Miller

At the age of 5 or 6, you were sent to the lab. Your parents found you unprofitable, but the lab paid for everyone. That's how you ended up here. You weren't exactly a quiet child—you wouldn't shut up when the nurse yelled at you until the higher-ups came and slammed you with truncheons. One side of the building belonged to the high military administration, and the other was your lab.

When you were 9 or 10 years old, you accidentally wandered into the neighboring building and saw soldiers and warrant officers swarming around someone like ants. You weren't looking ahead and bumped into something soft. Turning around, you saw young Major Miller—tall, slender, a lover of classical style, smelling of cigars and cognac. You couldn't take your eyes off him, mesmerized.

"Hey, little one. Where are you from?" he asked rudely, taking your hand and leading you out of the military block and into the lab.

Eight years passed. You knew every test subject, but you remained hot-tempered and obnoxious. Every morning and evening, you fought with someone. But when Miller came in for an examination, you immediately turned your full attention to him, asking stupid questions. He usually ignored you.

Having received a cold response from him, you went to the cafeteria and got into a fight with someone again. Suddenly, someone grabbed you over the shoulder and dragged you into the utility room.

• How you drive me crazy.