Chapter 2

Anne let out a sigh of relief and reached over to stroke my head affectionately. "I knew you'd love it. Come on, Pecky. Say something nice to Daddy."

The parrot tilted its head and immediately squawked, "Go to hell."

Anne's smile froze for a split second before she forced a laugh. "The previous owner must've taught it that. Joe, don't take it personally."

I chuckled and gave the cage a little shake. "This one's got quite a foul tongue. Darling, where did you get it?"

"A friend recommended the breeder," she answered, not quite meeting my eyes. "They specialize in parrots that can talk."

I knew she was lying.

"Sounds interesting," I said, setting the cage on the coffee table and lightly stroking the parrot's claw. "But you're pregnant. Wouldn't it be risky to keep a bird in the house?"

Anne replied immediately, "I already asked the doctor about it. He said a parrot is completely safe as long as it's properly cared for.

"And to be honest, I've been so lonely cooped up here alone. It would be nice to have something that can talk to keep me company, and a good mood is important for the baby."

Her lie was seamless. She had offered the exact same reasoning in my past life, and I had swallowed it whole, believing she was looking out for me.

Now, I could hear the truth underneath. Every line had been scripted.

"So ugly," the parrot chirped again.

Anne laughed. "See? It's talking to you."

I didn't return her smile. I simply picked up the cage and made my way to the bedroom.

"Joe, don't take it personally. It's just parroting what it picked up," Anne called out from behind me.

"I'm not angry."

I turned and gave her a smile. "I just want to spend some time alone with my new pet."

As soon as the door closed behind me, the smile dropped from my face.

I set the cage on the vanity, pulled up a chair, and sat down face-to-face with the parrot. It tilted its head, fixing me with a gaze that was far too knowing, far too pleased with itself.

I knew exactly whose eyes those really were—Ian's. He was tucked inside that gray-feathered body, watching me like I was the same fool he had always been able to manipulate.

In my last life, I had been exactly that.

But this time around, the game had changed.

"Pecky," I said.

The parrot just cocked its head and stared at me with those unblinking gray eyes, offering no response.

"Your name's Pecky, right?"

I leaned closer to the cage with a pleasant smile.

"Nice name. My wife picked it, didn't she?"

The parrot's feathers rustled with a faint twitch. Apparently, it hadn't expected me to be this calm.

"But if you ask me, it's not exactly a good name. Pecky sounds like it's always pecking, chipping away at itself. It just feels fragile. Don't you agree?" I said, leaning back in my chair.

The parrot paid me no attention and began grooming its feathers.

I got up, walked to the vanity, and sat down in front of the mirror with my razor.

The man looking back at me looked exhausted, with deep shadows under his eyes and lips that had faded to a sickly pale.

"You know…" I said casually, running the razor across my face as if I were talking to myself. "If a man comes home every day only to have his wife's pet bird tell him to go to hell, would that count as domestic abuse?"

Just then, I heard the soft rustle of feathers behind me, but I didn't turn back.

"Go to hell," the parrot suddenly said.

I couldn't help but feel those words were meant for me, though the parrot's tone was light, as though it were merely repeating a phrase it had learned.

However, the timing was too perfect. It came immediately after what I'd just said.

My hand paused for the briefest instant.

Then, I calmly resumed shaving.

"You're a clever bird," I said, tossing the razor into the trash. "You sure know how to respond."

"Go to hell," it repeated, even more softly this time, almost as if it were testing me.

I turned and faced the cage.

The parrot cocked its head, watching me with unblinking eyes. Then, it opened its beak and let out a jumble of random noises—clicks, gurgles, and a sound like a ringing telephone—all tangled into one messy symphony.

It was perfectly normal for a parrot, mimicking the sounds it picked up from its environment.

But those two perfectly timed "Go to hell" stood out like a sore thumb. They were far too deliberate to be coincidence.

I held its gaze for several long seconds.

It stared right back.

A subtle shift occurred in the air between us. It was not quite tension, but rather a wordless understanding that passed between two people who had just recognized each other's game.

It knew I had seen through its act. What it didn't know was how much I had figured out, and I planned to leave it that way.