Lex
The door clicked shut.
She was gone.
Lex stood motionless in the middle of the room, as if the silence itself had weight. Outside, dawn finally broke through the clouds, painting the room in dull, winter light. But he barely noticed. His eyes were still on the locket in his hand, clenched so tight the corners were biting into his skin.
He opened it again. Slowly.
The photo inside hadn't changed.
Muri, smiling—arm slung around his shoulders, sun in her hair. His own younger face beside hers, caught mid-laugh. A moment from another lifetime. A lie, maybe. Or a truth buried beneath too many versions.
You were never Muri.
He'd said it like a blade. Cold. Final. But now, standing in the wake of it, he wasn't sure who he'd just destroyed—her, or himself.
Because the truth was, he'd wanted to believe. Not in the science, or the files, or the clean logic of data points and replication models. No. He wanted to believe in her. That somehow—impossibly—Rhea had been what he lost and never thought he'd get back.
But the file said otherwise.
Cloning trials. Fragmented neural transfers. ECHO units—reconstructed identities built on curated memory scaffolds. The child designated 09 was the last iteration. Stabilized. Compliant. Complete.
Perfect.
But not Muri.
Lex sank onto the edge of the bed where she'd been sitting just minutes before, burying his face in his hands.
He had dreamed of her for years. Carried her in the marrow of his grief. And when Rhea came into his life—same laugh, same way of leaning in when she was curious, same impossible anger when something didn't make sense—he'd dared to believe the universe had folded back on itself to give him a second chance.
And now?
Now he wasn't sure if he was mourning Muri…
Or the version of himself who still believed in miracles.
The Geneva drive lay on the nightstand. He stared at it like it might pulse again, like it might speak another version of the truth.
But it just sat there. Silent. Unblinking.
Just like the dead.