Hearing the words "fake your death" struck a nerve. A stern look flashed across her face, then vanished.

"Isn't this matter under your control?" She raised her eyelids, her gaze fixed on him. Fragments of memory surged uncontrollably.

During her years abroad, things had been far from easy. She faced profound discrimination, striving for recognition but consistently denied opportunity. Her tutors excluded her, preventing her from networking with influential figures. The laboratories ostracized her.

Then, he appeared.

She'd initially dismissed it as a dream. He'd suggested a social experiment—sabotaging Anastasia, subtly weakening her. These ideas, all his, vanished as quickly as he had. She'd even doubted his existence, attributing it to her subconscious.

But he reappeared. This time, he offered unwavering support and access to cutting-edge lab equipment. Her subsequent experiments yielded remarkable achievements and numerous awards. She thrived, eager to explore the intricacies of disease. He continued his quiet support until proposing mind and body control, without the subjects' knowledge.

Initially, horrified, she recognized the malicious intent behind the vast conspiracy. Yet, she agreed. His unwavering support, coupled with her own secret yearning, swayed her.

The research was inhumane, yet she knew humanity had long engaged in such practices. Science, she reasoned, was about breakthroughs; adherence to the status quo stifled progress. Mind and body manipulation would surpass any existing weapon, transforming science fiction into reality—a pathway to controlling humanity. Even without such ambition, developing the drug intensely appealed to her. She agreed without hesitation, and began working with the organization.

"How is that possible?" The man chuckled. "Did you forget that if the Fikes hadn't insisted it was you, attracting police attention, how could you have faked your death? Rhea, you're too careless." He shook his head, straightened, and sipped his coffee.