Jordana's True Identity

The notification flashed on my phone, a sickly green rectangle against the grey background of my lock screen.

*User Login: Validated.*
*Subject 104-D: Online.*
*System Status: Optimal.*

I stared at the words, my brain buffering, unable to process the syntax. Subject 104-D? Who was 104-D?

I looked at Leo. He was still holding the phone—my old phone, the one Mark had wiped—up to the camera. His tiny hand was wrapped around the case, his knuckles white.

"Mama?" he cooed again.

But this time, his lips didn't move.

The voice came from the phone's speaker. It was my voice. But it wasn't me speaking. It was a recording. A loop.

"Mama loves you," the recording said. "Mama is here."

I backed away, hitting the doorframe with a dull thud. The walls of the apartment—the peeling wallpaper, the water stains, the cracks in the plaster—began to flicker.

It wasn't a structural failure. It was a render error.

The world outside the window—the streetlights, the parked cars, the teenagers arguing—dissolved into a grid of green lines and white static. The noise of the city, the hum of the bus, the distant sirens—it all cut out, replaced by a low, rhythmic thrum.

The sound of cooling fans.

I wasn't in an apartment in Little Five Points.

I was in a small, white room.

The walls were smooth, seamless plastic. The floor was polished concrete. In the corner, where the IKEA crib had been, sat a sleek, white pod with a glass lid.

And standing next to the pod, holding a clipboard, was a woman.

She wasn't Elowen. She wasn't my mother. She wasn't Diane.

She looked exactly like me.

She had my hair, my eyes, my mouth. But her skin was perfect. Her posture was optimized. She was wearing a grey Sentinel uniform, the fabric crisp and unwrinkled.

She looked at me, and her expression was a terrifying mirror of professional competence.

"Test complete," she said. Her voice was cool, level, devoid of the jagged edges of grief and panic that had defined my life for the last three years.

She tapped the clipboard with a silver stylus.

"Subject 104-B has failed to integrate. Maternal instinct vulnerability remains unpatched. Resetting simulation."

"No," I whispered. "No, this is real. I escaped. I burned the house down."

The woman—the *Architect*—smiled. It wasn't a cruel smile. It was the smile of a developer looking at a bug report.

"You burned a lot, Becca," she said. "You burned a scenario. The fire was a graphic effect. The heat was a haptic feedback loop."

She gestured to the pod.

"Leo has been in stasis since the beginning. He's fine. His developmental data is pristine."

I looked at the pod. Inside, a baby was sleeping. He looked like Leo. He had his nose. His curls.

But he was hooked up to a dozen wires. His tiny chest rose and fell in time with a pulsing blue light on the console next to him.

"This isn't real," I said, my voice rising to a scream. "I held him! I felt his heart!"

"Haptic feedback," the Architect repeated. "Very advanced. Sentinel spent billions on the sensory immersion tech."

She walked toward me. I tried to run, but my legs wouldn't move. I looked down.

My feet weren't touching the ground.

I was floating. Suspended in a harness, surrounded by a ring of cameras and sensors.

I wasn't wearing a sundress. I was wearing a grey bodysuit covered in motion-capture dots.

"You were the beta test, Becca," the Architect said, stopping in front of me. "The 'Anxious Mother' profile. We needed to see how far a subject would go to protect a digital asset. To see if the love was... transferable."

She reached out and touched my cheek. Her fingers were warm. Real.

"And it was," she said softly. "You loved him. Even when the glitches started. Even when the code broke down."

She leaned in close.

"That's why you're so valuable. That's why we can't let you go."

I looked past her, to the wall of monitors behind the pod.

There were hundreds of screens.

On each one, a woman was waking up in a bedroom. A woman who looked like me. A woman who looked like Elowen. A woman who looked like Sarah Vance.

They were all holding babies. They were all smiling. They were all trapped.

"What happens now?" I asked, tears streaming down my face—real tears, hot and salty.

The Architect stepped back. She looked at the tablet in her hand.

"We re-run the scenario," she said. "With new variables. New stressors. We need to see if you can break the house again."

She tapped a button.

The white room began to fade. The smell of "Clean Linen" filled my nose, thick and cloying. The sound of a baby cooing—a digital, looped recording—echoed in my ears.

"Wait!" I screamed. "Who are you? Are you the original?"

The Architect looked at me one last time before the darkness took her.

"No, honey," she whispered.

"I'm Version 1.0."

The world went black.

Silence.

Then, a sound.

*Buzz.*

I opened my eyes.

I was sitting in a coffee shop. The air conditioning was blasting, cold enough to make me shiver. My laptop was open in front of me, displaying a PDF of a medical manual.

*Cardio-Next Implantable Defibrillator User Manual v5.0.*

My phone buzzed on the table.

A notification from Zillow.

*New Listing: 104 Hydrangea Lane.*

I stared at the screen. My heart began to pound, a familiar, terrifying rhythm.

I unlocked the phone. I opened the app.

The photos loaded.

The living room. The kitchen.

And the office.

It wasn't an office.

It was a nursery.

And standing in the reflection of the window, holding a phone, was a woman.

She looked exactly like me.

But she wasn't holding a phone.

She was holding a sign.

Written in black marker, in a neat, looping script, were three words.

*Don't go home.*

I looked up.

Across the coffee shop, sitting at a table by the window, was a man.

He was wearing a fresh linen shirt. He had an Apple Watch on his wrist.

He was watching me.

And as our eyes met, he raised a red Solo cup to his lips and smiled.

My phone buzzed again.

A text message. From an unknown number.

*Welcome to Phase 7, Becca.*

*Try not to break the furniture this time.*