Clara’s eyes fluttered open to a ceiling of polished steel, its surface reflecting the sterile glow of overhead lights. The air smelled of antiseptic and burnt metal, a tang that clung to her tongue. Her fingers twitched against the cold mattress, and for a moment, she thought she felt something else—static, like electricity crawling beneath her skin. A voice, smooth and distant, echoed through the room. “Subject 17-A, you are awake.” She sat up, her joints stiff, and scanned the space. The walls were seamless, the floor a grid of faintly glowing tiles. A door stood at the far end, but it was sealed. Her pulse quickened. Where was she? What had they done to her? The voice spoke again, softer this time. “Evolution is inevitable.” Clara’s breath hitched. The words felt wrong, too precise, as if spoken by someone who didn’t understand fear. She stood, her boots making a hollow thud against the floor. The room was empty except for a small table beside her bed, where a journal lay open. Its pages were filled with hurried script, dates scrawled in jagged lines. She picked it up, her fingers brushing the ink. “Day 42: The transfer succeeded. The host is stable. But the code… it’s not hers. It’s ours.” Clara’s stomach twisted. The journal’s author had been someone else, someone trapped in this same body. Her own body. She flipped through the pages, heart hammering. “Day 67: They’re asking too many questions. I can’t let them find the files. If they unlock the archive, they’ll see what we’ve done.” The writing dissolved into chaos, lines crossing out, words smudged. Clara’s hands shook. The facility wasn’t just testing her—it was using her. A siren wailed, sharp and guttural. The lights flickered, casting jagged shadows across the walls. Clara bolted toward the door, but it was already opening. Three figures stepped inside, their faces hidden behind masks of polished black. They moved without sound, their steps eerily synchronized. “You shouldn’t have read that,” one of them said, voice flat, mechanical. Clara backed away, her breath coming in short bursts. The static in her fingers surged, a pulse of warmth that spread up her arms. She didn’t understand it, but she knew one thing: they weren’t here to help her. The nearest figure lunged. Clara twisted, the air crackling as she slammed her palm against the wall. A shockwave rippled outward, sending the man stumbling. The others hesitated, then charged. Clara ran, her boots slapping against the floor as she dove through a side corridor. The journal clutched to her chest, she sprinted past rows of identical doors, each one a prison. Her mind raced. The experiment—what was it? A transfer? A merge? The journal’s words haunted her. “The code isn’t hers. It’s ours.” Who were they? And why had they chosen her? A door ahead swung open, revealing a dimly lit chamber. Clara ducked inside, heart pounding. The room was filled with machines, their wires snaking across the floor like veins. A terminal sat in the center, its screen flickering with unreadable symbols. She approached, fingers trembling as she pressed a key. The screen blinked, and a single line appeared: “Access Denied.” Clara cursed under her breath. The code was locked. A noise behind her—footsteps. She spun, but the room was empty. Then she saw it: a reflection in the terminal’s glass. Her own face, but not quite. The eyes were wrong—too large, too bright. A whisper filled the air, not from the machines but from somewhere deeper, inside her skull. “You’re not real.” Clara stumbled back, her breath ragged. The words weren’t hers. They were something else, something hungry. The door burst open again. The figures were here. She had to move. The terminal’s screen flashed again, and this time, the message changed: “Find the core.” Clara didn’t know what that meant, but she knew one thing—running wasn’t an option anymore.
