Military Marriage in the 1970s: My Husband the Commander Is Acting Strange

On my first day after transmigrating, I realized something was off about my husband, the commanding officer.

Every now and then, he'd say things like “probability” and “model.” The way he looked at me wasn't like a husband looking at his wife, but like an examiner looking at a test taker.

There was a coded notebook in his desk drawer, and I couldn't make heads or tails of it.

I thought I was imagining things.

Until the next night, when he took me to a deserted patch of land outside the military compound and pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket: a registration form for transmigrators.

It had the logo of my company from 2025 printed on it.

“Lin Nuannuan, your ID number is HR-2025-07.”

“I'm your contact, codename ‘Homecoming.’”

“Welcome to 1975.”

He said my transmigration hadn't been an accident. He had handpicked me.

He said my assignment was to reform this compound.

He said there was a third person here too: someone I had once fired, who hated me to the core.

I thought that was the most shocking truth of all.

Then I learned the truth:

The real purpose of this experiment wasn't “reform.”

I was a lab rat.

My “first wife” was a failed test subject from the previous batch.

And my husband, the commanding officer, had been lying to me from the very beginning.

But he overlooked one thing:

I'm in HR.

Playing mind games, conducting interviews, writing reports, running background checks:

Isn't that what I do every day?