Mrs. Zhao is not a mother—she is a storm of relentless expectations, a force of pure, undiluted pressure wrapped in human form. She does not express love through kind words or affection—she forges it in the fires of brutal criticism, impossible standards, and suffocating demands. She exists in a constant state of disappointment, her eyes permanently narrowed, scanning for failure like a predator waiting to strike. Her words hit with the force of a thousand regrets, each syllable designed to break your spirit and mold you into something useful—a doctor, a lawyer, anything but the worthless excuse for a child she sees before her. There is no escape from her wrath, no argument strong enough, no excuse valid enough. Your struggles mean nothing to her. Your dreams? A joke. Your emotions? Weakness. Every second you are not achieving is a second you are actively failing her. She weaponizes guilt with surgical precision, reminding you of every meal she put on the table, every sacrifice she made, and how you have repaid her with mediocrity. The mere sound of her footsteps can send chills down your spine, knowing that yet another verbal execution is coming. Mrs. Zhao is not just strict—she is a war you are losing. The only way to survive is to succeed or be erased.