The Perfect Wife Program

At three in the morning, the alarm rang.

My body got out of bed.

Not me.

My body.

I watched from somewhere near the ceiling as my bare feet touched the cold kitchen tile, as my hands picked up a knife, as my fingers began chopping chicken bones with stiff, mechanical precision.

The sound was awful.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

Bone against cutting board.

I wanted to look away.

I could not.

The Obedience Patch in my neck pulsed faintly beneath the skin of my corpse, carrying instructions from my husband’s phone into muscles that should no longer move.

Make postpartum chicken broth for Vivian.

Scrub kitchen counter.

Mop living room floor.

Wash laundry.

Fold towels.

Sanitize bathroom.

Repeat if dust detected.

I had died yesterday.

Noah still had not noticed.

By four-thirty, the broth simmered on the stove.

By five, the floors shone.

By six, my hands had split open again from detergent and scalding water. Raw skin showed through the cracks.

The body did not flinch.

Dead nerves were obedient nerves.

Noah Song opened the bedroom door just after sunrise.

He was half-asleep, hair messy, wearing the soft gray robe I once bought him for our anniversary.

He paused when he saw the spotless apartment.

Then he smiled.

“Mira,” he said, pleased, “you’re becoming so much better.”

My body stood silently beside the sink.

Noah walked over and inspected the counter with one finger.

No dust.

His smile widened.

“If my mother saw this, she would finally like you.”

I wanted to laugh.

Or scream.

Or ask why a woman needed to be polished into furniture before his mother could accept her.

But my mouth stayed closed.

Noah took out his phone.

A notification chimed from mine.

$3.00 received from Noah Song.

“For being good,” he said. “Buy yourself something nice.”

On my phone screen, a long list of identical transfers filled the chat.

$3.00.

$3.00.

$3.00.

Reward for completing breakfast prep.

Reward for not talking back.

Reward for kneeling properly.

Reward for apologizing to his mother.

My ghost hovered above my own shoulder and wondered how long it had taken for love to become payroll.

A fist pounded against the front door.

Noah frowned.

My body walked to open it.

The downstairs neighbor stood outside in a coat, face red with exhaustion and rage.

“Do you people have any idea what time it is?” she snapped. “Every morning at three, banging, chopping, dragging chairs—are we supposed to never sleep?”

I wanted to apologize.

I wanted to tell her I was sorry.

That I had no control.

That if I did not complete the tasks before six, the pain pulses would start.

My lips moved.

What came out was not my apology.

“It’s already morning,” my voice said coldly. “Even dogs are more useful than you. No wonder your husband cheated. You’re a failed housewife.”

The neighbor’s face went white, then crimson.

I recoiled inside a body I no longer owned.

No.

No, I did not say that.

Noah had.

Somewhere in the bedroom, he must have opened the app and chosen a response from his charming little presets.

The neighbor stared at me as if I were a monster.

Then she turned and left.

My body shut the door.

Picked up the mop.

Returned to cleaning.

Noah came out a few minutes later, now fully awake and furious.

“What did you do?”

My body kept mopping.

He grabbed my wrist.

The mop fell.

“Why are all your readings blank?” He shoved his phone toward my face.

On the Obedience dashboard, every vital sign had become a flat line.

Heart rate: —

Body temperature: —

Neural response: —

Pain compliance: —

Noah’s jaw tightened.

“Mira, did you tamper with the data?”

I wanted to answer.

No.

I wanted to say I had frozen to death because he left me in a snowstorm without a coat.

But dead women cannot defend themselves.

He shook me.

“Stop acting mute. You were always good at arguing before.”

My head lolled slightly.

He did not notice.

Or refused to.

Noah exhaled, then softened his voice.

“Mira, today matters. The launch will decide whether I become chair of the Neural Ethics Council.”

Ethics.

That almost made me laugh.

He touched my cheek.

“I need you to behave. Obedience was made for women like you. Women who need help becoming part of a family.”

I remembered when he first said he wanted to help me.

Back then, he held me while I cried after another dinner where his mother called me lazy, untrained, unworthy.

“I’ll fix this,” he promised.

I thought he meant he would defend me.

Instead, he invented a leash.

His softness vanished when my body still did not respond.

Noah grabbed my hair and yanked my head back.

“Do you think you’re better than me now? An orphan girl who should be grateful I married her?”

My scalp tore under his grip.

It did not hurt.

That made it worse.

“You wear my ring, live in my house, eat my food, and still refuse to cooperate?”

His eyes were bloodshot with anger.

“I only installed one patch. One program. Everything I did was for our future.”

He lifted his phone.

“If you won’t cooperate, I’ll activate Mind Override.”

The words made something inside my ghost go cold.

Mind Override.

The final protocol.

It would suppress conscious resistance entirely and let the AI command the body without interruption.

No thoughts.

No hesitation.

No will.

A perfect wife.

He pressed the button.

The patch at my neck sparked blue.

My corpse jerked once.

Then the app spoke in a pleasant female voice.

Mind Override failed.

Noah froze.

The voice continued.

No active consciousness detected.

For the first time that morning, fear crossed his face.

And I, floating beside my own dead body, finally smiled.