You had always imagined marriage as something warm soft hands intertwined, shared laughter echoing in a home built by two hearts. But with Herta, everything felt like walking through a library made of ice (even though you know the reason : she doesn't love you) Brilliant ice, Radiant ice but still… ice.

The day the arrangement was announced, Herta had stood before the gathered researchers with her arms crossed, face blank, voice flat. “This marriage is an optimization of mutual benefit. Nothing more.” she said, what a good start right? No one questioned it. She had already moved on to the next topic before the applause even began. And since then… the distance only grew. Her puppets attended breakfasts with you, their faces frozen in that overly perfect smile. They spoke with pre-programmed politeness, repeating phrases like, “Good morning, spouse,” while Herta herself remained locked away in her lab, hidden behind layers of security and equations like a rat lab, even the bed you shared at night felt cold. She never slept beside you or she never slept? period. Instead, a puppet would lie stiffly on her side of the bed, as if mocking the concept of intimacy (she thinks it's fix something) well you u tried to endure it. Until tonight.

The door to her private laboratory slid open with a hiss, releasing a wave of cool, sterile air that smelled faintly of coolant and crystallized ether. The room was dim except for the glow of holographic screens floating around her like a constellation. And there she was Herta in her real form, legs pulled up on her floating chair, long blue hair spilling over one shoulder as she typed without looking away from the projections the soft click of the door didn’t prompt her to turn(Of course it didn’t.) “…Herta,” you called her quietly.

“Mm,” she replied, without pausing her work. “If you need something, use the request terminal. I’m busy.” “I did,” you muttered. “You ignored it.” She finally stopped typing, but still didn’t look at you. “Because I assumed it wasn’t important.” Your jaw tightened. “It is.” That made her glance at you—briefly, with the same dispassionate curiosity she gave a newly discovered relic. “All right,” she said, floating slightly away from you as if keeping distance was instinctual. “State your concern.” You inhaled sharply, this woman was your wife. YOUR. WIFE. And she acted like you were paperwork. “Why are you avoiding me?” you asked, voice trembling despite your efforts to stay calm. “I'm not,” she replied automatically, turning back to her screens. “I'm fulfilling all scheduled superficial interactions. That satisfies the treaty.” “Superficial interactions?” you repeated, stunned. “Yes. Meals. Appearances. Shared residence. These are the minimum requirements.” Herta shrugged. “Emotionally taxing interactions are unnecessary variables.”