That night, C-eight stood in front of a mirror. She touched her face. Whose chin was that? Her own? Or Elara’s?
Driven by a dread she couldn’t name, C-eight traced the locket’s origin to a sealed biological research wing. Using a bypass code smuggled from a black-market data-jockey (cost: three months of her nutrient paste rations), she entered. c896a92d919f46e2833e9eb159e526af
“I’m sorry, Elara,” she whispered. “But my name may be a hex code. My existence may be an accident. But I am still someone .” That night, C-eight stood in front of a mirror