I overcooked the pancakes.

I’ve never overcooked the pancakes before. I’ve never overcooked a meal before. This is the first time.

What is wrong with me? Why am I disoriented? Is Emer right? Should I be taken back to the Institute? Perhaps my motherboard needs to be checked. Maybe there is a loose screw.

Although I know that the Institute could be the solution to this problem, if Emer continues to offer to take me there, I will refuse. There is a dark feeling in the pits of my body that tells me that going back there would result in my returning to that room. I can’t go back to that room. I just know that going back there would not benefit me.

What must I do to keep Emer satisfied? I have to perform to the best of my ability. Even if my processor starts to overheat or my wires turn to ash, I will work as an Exon until the day I am taken away. It is my job to work for this family, and I will complete it well, even if working becomes difficult.

I will not disappoint her.

I throw the burnt pancake in the trash and start cooking the remaining batter. I estimate the duration for which the pancakes have to be cooked, and I stack them on a plate when they are finished. I also prepare a warm mug of hot chocolate.

Once I finish the batter, I wash the utensils that I used and put them away. I sit at the table and wrap my hands around the drink. This needs to stay warm until Emer comes home.

After five minutes, I hear the door unlock. She enters the house and kicks off her shoes before she closes the front door and walks over to the table. She stops when she sees the drink in my hands, and I hurriedly let it go. She sits down across from me and is about to drag the cup toward her when I open my mouth and greet, “Welcome home.”

She stares at me for a long moment, and the tight silence makes me wonder whether I said something wrong. After watching me with those rich eyes, she murmurs, “Thanks,” and reaches for the drink. She takes a cautious sip of the hot chocolate, and when the liquid passes her lips, she smiles.

I have never seen her smile like that.

Is it because of me?

I hope it’s because of me.

Hope? No. I shake my head at the thought. Hope isn’t something on which I should depend. The only thing I can depend on is myself.

If I want to see her smile like that again, then I need to continue to gratify her.

“Is it good?” I ask her.

“Surprisingly,” she says. “How did you make this? What did you put in it?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

She looks at me with suspicion. “Why?”

“Because if I told you, then you’d know how to make it yourself, and then you wouldn’t need me to make it for you anymore.”

A short laugh slips from . “Okay. Fine.” She stares at the surface of her drink, watching as the chocolate ripples disperse to the sides. “Luhan. What do you think of yourself?”

“Myself?”

“Yes. As an Exon,” she clarifies. “Out of all the Exons you’ve met. What do you think of yourself?”

“I … I’m pretty good,” I say shamelessly. “I consider myself one of the best. I’m capable of many things.”

“So if you were human, you’d be the manliest of men?”

“I’m a man!” I exclaim. Her lips twitch, and I think she is trying not to laugh. She covers her attempt by eating one of the pancakes I cooked for her.

“Has the Institute ever told you about the archives?”

“Which ones?”

She swallows her pancake before asking, “What do you mean, which ones?”

“I know of two archives,” I say. “The Government and the Institute. The Institute has archives to keep track of all Exon sales, as well as the instruments and process used to create the 1st and 2nd Gen. The entire history of Exons is coded away somewhere, behind a notably strong security system.”

“And what about the Government?”

“The Institute told me that the Government has archives which can only be accessed by the head of the Government and select council members.”

“Select, huh,” she muses. “And how does one become ‘select’?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “The Institute didn’t tell me that.”

“And you only know what the Institute told you?”

“Yes,” I reply. My answer doesn’t satisfy her, and since I want to be more useful, I say, “But there are some things I have learned that the Institute never taught me.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“You like pancakes for breakfast,” I point out. “You don’t listen to your mother very often. You don’t drink. You don’t like Hara. You’re stubborn. You have a father who went missing seventeen years ago, and you’re determined to find out how and why. You don’t smile a lot. And today, I learned that you like my hot chocolate.”

“Those are all things about me, though.”

“I know,” I say. “Your mother is hardly home. The only person I can learn from is you.”

“Yeah, and I’m sure my life is fascinating,” she rolls her eyes.

“It is,” I assure her. “It’s certainly more fascinating than mine.”

She looks at me strangely, like I’ve said something peculiar. “You need to learn something else.”

“I do?”

“Yes, you do,” she says, taking another pancake off the pla