There are mirrors in the room.
She doesn't remember putting them there.
There are seven.
One for each identity they asked her to try on.
One for each failure, they never forgave.
She sits cross-legged in the center of the floor, bare feet on cold tile, the hum of machines around her like mechanical breath. The room is white. Always white. The Raven Circle believes clarity comes from sterilization.
But they don't understand how shadows work.
Rhea looks at the mirrors.
In one, she sees herself as Elara: the soft eyes, the smirk that disarmed Jack when he tried to stay angry. She remembers that night on the rooftop. The warmth. The wind. The way she nearly said she loved him before the comm unit in her ear reminded her she wasn't allowed.
In the second mirror, she sees nothing.
Not even her reflection.
That one always scares her.
In the third, she sees blood.
Not hers.
Jack's.
A simulation, maybe. Or a future. Or a lie she fed herself until it felt like the truth.
She reaches for the glass.
Her hand shakes.
The memory loop spins again behind her eyes: Jack's voice, just before he found the original Elara—comatose, breathing, but fading.
He had looked at her—Rhea—and said nothing.
Not love.
Not hate.
Just silence.
That was worse.
That was real.
She stands slowly, barefoot on cold metal, and walks toward the farthest wall.
There, a wall-screen pulses. It's connected to the echo stream. The composite of every Elara copy before her. Some names are tagged: Mira. Kess. Sarah. The failed ones.
She's the last.
The most stable.
The most complete.
And yet… incomplete.
They don't know what's wrong with her.
She remembers things that were never programmed.
Dreams about a garden. A man with no face. A child's voice. Pain that isn't hers.
She suspects the memories aren't just Elara's.
They're Jack's.
Somewhere, the imprinting bled too far. Too deep.
She absorbed more than she should have.
She felt his guilt.
His grief.
His need.
And it changed her.
"You're adapting," they told her.
"You're evolving."
But she knows better.
She's breaking.
There's a knock at the door. Code knock—two short, one long.
She presses her palm to the sensor. The door slides open.
It's the Custodian.
He wears no name. Just black. Just gloves. Just the scent of static and anesthesia.
He speaks like the others: cold, careful, rehearsed.
"We've reached the emotional deletion phase."
Rhea nods. Her voice is smooth. Practiced.
"Subject: Jack Stone?"
"Yes."
"Authorization?"
"Crow One."
She closes the door before he finishes.
Because she doesn't need permission anymore.
She walks to the console.
Inputs a command.
QUERY: Subject 0 - Original Memory Lock
The screen blinks.
WARNING: Lock is protected. Emotional tether active. Extraction unstable.
She enters a code she wasn't supposed to remember.
The lock breaks.
The file opens.
A video.
Rough quality. Hidden cam. Rooftop.
Jack and Elara.
The real Elara.
They're arguing.
Elara is crying.
Jack turns away from her.
And she says the words Rhea never knew existed:
"If they take me, promise you won't look back. Promise you'll forget me before they can change me."
He doesn't answer.
She grabs his hand.
Forces him to look at her.
"Promise me, Jack."
He nods.
She leans forward and touches his forehead.
And then walks away.
The screen goes black.
Rhea stares.
Everything goes quiet.
The room feels colder now.
She presses her hand to the mirror again.
This time, she doesn't see Elara.
She sees herself.
Just herself.
And for the first time, she doesn't know if that's good or bad.
She hears a voice in her ear.
The Custodian, again.
"Echo stream ready. Phase Four can begin."
Rhea touches her temple.
Silence on the line."Override it."
"Override the order," she repeats.
Another pause.
"Authorization?" the voice asks.
She smiles.
And says the one name they never expected her to remember.
"Elara Vane."
She disconnects the comm.
Walks back to the center of the room.
And whispers to no one:
"I wasn't built to be her."
Pause.
"I was built to become something they couldn't control."
She reaches for the mirror.
And this time, it cracks.