I spent the entire night tracing patterns.
From journal entries.
From video timestamps.
From scars.
Yes — scars.
Each version had one.
In different places.
Hidden. Quiet. Forgotten.
Mine was just under my left collarbone.
A straight, clean stitch.
Not a wound. A marker.
Like an engineer's tag on a prototype.
---
The flash drive had a folder I hadn't opened before.
🔒 Access: Project AM-6
Inside?
Scans. Reports. Photographs.
Every version of "Amelia" labeled like files in a lab.
> AM-1: "High rejection rate. Severe identity confusion."
AM-2: "Psychotic break. Memory corruption."
AM-3: "Compliant. Too compliant. Terminated after 61 days."
AM-4: "Unstable attachment to subject."
AM-5: "Disappeared. Presumed dead."
AM-6: "Perfect baseline. Acceptable deviation."
AM-6.
Me.
---
I dropped the drive.
Bile rose in my throat.
He never loved me.
He never loved any of us.
We were just prototypes.
---
But then I saw a line at the bottom of the last file.
> "Initiate Emotional Convergence Phase. If bonding fails, trigger reset protocol. Self-harm acceptable risk."
So that was it.
Everything — every "dream," every heartbeat, every ritual — was part of a test.
---
That evening, I wore the red dress again.
I set the table.
I cooked.
I smiled.
He looked confused.
Almost worried.
> "You're… different."
> "I'm becoming optimal," I said.
"Isn't that what you wanted?"
He studied me.
Like I was both a miracle and a mistake.
---
After dinner, I handed him a small envelope.
> "What's this?"
> "A gift," I said. "Something Amelia never gave you."
Inside was a photograph.
Of all six of us.
Edited.
One face. One body.
Six hearts.
His hand trembled.
> "Where did you get this?"
> "Where you left it," I whispered.
"In the trauma."
---
That night, I went back to the mirror.
I stared at myself.
And for the first time, I didn't see her.
Or them.
I saw me.
And I was beautiful in the ugliest way.
I was the truth they buried six hearts ago.