted to turn around to see what it was—but then he felt something that shook his body so violently that he froze. His bare back touched the girl's shoulder. The cold, sweat-chilled white skin of Ilidi against his sent a shiver through him—different from anything he'd ever felt, and more powerful.

Then the woman rolled onto her side. She threw her arm around his neck and pressed her soft, cool body against his.

***

Returning from the institute, the professor found Ilidi busy with her usual pursuit—perfecting perfection. She was working out on the treadmill, zipping along at eighteen kilometers per hour. He sat in the chair, facing her as usual, and watched, something she never seemed surprised or opposed to—because she didn't really notice. He ran his eyes over her firm curves and slender figure, feeling something more than just pride. He no longer saw her as perfect. Since the previous night, he'd looked at her completely differently. No longer IL1D1. Not just essence—biology, anatomy, genome. He saw a woman in her. A beautiful, dazzling, and delicate woman.

That night, exhausted from training, she came back to his bedroom. She lay down—two elbows away from him—and froze. He turned to face her, and in the rectangle of light cast upon them by the undimmed light from the drawing-room, he examined her perfect features. White eyebrows, the line of which gave her an expression of heavenly peace. Large eyes, now closed. A straight nose and a small, delicate mouth. Prominent, though not exaggerated, cheekbones. A narrow chin. In the golden light, she was the embodiment of beauty—a miracle, an angel.

Ilidi stirred in her sleep. She turned slightly and extended her right hand toward the man. She placed it almost at his lips. He stared at her for a few moments, dazed, shaken by something more powerful than what he had experienced yesterday—and he pressed his lips to that beautiful, white, warm hand, and remained there.

At night, while she slept and he drifted off to sleep, something unfamiliar awoke within the scientist. Some desire, some feeling, some need. Something as fascinating as anything he had ever known. He knew for a fact that the cause was her, and the goal was her and him. This was what he wildly desired, watching her every day, flexing her thigh muscles, drinking mineral water, and singing in front of the mirror to improve her diction. This was all he wanted, lying next to her, sleeping, every night. But he was also afraid of it. He didn't say anything to her, and she sensed nothing. She didn't look at him, and when she did, it was without suspicion; to remember him, not to interpret him. They didn't discuss this type of feeling, or feelings in general—they spoke little at all—so he had no idea how she viewed such matters. He was afraid—of failure, of misunderstanding, of rejection. Just as he had once hidden Ilidi from the world, now he hid himself from Ilidi. During the day, he behaved normally, tried—though he didn't really have to—to remain invisible, and at night, he died of pleasure whenever she even accidentally touched him.

***

"I love you.

" "Excuse me?

" "I love you, Ilidi," the professor whispered, looking into her eyes. "I love you like crazy.

" "I don't understand..."

"Hmm..." Ashiteru sighed. "What do you mean... Love is something that... you look at someone and a wave of absolute bliss just washes over you. You want to lose yourself in their smile, drown in their eyes...

" "I think I understand," she said uncertainly, a little worried.

"And I have someone like that, Ilidi... You... I look at you and I almost float in the air. I'm no longer important—only you matter...

" "You know... I think exactly the same...

" "Really?" The professor's voice cracked with happiness.

"Hmm... Yes..." she admitted after a moment of thought. "When I look at myself in the mirror, it's hard to look away!" I think you could call it love...

Ashiteru looked at her, stunned, with tears in his eyes.

"Ilidi... Love me! I beg you, love me!

" "Why?

" "Love me... For me... For our evenings together, for our nights together...

" "When I... I can't... I don't love you... We are two different beings," she explained. "You are a yellow, wrinkled old man... I am... perfect."

She yanked her wrists from his grip and slowly, always watching him with a constant, curious gaze, retreated to the kitchen.

The professor sank into an armchair. There he remained in lethargy for several hours. Finally, he fell asleep.

***

When he woke up, Ilidi was working out on the treadmill as if nothing had happened. She hadn't even noticed him waking up. He stared at her for a solid five minutes, barely blinking. A powerful feeling welled up inside him. A completely new feeling—unfamiliar and stronger than anything he had experienced before.

"You're not perfect..." he muttered under his breath, barely audible.

He stood up and went to the kitchen.

Ilidi was galloping on the treadmill. She'd already run ten kilometers that morning. Her muscles were stiffening from the exertion—but she was used to it. She kept running. She completely ignored the professor when he flashed into her field of vision as he entered the kitchen. She didn't hear his quiet bustle, nor the creaking and clanging of drawers opening and closing.

Ashiteru emerged from the kitchen and approached the tirelessly running girl.

"You're not perfect."

Ilidi seemed to have noticed him for the first time. She stepped off the treadmill and stood before him, regarding him with a worried look in her large, black eyes.

"Excuse me?" she asked.

"You're not perfect," the man repeated.

She smiled indulgently.

"I am.

" "You're not perfect..."

She was about to tease him foolishly.

"Is—"

Her eyes widened. Her mouth formed a terrifyingly perfect "o."

"You're not."

Tears welled in her eyes.

"You're not perfect," Ashiteru hissed.

Ilidi began to choke on her own blood.

"You're not perfect," he repeated, his voice trembling.

He stabbed a second time.

"You're not," he whispered, shedding a tear.

A third time.

He ripped off her wig and bra. He swung the bloody scalpel at her. The silver blade plunged into Ilidi's flesh with surgical precision, slicing through smooth, white skin and digging deep into red entrails. Weeping, Ashiteru sliced ​​and ripped holes in her muscles, tense with the effort of resistance. He gouged her small hands as she shielded herself. He slashed along her face, from forehead to jaw, scratching along the bones.

"You're not perfect!" he shouted through his tears.

Ilidi collapsed to the ground. She collapsed limply onto the carpet, red with hot, bright blood. Her beautiful, flawless body was marred by deep holes and jagged lines. Her pale, almost white skin—orange on the palms of her hands and the soles of her feet—was covered in rivulets of blood, crisscrossing and intertwining, merging into an ocean of despair.

The professor fell to his knees at her side. The scalpel fell from her limp hand. Leaning over Ilidi, Ashiteru shed salty tears onto her mortal body, directly onto her mortal wounds.

"You're not perfect..."