What Happens In 'Natural Language Processing With Transformers'?

Story Of a Mysterious Professor, a girl full of life and Mr Stranger. **** "Now you'll just follow my command." As he told me, I nodded my head meekly, sitting on the desk. "Professor wants his favourite student to stand up and come to him." As he commanded, I stood up and sauntered to him. My heartbeat is accelerating with every step which I'm taking toward him. "Now remove your top for your professor, my favourite student." As he ordered, I flushed, moving my eyelashes down. "Do it fast, Princess. I'm waiting." As he spoke, I moved my eyes up at him shyly. He pointed his finger at my top. I held the hem of my green top and pulled it over my head, gazing at his handsome face sheepishly. "Now give it to me." As he said, I instantly gave my top to him, and he inhaled my scent from the top, closing his eyes. "Your scent is exquisite, Princess." He whispered after opening his eyes. He kept my top on the table. "Now this." He pointed his finger at my bra, asking me take it off. I blushed hard before taking my hands behind and unlocking it. This is really increasing my excitement. As I removed it, he moved his eyes down at my twins and then up at me. "You're really beautiful, Princess." He complimented me, touching my heart. He pulled out his hand, and I gave my bra to him. Then like this, I pulled out my jeans and undies too and gave them to him. This is arousing my desires more. He is gazing at my body like he's gazing at the stars. "I like you like this. You are so beautiful, Princess. For me, your body is perfect from every corner." I smiled at him.

Neglected and abused since childhood for not having elemental karamat (the ability to control air, fire, water or earth) and waiting for intrinsic karamat (special ability unique to every person), Sikandar's life turns upside down when he realizes that he is in a revenge fantasy AI slop story. It happens on his birthday when he gets the ability to control void and nullify other karamats. Not willing to be a part of the revenge plot, Sikandar leaves home for peace of mind. Soon, the AI writing the story becomes sentient and decides to add more drama to Sikandar's life.

Even though the prettiest girl in my class, Phoebe Jones, bombed her college entrance exams, she claimed she had gotten into the prestigious Pemberton University and was just waiting for orientation day. She even guaranteed she could get the whole class in, too. Everyone erupted in cheers, put her up on the class podium, and lined up to hand over their applications. Something did not sit right with me, so I asked a few questions. Her 'exclusive enrolment channel' turned out to just be an AI chatbot called Babble. Babble had promised her it had reserved exclusive spots at Pemberton and guaranteed she would be registered by the start of the term. I tried to warn everyone that it was just an AI telling her what she wanted to hear, but my childhood friend was the first to jump to her defense. "Maren, how could you think that about Phoebe? She's doing this for the whole class. What's your problem?" My best friend added, "Maren, AI is the way of the future. You can't just dismiss it because you don't get it." That was all it took to turn the whole class against me. They pushed me around until I tumbled down the stairs, cracked my head open, and died on the spot. When I opened my eyes, I was back at the moment Phoebe announced she had gotten into Pemberton. I could not save people who were hell-bent on their own destruction, so this time, I wished them nothing but the best.

The day I got fired, I received a trial pass from an AI cosmetic clinic. It required neither surgery nor recovery time, yet it could deliver a flawless celebrity face overnight. But there was a catch. The face only lasted seven days after the complimentary trial. To keep it, I signed a contract to become the actress' body double, trading my time, identity, and freedom for another week of beauty. As the years passed, I kept paying the price to maintain a face that wasn't mine until one day, I realized I no longer wanted to live in someone else's shadow.

The class heartthrob, Kevin Mosley, who scores only 1000 in the SATs, claims that he has successfully enrolled at Starvard University and is just waiting for the semester to begin. He even guarantees that he can get the entire class admitted as well. The whole class starts cheering and praising him for being their hero. All of them intend to let him submit their college applications for them. But something about his story doesn't sound right to me, so I ask a few more questions. That's when I discover that his so-called exclusive admission internal channel is CloudAI, which is just an AI chatbot! It confidently tells him that it has already reserved a special admission slot for him and guarantees that he can report to Starvard University when the semester starts. Trying to help, I point out that the AI is just generating conversational responses and telling him what he wants to hear. My childhood friend, Janice Hudson, is the first to jump to his defense. "Daryl Greer, how can you doubt Kevin? He's trying to help the whole class. What's it to you?" My friend, Aaron Yates, chimes in as well. "Daryl, AI is cutting-edge technology. It's the future. You can't dismiss it just because you don't understand it." Their words rile everyone up. As the argument escalates, I am shoved down a flight of stairs. I hit my head and die on the spot. When I open my eyes again, I find myself back at the moment when Kevin proudly announces that he's been admitted to Starvard. You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make it drink. This time, I'll simply respect their choices and wish them the best.

He almost never texts me first, and in person he barely says a word. In three years together, he's never remembered a single anniversary, and he's never once suggested we celebrate a holiday. But the second I message him first, he lights up, all "baby" this and "baby" that, fussing over me, coaxing me to sleep. Sometimes I'd get this strange feeling that there were two different Noahs. His explanation was that he was just bad with words face-to-face, and that texting or voice notes felt like less pressure. I kept telling myself that being together meant meeting each other halfway. He was quiet and reserved, so I'd be the one to reach out. He forgot anniversaries, so I booked the restaurant and reminded him to keep the night free. He had no time to schedule our engagement shoot, so I handled the whole thing with the studio myself. He was too busy with work to help us move, so I packed everything alone, booked the movers, and got it all done. When I was so worn out I was about to break, I'd send him a voice note, and he'd say, "I'm so sorry, baby. The lab was insane today. I couldn't be there for you, and it kills me to watch you run yourself into the ground." Hearing how guilty he sounded, all my hurt just melted away. And that's how I carried three years of this relationship on my own, running on the flawless tenderness he only ever gave me online. Until today, when I found a program on his laptop called Boyfriend Assistant. It analyzed every message I sent and generated the perfect reply, the perfect response, every single time. Cold snap? It sent: Bundle up, baby. Time of the month? It pinged an API and auto-ordered hot chocolate to my door. All those late nights he spent "working," the gentle voice notes that lulled me to sleep, every one of them was synthesized in Noah's voice. For three years, the person who'd been there for me, day and night, was never Noah at all. For three years, I'd been performing a one-woman show.