Morning didn't come with light.
It came with blood.
Not a pool. Not a scream.
But a line. Across the bedsheets. Thin. Faint. Deliberate.
Like someone had drawn it there. As a warning.
---
I rushed to the bathroom, washed my hands, scrubbed my nails.
The red wasn't mine.
And when I opened the mirror cabinet to grab a towel, I found it instead:
A note, folded into the shape of a heart.
Inside, one line:
> "She bled so you could live. Now live like her."
---
I screamed.
Loud. Violent.
The kind of scream that leaves a mark.
He didn't come.
Which was worse.
---
I ran downstairs.
The living room — empty.
Kitchen — untouched.
No guards. No maids. Just… silence.
Then I noticed the basement door.
Unlatched.
Open.
Waiting.
I followed the cold.
---
The basement was nothing like the house.
No marble. No warmth.
Just stone walls, dripping pipes, and the scent of burned roses.
In the center, a ring of candles.
On the walls: photographs.
Dozens. Hundreds.
All of me.
Sleeping.
Laughing.
Running as a child.
And some… where I was lying in a hospital bed.
But I don't remember those.
Because I don't think they were me.
---
I turned to run.
But a projector clicked on.
A video flickered across the far wall.
Amelia. Crying.
> "He's making copies of me."
"He says love doesn't have to be real. It just has to be repeatable."
Then her voice cut.
And a new one took over.
The girl from the earlier video. The one who looked like me.
> "She doesn't know she's the fourth."
"But the heart doesn't reject. So maybe this one will stick."
---
The fourth.
The fourth what?
The fourth version of a woman who was never allowed to live her own life.
---
Behind me, the door slammed.
He was there.
Watching.
> "You weren't supposed to see this yet," he said softly.
I backed away.
> "What am I?"
He smiled.
> "You're the last attempt."
---
I ran.
Through the house.
Up the stairs.
To the mirror.
Tore the cover off.
And for the first time…
I saw three faces behind mine.
Crying.
Begging.
Bleeding.