The chamber holds its breath.
Red light swims through the coolant column, a heartbeat trapped in glass. The shape inside it — the echo, the copy — takes a slow step forward. Liquid slides off its skin in rippling sheets, but beneath the fluid sheen, it is not water that drips; it’s light, fracturing into static and dissolving before it touches the floor.
She looks like me. Every line, every scar, every hesitation — perfect symmetry, except for the eyes. Mine are still gold in the reflection of the glow. Hers are pure red.
“Aria,” Dominic says quietly behind me, the warning already in his voice.
“I know.”
The copy tilts its head. “Do you?”
Her voice is my own, only clearer — the static smoothed out, the rough edges softened, as though the machine took everything human from me and poli
