The silence in the safehouse was thicker than the smoke they'd left behind.
Outside, the sky was still stained orange from the explosion. Inside, all Margaret could hear was the soft clink of Clara's dog tags as she moved around the room and Kenneth's quiet breaths beside her.
Margaret sat on the old couch, the burn on her palm throbbing beneath the bandage. But that pain was nothing compared to the war raging in her head.
Her father was alive.
He had lied. Again.
And now the last file on the flash drive—the one simply titled "Margaret"—felt like a loaded weapon.
"I need to open it," she said suddenly, breaking the silence.
Kenneth looked up from where he sat. "Now?"
Clara glanced over from the window. "Are you sure you're ready for this?"
"No," Margaret admitted. "But I wasn't ready to find out my father faked his death, either. Or that he was behind Ridgewood. Or that he built me."
She reached into her coat and pulled out the flash drive, still slightly warm from the last upload. She stared at it.
Verena had gone to secure the perimeter. They were alone.
Kenneth powered up the laptop. "We'll go slow. I've isolated it from Wi-Fi no backdoor triggers."
Clara stood beside the door, weapon ready. "Do it."
Margaret inserted the drive. The screen flickered. Five folders lit up. Four were already opened—project records, personnel logs, treatment data.
Only one remained untouched.
MARGARET.
She clicked it.
A password prompt appeared.
She hesitated.
Then typed: Beaumont her mother's maiden name.
Access granted.
A video loaded.
The screen flickered to life with a timestamp: April 12th, 2003.
A lab. Cold, clinical. Two men in white stood beside a tall figure in a black coat Dr. Julian Harrow. He was younger, but the steel in his eyes hadn't aged a day.
The camera panned to a child.
Margaret's chest tightened.
The girl couldn't be older than five.
Wearing a hospital gown. A small bandage on her temple. Blank stare.
"Do you remember your name?" the doctor asked gently.
The girl blinked. "Maggie."
"Not anymore," Harrow replied. "Begin synchronization."
A sharp beep. A machine was lowered behind her head.
Margaret's breath caught as she watched a thin silver node pierce the girl's skin at the nape.
The child screamed.
Margaret yanked the flash drive out.
The laptop blacked out.
She was shaking.
"What the hell was that?" Kenneth whispered.
Clara looked pale. "He didn't just experiment on you… he programmed you."
Margaret stood slowly, star
Margaret didn't cry.
Not because she wasn't devastated—but because the part of her that might have known how to cry… felt severed. Like it had been taken from her when that silver node pierced five-year-old skin on a cold metal table.
The air in the safehouse was stale. But her thoughts her memories burned.
She stared at the blank laptop screen as if it still held answers. Kenneth sat beside her in silence, while Clara double-checked every lock and window like someone expecting an ambush.
"Why would he do that?" Kenneth asked, voice low.
"Because I wasn't his daughter," Margaret said numbly. "I was his experiment."
Clara crossed the room and knelt beside her. "He was your father, Margaret. That doesn't change."
"Yes, it does," she snapped. "Normal fathers don't erase your name. They don't implant devices in your brain. They don't fake their deaths and reappear with a private army."
Kenneth sighed. "We don't know everything yet. That clip… it was a start, but we still don't have the full picture."
Margaret shook her head. "That was the full picture. You saw it. I was built for something."
She stood, pacing now, hands twitching at her sides.
"Clara… you said you were at Ridgewood once. What exactly were they doing there?"
Clara exchanged a glance with Kenneth, then hesitated. "Human conditioning. Neural reprogramming. Trauma-induced loyalty implants."
Margaret stopped in her tracks. "Loyalty implants?"
"It was part of Project Nightshade. They tested it on violent inmates at first. Made them calm. Obedient. But the early phases? They needed clean subjects. Children. Orphans. Controlled environments."
Margaret's heart dropped. "You mean… me."
Clara nodded once, grim.
"You were Subject M. First successful memory rewrite. After that, they scaled up. But you? You disappeared from their system after 2008. We all thought you were dead. Turns out your mother fled with you."
"She didn't flee," Margaret said quietly. "She died protecting me."
A painful silence followed.
Then Kenneth's voice broke through. "There's more on that drive. Even if the video's corrupted, the file tree is still intact. I can run a recovery."
Margaret hesitated. "Fine. But not now."
Kenneth nodded and closed the laptop.
Then Clara pulled something from her jacket pocket. A folded photo. "I found this in the Ridgewood control room before we blew it."
Margaret took it.
It was a surveillance shot.
A room cold steel walls, a chair, a woman sitting in it. Shackled.
Long black hair.
Eyes dark and hollow.
"Who is she?" Margaret asked.
Clara leaned closer. "She was marked as Z-2. Secondary prototype. That was dated two months ago."
Margaret frowned. "Wait… you mean they started again?"
"Not just start
Margaret couldn't take her eyes off the photo.
The girl's face Z-2 was eerily familiar. Same nose. Same jawline. But the eyes? They were different. Not hollow. Not broken.
Cold. Sharp. Programmed.
"She looks like me," Margaret whispered.
"She is you," Clara said grimly. "Or at least… the you they were trying to recreate."
Kenneth hovered near the laptop. "The timestamp was recent, right? If that's true, then Z-2 is still active. Which means she's still inside their system. Possibly even part of their field ops."
"You mean she could be out there?" Margaret asked.
Clara nodded. "Worse, she could be coming for you."
A knock on the door made all three of them freeze.
Not a bang. Not forceful.
Just… calm. Repetitive.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Verena wasn't due back yet.
Clara drew her pistol and stepped toward the window, peeking through the blinds.
Her face paled.
"It's a girl," she mouthed.
"What girl?" Margaret stood slowly.
"Looks like she's maybe twenty. Alone. Standing in the dark like she doesn't feel the cold."
Kenneth reached for the laptop. "We need to get out—"
Clara motioned sharply. "No time. If it's Z-2, she's bait. Someone's covering her."
But the girl outside just… waited.
Then she knocked again.
Three precise taps.
Kenneth whispered, "Margaret. That rhythm… it's the same knock you used when you were in treatment. Your trauma signal."
Margaret's blood ran cold. "How would she know that?"
Clara looked at her. "Because she has your memories."
The knock came again. Harder.
Clara looked at Margaret. "What do you want to do?"
Margaret stared at the door. Every instinct screamed to run. To hide.
But she stepped forward anyway.
Slowly.
She placed her hand on the handle.
"Margaret…" Kenneth warned.
She opened the door.
Standing outside was the girl from the photo.
Same height. Same hair. Black combat boots. Pale skin that seemed untouched by the cold.
And those eyes clinical. Unfeeling.
The
Margaret didn't speak.
She couldn't.
The girl Z-2 stood at the threshold like a ghost pulled from her darkest memories. Calm. Confident. And terrifying.
Kenneth hovered behind her, weapon half-raised. Clara stayed low, aiming through the narrow hallway.
But Z-2 didn't flinch.
She smiled.
"I'm not here to hurt you," she said gently, her voice eerily soft—Margaret's voice, but smoothed out, artificial. "You're the original. They said you'd be scared."
Margaret tightened her grip on the doorframe. "Who's 'they'?"
"The people who made us. Father. The others. They're waiting."
Margaret's mouth went dry. "You mean Harrow."
Z-2 nodded. "He wants to bring you back. To finish what he started."
"Is that what you're here for?" Clara snapped. "To drag her in by the wrist?"
Z-2 turned her head slowly, eyes landing on Clara. "No. I'm here to offer her a choice."
Margaret blinked. "A choice?"
"I can bring you in gently. Or they send the team."
Kenneth whispered, "She's stalling."
Clara whispered back, "Or tracking us."
Margaret's mind raced. This girl, this clone, was made from her. She didn't just share genetics. She likely shared memory. Reflex. Fear. Thought patterns.
It was like looking into a mirror that had grown teeth.
Z-2 stepped forward, just enough to cross the threshold.
And Margaret stepped back.
"You don't belong here," she said.
Z-2 looked disappointed. "That's a shame. I really thought you'd understand."
She turned.
Then froze.
Her smile widened, slow and wrong.
"Hello, Dr. Harrow."
Margaret's blood turned to ice.
She turned around.
And saw her father.
He stood at the back of the room impossibly silent, impossibly calm having entered through the kitchen's rear door without a sound.
No weapons. No guards.
Just him.
Julian Harrow.
"I see you've met your sister," he said softly.
"Sister?" Margaret echoed.
"She's what you were meant to be. Polished. Stable. Complete."
Clara raised her pistol.
"Don't," Harrow warned. "If I'd wanted you dead, we wouldn't be talking."
Z-2 stood by his side now, like a trained dog returning to its master.
Margaret's hands shook. "Why… why now? Why come to me now?"
Harrow's expression never changed. "Because the old system burned, Margaret. And you burned it. Now I need you to help rebuild it."
"You think I'll help you?" she whispered.
"I think you're confused. You've spent your life reacting to shadows Frank, Ridgewood, your past. But none of them define you."
He took a step closer.
"I do."
Clara fired.
The bullet hit the wall.
Z-2 moved like lightning, she shoved Harrow back, shielded him with her body, eyes glowing with a strange blue light.
"Enough!" Z-2 hissed. "He gave you life. Show some respect."
Margaret stared at her. "He gave me hell."
Then she turned to Harrow.
And smiled.
"You want my help?" she said. "You've got it."
Harrow looked pleased.
Then Margaret lifted her foot and kicked the laptop across the room, triggering Kenneth's makeshift trap.
A silent alarm.
Outside the safehouse, lights flickered to life.
Dozens.
Verena's ba
ckup.
Z-2 hissed. Harrow's face darkened.
"Clever girl," he muttered.
Margaret raised her pistol. "Run."
They did.girl tilted her head.
"Hi," she said softly. "I'm here to take you home."ed. They upgraded," Clara said. "She's the next version of you."ing at the wall. "I wasn't his daughter."
No one spoke.
"I was his prototype."