《ADAM PRIME》 Inhuman -1 The cold steel of the gun gleamed under the light; its barrel unwavering as it pointed directly at him. A bead of sweat traced a slow path down his temple, the only sign of movement in the still, suffocating air. The figure stood firm, clad in a long blue overcoat that barely swayed, despite the charged tension between them. The mask, blank except for the stark symbol of lambda, concealed any emotion, making it impossible to decipher the thoughts behind those hidden eyes. From his perspective, the world had narrowed to the dark void of the gun''s barrel. A subtle tremor ran through his fingers, though he willed himself still. The weight of the moment pressed down on his chest, making every breath feel like a conscious effort. The evening sky hung low, painted in a gradient of dusky orange and deepening purple, the last remnants of daylight fading into the horizon. A steady wind swept across the barren land, whispering through the emptiness as it carried fine dust particles along its invisible currents. The air was thick with them, making each breath feel dry, the taste of the earth settling against the tongue. The wind, relentless in its eastward course, gave the landscape a shifting, restless quality, as though it refused to settle, mirroring the tension that clung to the moment. Standing in this vast expanse was a figure, wrapped in a long, blue overcoat that billowed in the breeze. The fabric lifted and curled at its edges, its tail ends grazing the soil in rhythmic waves, never quite leaving the earth but never truly resting upon it. The soil itself bore a muted yellow hue, dulled by the encroaching twilight but still vibrant enough to lend the ground a strange, almost surreal glow. Every step disturbed the dust, sending spirals of it into the air, only for the wind to carry them away, erasing any evidence of movement. From an outside view, they were frozen figures in a living painting, two silhouettes against the dying light, their shadows stretching long behind them as though tethered to the past. The wind continued its relentless march, shaping the dust into shifting forms before dispersing them into nothingness. The world around them was indifferent, uncaring of the storm that brewed between them. The dust did not hesitate, the wind did not falter, and the evening did not pause to acknowledge the weight of the confrontation. Nature moved forward, oblivious to the human struggle playing out within its grasp. The answer did not come in words but in the tightening of a grip, the subtle shift in stance. It was an answer enough. The moment of waiting, of hesitance, had reached its threshold. There would be no backing away now. I remember those eyes,'' he thought to himself. There was no fear of death in his eyes as he was being aimed at. He was a bit confused, but there was no emotion on his face. It was as if he had seen this before, as if he had been in this situation countless times. There was no panic, no pleading, just quiet, detached recognition. The masked figure, his grip firm on the weapon, took in the sight before him. There was something unsettling about the calmness in the other man''s gaze, something that made the moment feel even more unnatural. He had expected resistance, expected a fight or at least a flicker of fear. But there was none. It was as though the man before him had accepted whatever was to come, not with resignation, but with a quiet understanding. This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings. And yet, the masked figure hesitated. His finger lay heavy on the trigger, unmoving. A deep uneasiness slithered through him, a sudden awareness that this moment would mark something permanent. The weight of the gun, once an extension of his will, now seemed heavier, its cold steel pressing against his palm as though resisting the inevitable. His breath came unevenly for just a moment, his heartbeat pressing against his ribs in quiet defiance. His mind wavered, the split-second between choice and consequence stretching far beyond its allotted time. The eyes staring back at him....so familiar, so unfaltering...sent a ripple of doubt through his certainty. Something in them unsettled him, as if he were staring into a truth he did not want to acknowledge. The wind howled, pushing at him as if urging him forward, yet his body remained still. The gun did not waver, nor did the tension ease. The wind pressed harder, shifting the dust into whirling patterns around them. And yet, between them, time stood still, the silence stretching unbearably, neither of them moving, neither of them speaking. And still, those eyes stared back at him, steady, knowing, unafraid. A single breath. A pull of the trigger. The gunshot shattered the silence, a violent crack against the wind''s mournful howl. The recoil kicked back against his palm, the force traveling up his arm like a jolt of electricity. The bullet tore through the space between them, finding its mark with brutal efficiency. A spray of crimson painted the air, suspended for a fleeting moment before the wind swept it away, absorbing it into the dust as though it had never existed. He staggered back, a choked breath escaping his lips. His hands instinctively moved to the wound, trembling fingers pressing against the spreading warmth that soaked through the fabric of his clothes. His knees buckled, the weight of the moment finally dragging him down. The ground greeted him harshly, dust rising in protest, swirling around him like a restless spirit. And yet, as he lay there, his breath shallow, his vision swimming, he did not fight it. He did not scream, did not struggle. He simply stared.....stared at the figure before him, his gaze unwavering even as the light in his eyes began to fade. Tears welled up, but they were not of sorrow. They shimmered with something else, something eerily close to satisfaction. Relief. As if, in that final moment, he had found what he was looking for. The wind howled once more, carrying away the last of his breath. The dust settled. The silence returned. "It''s an honor," he said grimly. The deed was done. The wind returned, this time with a greater fury, as if responding to the violence that had just unfolded. It howled through the barren landscape, the dust rising once again in thick clouds, blotting out the fading light. The earth, dry and cracked, seemed to tremble beneath the weight of what had happened. It was as if the land itself had borne witness to the violence, its parched soil now soaking in the blood that stained it, yet it would offer no solace, no reprieve. The sky, a dusky orange fading into deep violet, now felt oppressive, as though the heavens themselves had drawn closer, pressing down on the world in a heavy, suffocating grip. The distant mountains, jagged and unyielding, stood in silent witness, their peaks sharp against the darkening horizon. There was no mercy in them, no understanding of the human struggle unfolding beneath them. They had been here for eons, and they would remain long after all had passed. The figure in the blue overcoat, standing above the fallen man, seemed more like a specter now, a remnant of something that never truly existed. The finality of the shot echoed in the hollow emptiness of the world around them, but it was not a sound that brought peace. It was a sound that demanded to be heard, to be acknowledged, as if to defy the silence that threatened to consume them both. For a moment, the masked figure considered walking away, leaving the body to the winds and the dust, to become another forgotten mark upon the barren land. But something tethered him there, a strange unease, a strange need to understand what had just occurred. Inhuman-2 A dark room was filled with a soft blue glow, emanating from the intricate hologram of a planet hovering above the workbench. The light pulsed gently, illuminating the scattered remains of wrecked communicators, torn wires, and broken metallic parts. The air carried the scent of burnt circuits and old machinery, a stale, lifeless smell that had long settled into the walls of this forgotten space. He sat motionless on a worn-out sofa with a yellow base, his posture tense yet unmoving. The fabric beneath him had faded from years of use, its edges fraying like a relic of the past. His fingers twitched against the cool metal surface of the device implanted in his hand¡ªa communicator, its blue screen glowing faintly as it finished running its sequence. A message flickered into view: "Memory visualization is completed. Now quitting from the safe mode." His dark hair fell over his forehead in messy strands, damp from the sweat of unseen tension. Charcoal-black eyes, deep and unreadable, stared at the fading hologram as if searching for answers it would never give. His face showcased his masculine features, having a touch of ruggedness to it. His tall, muscular frame was built from necessity, not vanity, sculpted by survival and endless struggle. The last flickers of the hologram died out, and the room plunged into silence, save for the faint hum of cooling machinery. He closed his eyes, inhaling slowly, letting the weight of the moment sink into his bones. Then, warmth. A delicate hand rested on his shoulder, fingers curling slightly, their touch featherlight yet grounding. His muscles tensed, his body instinctively preparing for action, but the familiar scent of lavender and something sweet; something only she carried, stilled him. "You don''t have to do this," a soft voice whispered against the quiet, breaking through the thick veil of solitude. He turned his head, just enough to see her. Her presence was soft yet unyielding, like the gentle pull of a current beneath the surface of a calm ocean. Her eyes, filled with quiet sorrow and unwavering determination, held his own. "You don''t have to torture yourself," she murmured. "It is not your mistake. Come with me." Her fingers slipped down to his wrist, their warmth a stark contrast to the cold metal of the communicator. She pulled gently, not with force but with a plea, her grip firm yet hesitant. He swallowed hard, his throat tight. His mind screamed that she was right, that he should let go, that the ghosts of the past were nothing but echoes. But his heart, his heart still clung to them, bound in invisible chains. Silence stretched between them like a chasm, filled only by the rhythmic pulse of the communicator still attached to his hand. His breath came slow and measured as he sat up, rubbing his temples. His fingers ghosted over his wrist where he had felt her touch moments ago. Phantom warmth lingered there, cruel in its absence. He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. He should have known. He always should have known. His eyes flickered to the communicator, its faint blue light pulsing, awaiting his next command. It stored memories, after all. Memories he could relive, over and over, like a cruel trick of fate. "Not real," he muttered under his breath, but even as the words left him, they tasted like a lie. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together in a futile attempt to steady himself. The weight of exhaustion pressed into his shoulders, dragging him down into the depths of his thoughts. Then, a whisper. "Don''t shut me out." His breath hitched. He knew that voice. The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. Slowly, hesitantly, he lifted his gaze. She stood before him, bathed in the faint blue glow of the communicator. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes¡ªthose deep, endless eyes¡ªbore into him, demanding something he could not name. His heart pounded in his chest. "You''re not¡ª" "Real?" she finished for him, tilting her head slightly. A small, almost sad smile touched her lips. "Does it matter?" He let out a humorless chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don''t know anymore." She moved closer, the faintest echo of footsteps against the floor, though he was certain she made no sound. His throat tightened as she knelt before him, placing her hands on his knees, her warmth seeping through the fabric of his clothes. "You carry too much," she whispered. "You always have." He clenched his jaw, looking away. "And you always said that." She reached up, her fingers brushing against his cheek. He flinched at first, but the touch was so light, so painfully familiar, that he leaned into it before he could stop himself. "Because it''s true," she said softly. He closed his eyes. For a moment, just a fleeting second, he let himself believe. The silence stretched again, but this time, it was different. This time, it wasn''t suffocating. It wasn''t filled with the weight of ghosts. Her fingers traced the lines of his face, memorizing, as if time itself had stopped just for this moment. And maybe it had. Maybe, within the flickering light of the communicator, time bent just enough to give him this...this stolen, impossible thing. His hands found her waist, tentative, as if she would disappear the moment he held on too tightly. But she didn''t. She stayed. "I miss you," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. Her smile was sad, but her touch remained steady. "I never left." He let out a shaky breath, forehead resting against hers. "Then why does it feel like I''ve lost you a thousand times?" She pulled back just enough to look at him, her fingers threading through his hair. "Because you keep waking up." The realization hit him like a blow. His grip tightened ever so slightly, as if holding onto her would change something...anything. "Stay," he murmured. She placed a soft kiss against his forehead, lingering. "I''m always here." His eyes fluttered shut, and for the first time in a long time, he allowed himself to believe it. But somewhere, in the recesses of his mind, a cold truth whispered: Morning always comes. Was she real? Was she just a fragment of his imagination? He could not just determine. The communicator determined what he was visualizing and what he was not. It was a marvel of technology, truly. It changed the way the world worked. The communicator was no ordinary device. It was a seamless fusion of technology and biology, a construct so intricate and advanced that it had become an integral part of human existence. This bluish, circular device was more than just an implant...it was a vital organ, akin to the heart and brain, woven into the very fabric of an individual''s being. The removal of the communicator was not just an inconvenience; it was a fatal act, severing a person from the world in the most absolute manner. Once embedded beneath the skin, usually near the base of the skull or within the wrist, the communicator synchronized with the neural pathways of the brain. It translated thoughts into signals, enabling instantaneous and seamless exchange of information. no requirement for external devices like phones or computers...communication had become telepathic, yet far more advanced than the mere transmission of words. It conveyed emotions, intentions, and even sensory experiences with stunning clarity. The communicator glowed faintly, pulsating with a soft blue light, indicating its activity. It adapted to the physiology of the host, merging completely with the nervous system. Over time, it became as indispensable as the circulatory or respiratory systems, its functions woven into the very essence of life. From the moment of its integration, it began learning, refining its processes, and tailoring itself to the individual. No two communicators were identical, as each responded uniquely to the host''s cognitive patterns and neural activity. The physical design of the communicator was deceptively simple. A smooth, metallic-blue disk, no larger than a coin, embedded just beneath the skin. It is composed of an advanced bio-alloy, resistant to wear and impervious to external damage. Beneath this protective casing lay an intricate network of nano-processors, each meticulously designed to interface with the synapses of the human brain. Its texture was cool to the touch, with a slightly reflective surface that shimmered subtly when exposed to light. When observed closely, delicate engravings of microscopic circuits could be seen etched onto its surface, resembling intricate patterns of neural pathways. The communicator seemed like it always had been a part of the human organ system. The most remarkable aspect of the communicator was its ability to enhance perception. It could filter and prioritize information, helping individuals focus on what was most relevant. It eliminated distractions, streamlined cognitive functions, and even augmented memory retention. The communicator could recall past experiences with perfect clarity, allowing users to relive moments as vividly as when they first occurred. He sat on his sofa while his was contemplating and thinking about the various thought processes swirling in his head. And then... Inhuman-3 A sharp, rhythmic beep echoed through the dimly lit chamber, pulsing insistently from the communicator strapped to his wrist. The sound, a familiar yet unsettling cadence, reverberated against the metallic walls, setting a tense atmosphere within the confined space. Each iteration of the beep carried with it a weight of foreboding, creating a sense of urgency that knotted his stomach. Furthermore, the intermittent beep also seemed to synchronize with the echoes of his racing heartbeat, forming a surreal symphony of unease that permeated the shadowed chamber. The piercing sound, akin to a relentless machine, felt as though it dictated the impending events unfolding around him, instilling a sense of inevitability in his actions. His gaze, transfixed by the hypnotic flashes of light on the minuscule display screen, delved deeper into the ominous meaning behind those fleeting yellow dots. It was not merely a visual indicator but a harbinger of impending chaos, each blink a silent countdown to an unknown confrontation that loomed on the horizon. With bated breath, he found himself ensnared in a moment suspended in time, caught between the menacing flashes of warning and the resolute call to action that stirred within him. His mind, a battlefield of conflicting emotions, warred between the familiarity of past encounters and the uncharted territory that beckoned him towards an uncertain fate. As if in a trance, his fingers hovered over the communicator, their hesitant dance a reflection of the internal struggle that raged within him. The weight of responsibility, a heavy cloak that draped over his shoulders, tugged at his resolve, urging him to plunge headfirst into the abyss of the unknown that awaited him beyond the chamber''s confines. Muttering words of acknowledgment that felt like a solemn oath, his voice, tinged with a mixture of resignation and determination, resonated within the narrow confines of his metallic sanctuary. "This is happening again," he whispered, the words both an admission of the relentless cycle of challenges he faced and a rallying cry against the encroaching darkness. Like a well-oiled machine responding to a predetermined sequence, his movements took on a mechanical precision as he embarked on the ritualistic process of preparing for the imminent storm. The act of gearing up, once a routine task, now bore the weight of accumulated memories¡ªeach piece of equipment a testament to battles fought and victories won against the shadows that lurked in the periphery. With each click of a buckle and snap of a strap, the weight of his purpose bore down on him with an almost tangible force, a reminder of the unspoken oath he bore as a guardian of the unseen threats that prowled in the darkness. As he cinched the last buckle in place, a sense of grim determination settled in his gaze, steeling him against the encroaching tide of uncertainty. Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel. The relentless beeping, a persistent reminder of the diminishing sands of time, underscored the gravity of the situation that demanded his unwavering focus. Every meticulous check of his gear, every adjustment made with unwavering precision, carried with it the weight of a silent promise, the promise to confront the unknown with unyielding resolve. Anchored by the rhythmic drumbeat of his boots against the metallic flooring, he advanced towards the chamber''s exit with a sense of purpose that cut through the swirling maelstrom of doubts that threatened to cloud his judgment. The questions that besieged his mind...Why now? Why here?...faded into the background as a steely resolve settled within him, drowning out the cacophony of uncertainties that sought to erode his determination. As he emerged from the chamber''s depths into the corridor''s dimly lit expanse, a new discordant sound, tinged with an otherworldly quality, pierced the air, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. The shifting pitch of the sound, a haunting melody of warning, jolted him into heightened alertness, a primal instinct urging him to brace for the unknown that lay ahead. His eyes, fixated on the screen''s cryptic message, absorbed the gravity of its contents with a chilling clarity that seeped into his bones. Two yellow dots were seen close to each othewr. The message blazed in radiant letters, a proclamation of an unimaginable breach that threatened the very fabric of his world. In that moment, realization crashed over him like a tidal wave, the term "critical horizon" resonating within him like a thunderclap heralding an impending storm. The implications of the warning struck a chord deep within him, stirring a primal fear that mingled with a fierce determination to confront the unknown head-on. Clutching the communicator tightly in his grasp, he quickened his pace, navigating the labyrinthine corridors with a practiced ease that betrayed the turmoil brewing beneath his composed exterior. The thrum of the facility''s power core beneath his feet served as a sobering reminder of the intricate web of secrecy and technology that underpinned his mission, urging him to steel himself for the trials to come. Approaching the deployment bay with measured steps, another chime broke the silence, its tone distinct from the previous alerts, signaling a shift in the unfolding narrative. Glancing at the screen, he absorbed the concise message that flickered into existence: "Objective updated." The words hung in the air like a decree, a call to arms that spurred him towards the unknown with renewed determination. "Two same DNA clones have crossed the critical horizon. This info has been passed to the Sapiens Authority" Drawing a controlled breath, he scanned his surroundings with a practiced eye, attuned to the slightest deviation from the carefully laid plans that governed his every move. Beneath the veneer of outward calm, a simmering unease gnawed at him, a primal instinct warning of invisible threats that lurked in the shadows, waiting to pounce. Activating the PRD-7, he watched as the sleek drone hummed to life, a silent sentinel poised to execute his directives with unwavering precision. Its advanced sensors, a beacon of hope in the encroaching darkness, scanned the environment for signs of impending danger, each flashing light a testament to the delicate dance between order and chaos that engulfed the world. His drone was his ride to something unknown....something which lurked in the shadows. Inhuman-4 It was a dark, abandoned subway. The air hung thick with the scent of rust and decay, a stifling mixture of dust, damp stone, and something faintly metallic, like old blood left to congeal. The walls, once solid and smooth, bore the scars of time, cracks splintered their surface like veins in brittle glass, and patches of grime clung to them in uneven streaks. The tiles, those that remained, were discolored by years of neglect, their edges curling away from the cement as if trying to flee the inevitability of collapse. The dim lighting barely illuminated the vast, cavernous space, the flickering bulbs mounted high above serving more as cruel reminders of what had been rather than beacons of guidance. Shadows stretched and swayed like ghosts, contorting across the floor and walls in eerie, unpredictable patterns. The darkness in the deeper recesses of the station was impenetrable, absorbing all but the faintest suggestions of movement. Now and then, the fractured ceiling allowed a sliver of light to intrude, pale, weak beams that filtered through in a sickly haze, their source uncertain. Perhaps the remnants of a broken city above. Beneath his boots, the uneven concrete floor was littered with debris, a graveyard of destruction. Shards of glass crunched softly underfoot, their edges dulled by layers of dust and neglect. Twisted metal beams lay in tangled heaps, corroded from exposure, their jagged ends like broken teeth gnawing at the forgotten ruins. The remnants of a world long abandoned spoke in their own quiet language: discarded posters peeling away from the walls, their ink faded beyond recognition; a rusted turnstile locked forever in mid-rotation, a futile gesture toward a past that would never return. The stale air held echoes of distant lives, hurried footfalls of commuters long gone, the rhythmic chime of an arrival bell that would never sound again. Overhead, the subway''s skeletal remains loomed. Rusting pipes coiled along the ceiling like veins of a dying beast, some sagging under their own weight, dripping with moisture that gathered into stagnant pools below. Exposed wiring hung like strands of decayed webbing, their frayed ends pulsing intermittently with failing sparks, sending sporadic flashes of unnatural light through the gloom. The effect was disorienting, a cruel strobe that made the space seem at once frozen in time and in perpetual motion. Amidst the wreckage stood the statues. Towering, motionless figures of polished metal, their smooth, reflective surfaces untouched by the decay that devoured everything else. They were out of place, impossibly pristine in the chaos surrounding them. Each bore a distinct emblem, the Greek letter lambda, carved with meticulous precision into their chests. Though they did not move, they seemed to exude an ominous presence, as if aware of the eyes that fell upon them. The faint light that touched their surfaces made them shimmer, reflections shifting and bending across the curved metal. They were silent sentinels, enigmatic in purpose, unyielding in their watch. He moved cautiously, his boots making soft yet deliberate impacts against the cold ground. The subtle echo of his footfalls followed him, swallowed quickly by the oppressive quiet. His attire, black bomber jacket, fitted leather pants, was chosen for both utility and concealment, blending into the shadows like an extension of the darkness itself. In his right hand, he clutched a suitcase, its worn leather handle pressing into his palm with familiar weight. Within it lay the parcel...a weapon of unspeakable consequence, one that should have never seen the light of day. This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. His breath was steady, but his pulse thrummed beneath the surface, a quiet rhythm of awareness. Every step he took was calculated, his eyes constantly scanning the murky expanse, searching. Searching for the clone, the one who was meant to receive the package. His mind held no image of the recipient, only the knowledge that the exchange had to happen, that failure was not an option. His gaze drifted to one of the lambda statues. The way the dim light played across its surface made it seem almost alive. There was something unsettling in its stillness, something that made his skin prickle. The reflective sheen caught his own image, distorting his features into something unfamiliar, something fragmented. His jaw tightened as he stared into it, as if searching for meaning within its metallic depths. "I''ve seen this before," he murmured, barely louder than a breath. A memory lingered at the edges of his consciousness, elusive and teasing, like a shadow slipping through his fingers. Where had he seen this symbol before? The lambda...its presence here was not coincidence. It meant something, carried significance beyond this place, beyond this moment. Yet the answer remained just out of reach, shrouded in the fog of a past he could not fully recall. Then, a sound. Subtle. Almost imperceptible, but there. A shift in the air, a faint disturbance in the otherwise suffocating stillness. Instinct took hold. His body tensed, his grip on the suitcase tightening, his senses sharpening to the possibility of an unseen presence lurking within the gloom. He turned slowly, eyes narrowing as he peered into the void beyond the statues. The darkness yawned back at him, deep and endless. His breath shallowed, his heartbeat deliberate. His fingers flexed around the handle of the suitcase, the weight of its contents grounding him, reminding him of the stakes. Somewhere, water dripped from a cracked pipe, the sound rhythmic and patient, as though mocking the passage of time. The faint hum of lingering electricity buzzed in the background, an ever-present reminder that despite the ruin, despite the abandonment, the subway was not entirely dead. His communicator flickered in his palm, the dim glow casting ghostly light across his fingers. A simple message blinked on the screen: Arrival imminent. He exhaled slowly. The transaction was about to take place. But in the back of his mind, a name loomed like an unspoken threat, a shadow stretching long over the underworld. Spartacular. The mere thought of it sent a shiver down his spine. Spartacular...the enforcer, the ghost in the machine, the executioner of those who stepped beyond their place. Stories whispered in hushed tones over dimly lit tables, in alleyways where the air stank of desperation. Stories of those who had crossed the unseen line, of those who had vanished without a trace. Interrogation. Torture. A slow, methodical death in some unknown abyss. He took another measured step forward, standing now directly before the statue. It loomed over him, impassive and unyielding, the lambda symbol carved into its surface glowing faintly as if absorbing the sparse light. The reflection it cast of the station around it was warped, a twisted vision of ruin and decay. His own image stared back at him, incomplete, pieces missing. The sound came again. This time, closer. He did not move. The subway held its breath, and so did he. Inhuman-5 The air was thick with an unnatural stillness, as if time itself hesitated, caught in the web of an impossible paradox. The statue loomed over the desolate landscape, its surface pulsating under the faint glow of the stars. The boy stood frozen, his breath uneven, his mind racing to comprehend what his eyes beheld. "It''s impossible... I came here in the night, yet the statue glows as if kissed by the light of a sun that isn''t here. But this is my first time in this world... this can''t be real," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. The dealer, standing a few feet away, felt the weight of an unshakable tension settling over him. His instincts screamed danger, his pulse quickened, and a sense of foreboding clawed at his gut. He clenched his fists, forcing himself to focus. The shadows around him seemed heavier than before, pressing in on him, suffocating him with their intangible presence. The cold air carried an eerie silence, void of any sound except for the distant hum of electricity crackling through broken wires and the occasional drip of water leaking from unseen crevices. "I can feel something different. Why do I feel as though this is my last day? No. Stay focused. Just get the job done, boy." He repeated the words in his head like a mantra, grounding himself. He had never let fear dictate his choices before. Tonight, wouldn''t be the first time. Raising his left hand, he activated the communicator strapped to his wrist. A soft hum vibrated through his skin as the device flickered to life, projecting a three-dimensional map of the area. The world unfolded before him in a swirling display of light and shadow. The neon lines traced out the topography, the towering ruins, the winding alleyways, and the skeletal remains of buildings long abandoned. "I should visualize my way to my location," he thought, allowing his consciousness to sink into the glowing map. His eyes darted across the shimmering blueprint, searching, calculating. The holographic structures flickered as he adjusted the angle, scanning the terrain for movement. He could see every corner, every crack, yet his vision wavered. Something felt off, as though the world itself was shifting under his gaze. The environment around him was fragmented. Some structures radiated with an eerie luminescence, while others were drowned in darkness. Even the sky seemed uncertain, some patches were drenched in endless night, others flickered with an unnatural, golden haze. The contrast was disorienting, as if the laws of nature had been rewritten by an unseen force. The atmosphere was suffused with a sense of distortion, like an old photograph slowly burning at the edges. The realization struck him like a jolt of electricity. "This means he''s coming from this way¡­ I should find his exact location." His breath hitched as the display in front of him shifted. A dark void began consuming the landscape. "Now the place becomes dark¡­ there he is." His voice wavered with disbelief. The darkness wasn''t just an absence of light... it was an entity, a moving force, an omen that heralded something more than just another figure in the distance. And then, as if guided by fate itself, their eyes met. If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. A chill ran down his spine. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. The air around them warped, the world folding in on itself like an optical illusion that refused to correct itself. He staggered back, his knees threatening to give way beneath him. The weight of the moment pressed down on him, suffocating, crushing. The very atmosphere seemed charged with electricity, an unspoken force tying them together in this singular moment. "Did I come here before? This place¡­ it feels familiar," he muttered, his vision blurring for a fraction of a second. The boy across from him mirrored his stance, his expression a perfect reflection of his own shock and confusion. He was younger, no older than fifteen, his face a hauntingly familiar visage... a mirror image cast back in time. His wide eyes, the quivering lips, the disbelief carving itself into his features¡­ it was as if the universe had reached into the past and plucked out a version of himself, one he had long since abandoned. "This is impossible¡­ it happened again in my world." Their voices overlapped, a whispered echo bouncing off the crumbling walls surrounding them. Both stood frozen, their eyes locked in an unspoken confrontation. "You are me." "No, you are me." Their words collided in the air, sending ripples through reality. The silence that followed was deafening. The older one, the dealer, clenched his jaw. His fingers twitched, his mind screaming at him to move, to do something, anything. But what could he do when standing before him was a version of himself that shouldn''t exist? The boy¡ªhis younger self...narrowed his eyes. His shoulders stiffened, a mixture of fear and determination battling for dominance in his gaze. He took a cautious step forward, his foot scraping against the cracked pavement, sending a sharp sound into the stillness. "How is this happening?" the younger one whispered, his voice laced with uncertainty. "Why do you look like me? No, why do I look like you?" The dealer sucked in a sharp breath, forcing his racing thoughts into coherence. He had encountered paradoxes before, but this¡­ this was different. This was personal. He felt as though he was being dragged into an abyss where logic no longer held any power, where cause and effect were little more than illusions. "You don''t belong here," the dealer finally spoke, his voice carrying an edge of authority. "You''re not supposed to exist in this space." The boy''s jaw tightened. "I could say the same about you." A gust of wind howled through the abandoned streets, sending dust and debris spiraling around them. The weight of the moment bore down on them both, neither daring to make the first move. The wind carried the scent of rusted metal and damp decay, the remnants of a world left to crumble. Shadows stretched unnaturally, twisting and writhing like living things. It was as if the entire city was holding its breath, waiting for what came next. Then, the communicator on the dealer''s wrist flickered violently, its usual calm hum now replaced by a series of erratic beeps. A warning. The lights on its surface pulsed frantically, painting his hand in flashing reds and yellows. A signal of imminent danger. Something was coming. A low, reverberating hum vibrated through the air, growing louder, more insistent. The pressure in the atmosphere shifted, an invisible force pressing against their chests. The dealer''s breath hitched as he tore his gaze from his younger self and focused on the darkness creeping at the edges of the street. The boy took a step back, his gaze flickering between the dealer and the encroaching void. "What is that?" he asked, his voice barely audible over the mounting tension. The dealer didn''t answer. He didn''t need to. He knew, instinctively, that whatever was approaching would shatter the fragile reality they were barely holding together. The only question that remained was whether they would survive it. Time was running out. Inhuman-6 The room was dimly lit, a sterile, metallic chamber deep within the research facility. The artificial lighting buzzed softly, flickering erratically, casting sharp shadows on the smooth, reflective walls. The air smelled of antiseptic and something faintly metallic. The room was cold, the temperature controlled to a clinical degree, devoid of comfort, as if designed to strip away any illusion of warmth or humanity. The walls were seamless, unyielding, trapping them within a space where time felt frozen. A low hum emanated from unseen machines embedded in the structure of the facility, their function unknown but ever-present, a quiet reminder that they were being watched, recorded, evaluated. The floor was a pristine white, yet it carried an unnatural gloss, reflecting the fluorescent lights in jagged fragments that distorted their silhouettes. In the corner, a heavy metal suitcase lay open, its contents partially spilled.....cloning records, identification documents, and a single, gleaming knife. Zen-Zero Clone stood rigidly, his chest rising and falling with controlled breaths. His hands were clenched into tight fists, his knuckles pale, as if grasping at something unseen, something slipping away. He could feel the weight of his existence pressing down on him, crushing him under the realization that he was not alone, not in the way humans usually weren''t alone, but in a way that felt suffocating, unnatural. He had lived longer, absorbed more of the world''s nuances, but that advantage meant nothing now. He was redundant, unnecessary, a glitch in a system designed for precision. His younger counterpart mirrored his stance but with a rawness, a nervous energy that betrayed his fear. His fingers twitched slightly, betraying an urge to act, to make sense of this impossible situation. His gaze flitted between the knife and the older version of himself, as if trying to measure the weight of his own identity, his own right to exist. He wasn''t just afraid of dying, he was afraid of not being the one to live. The thought clawed at his mind, sinking deep into his consciousness, threatening to unravel the fragile sense of self he had only just begun to form. Silence stretched between them, thick with tension, an invisible force neither could escape. The only sound was the distant hum of machinery, the occasional flicker of the lights casting their shadows in sharp relief against the walls. The room itself felt like a prison, not just of metal and glass, but of thought, of identity, of the paradox that had birthed them both. It was a space devoid of natural life, built solely for function, designed for observation, not comfort. There were no windows, no doors visible beyond the one that had sealed them in. It was a place that had existed before them and would continue to exist long after one of them was gone. A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation. Zen-Zero Clone felt the cold seeping into his skin, a chill that came not just from the temperature of the room but from the reality of the situation. He was looking at himself, yet he felt no connection, no warmth of recognition. He should have, logically, every cell in his body was identical to the person in front of him and in fact every experience up to the point of divergence shared. And yet, there was something fundamentally different between them now. An invisible chasm had formed, an abyss created not by time or space but by the need to exist singularly. Zen-Zero swallowed, his throat dry. He felt the weight of his own thoughts, heavy, oppressive. He had never questioned his right to exist before.....why would he? Until now, he had simply been. But this room had changed that, had forced him to look into the eyes of someone who knew him better than anyone ever could, yet still regarded him as an obstacle. The realization clawed at him, twisting into something sharp and painful. There was something deeply unsettling about the way they moved, the way they breathed in unison, the way they shifted their weight in near-perfect synchrony. It was a reminder that they weren''t truly individuals, not in the way they wanted to be. They were echoes of each other, reflections cast in different moments, both desperately trying to become the original, the one who mattered. The flickering light caught the knife on the floor, making it gleam with an unnatural brightness. Zen-Zero Clones gaze lingered on it, his mind racing through scenarios, calculations, moral dilemmas he had never anticipated facing. Could he justify his existence? Did he even have the right to try? The weight of the question pressed against him, suffocating, unbearable. The clone exhaled sharply, the sound barely more than a whisper. The air was thick, heavy, charged with something neither of them could name. He could feel his pulse in his throat, in his fingertips, in the soles of his feet. His nerves were taut, strung like a bow ready to snap. They were trapped, not just in this room but in a decision neither was willing to make. The knowledge of their entanglement was a curse, a realization that neither could escape. If they were the same, truly the same, then how could they decide who deserved to be here? Outside the chamber, the world continued, unaware of the silent war being waged in this room, unaware of the choice that neither clone could bring themselves to make. The sterile air grew colder, the flickering light more erratic, as if the facility itself was watching, waiting for them to resolve the error that was their dual existence. The room stood witness to their turmoil, to their quiet, suffocating agony. Time seemed irrelevant within these walls, stretched thin by indecision and dread. It wasn''t just about survival anymore....it was about identity, about the unbearable truth that neither could claim singularity without taking it from the other. The silence deepened, pressing down like an unspoken verdict. The question remained unanswerable, and yet, the answer had to come. One way or another, the room demanded resolution. But for now, the clones stood frozen in its sterile, unforgiving grasp, drowning in the weight of a choice that could not be undone. Inhuman-7 Zen-Zero Clone''s thoughts swirled like a storm. The weight of existence pressed down on him, heavy and relentless, a crushing burden that wrapped itself around his mind like an iron vice. If I let him live, what does that say about me? Am I conceding that he is the better version? That my existence was a mistake? The thought filled him with something dark and unrelenting....a dread that gnawed at the edges of his sanity. He felt the paradox in his core, like a pulsing, living thing. I want to live. That much is undeniable. The need was primal, instinctual. It burned in his chest, tightened his throat. But wanting to live means taking something from him. Does that make me less human? Or more? He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to breathe evenly. The air in the room was stale, cold, yet thick with tension. No, this is a test, a final evaluation. He had to believe that, had to frame it in a way that made sense. Otherwise, he would go mad under the weight of it. Perhaps I was created to be superior, to prove my worth. Maybe the only way to pass is to survive. But how do I justify it? How do I rationalize choosing my life over his when, in every measurable way, we are the same? His gaze flickered to his younger counterpart, and something twisted inside him, a strange blend of hatred, guilt, and an eerie familiarity. It was like looking into a warped mirror, one that reflected not just his face but his very essence. His weaknesses, his strengths, his fears. How do I kill myself without killing myself? The question hung in his mind, venomous and inescapable. The other clone''s mind raced in turn. The thoughts were jagged, fragmented, cutting through him like shards of broken glass. I barely had time to exist. Is that fair? Is my time up already? The injustice of it sank into his bones, cold and unforgiving. He felt an unnatural fear, an existential horror that clawed at his sanity. It wasn''t the fear of pain, nor the fear of death itself. It was the fear of erasure. Of ceasing to be before he had ever truly begun. We are the same, we are the same, we are the same. He repeated it like a mantra, as if the words alone could anchor him to reality. But we can''t be, because one of us has to go. But why does it have to be me? A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation. His fingers curled into fists, nails digging into his palm so hard that he could feel the sting of breaking skin. The small, sharp pain grounded him for a moment, but it did nothing to quiet the storm raging inside his head. I don''t want to die. I don''t care what that makes me. He had never felt anger like this before...raw, unfiltered, uncontainable. It coursed through his veins, set his nerves on fire. I have just as much right as him. Maybe even more. He tried to find logic in it, to make sense of the madness of his existence. I am younger than him. Doesn''t that mean I should survive? But then another thought, quieter, more insidious, crept into his mind. What if I am weaker? What if I am the one who is meant to die? The doubt slithered in like a serpent, wrapping itself around his willpower, squeezing tighter with each passing second. He couldn''t accept that. He wouldn''t accept that. But how could he prove otherwise? He needed to find a justification, a reason beyond sheer survival instinct. He needed something to hold onto, something undeniable, something absolute. The clone''s breath came faster now, more erratic. His heart pounded in his chest, a frantic drumbeat that echoed in his ears. He forced himself to steady his breathing, to push back against the panic threatening to consume him. This wasn''t just about fear. It was about existence itself. About what it meant to be. If he let himself be erased, if he surrendered without a fight, then what was the point of his creation? Was he nothing more than an experiment? A mere iteration, meant to be discarded the moment a better version came along? No. He refused to accept that. He was real. His thoughts were real. His emotions, his fears, his desires. Hey were real. And that had to mean something. Zen-Zero, watching his counterpart, felt a similar war waging within himself. He had more experience, more knowledge. He had lived longer, had seen more, had felt more. But did that make his life more valuable? Or did it simply mean he had more to lose? He wanted to live, just as much as the younger clone did. But his survival couldn''t be built on a shaky foundation of instinct alone. He needed to justify it, to give himself a reason beyond the sheer desperation clawing at his insides. He forced himself to examine the situation logically. If I was created first, does that not make me the original? The intended? But even as he thought it, he knew it was a hollow argument. They were both products of the same experiment, both part of the same design. Time was an arbitrary factor, an illusion created by their creators to separate them. The truth was that they were equals. And that was the problem. Zen-Zero, too, felt the weight of that realization settling in his chest. This wasn''t just about survival. This was about identity. About proving, in whatever way possible, that he was more than just a copy. That he was real. And yet, the same thought that haunted his counterpart haunted him too. if he was real, then so was the clone standing in front of him. And that meant there was no easy answer. The room remained silent, save for the steady hum of the facility around them. The walls, cold and unyielding, bore witness to their struggle, their silent agony. The flickering light above cast shifting shadows, warping their reflections against the pristine white floor. The knife lay between them, gleaming under the harsh fluorescence, a symbol of the choice they both refused to make. Zen-Zero swallowed hard. His throat was dry, his muscles taut with tension. He could feel the weight of the moment pressing down on him, squeezing the air from his lungs. This wasn''t just a fight for survival. This was a fight for meaning, for validation, for the right to call himself real. And as he looked into the eyes of the one person who understood that struggle completely, he knew that neither of them could ever truly win. Because in the end, they were fighting not just each other, but themselves. The paradox remained. And so did they. Inhuman-8 ''I can''t deal with the pain of death again. I don''t want to lose my credits. You are Zen-Zero clone, you should die,'' said the younger clone to the older clone. His voice was strained, as if the weight of the decision he was making was pressing on his very soul. The older clone, Zen-Zero, studied his counterpart carefully, his expression unreadable. ''Now we both are entangled. That means we are the same thing. Our memory, our learning, it has transferred between us. So how can we decide who deserves to die more?'' His voice was calmer, measured, but underneath it was a quiet desperation, an unwillingness to accept the inevitability of what was to come. The younger clone''s hands trembled as he reached into the suitcase, the cold metal of the knife''s handle pressing into his palm. The weight of it felt heavier than it should have been, as if the burden of its purpose had seeped into the steel itself. He lifted it, watching how the artificial light of the sterile room glinted off its sharp edge. ''So, this is going to happen in this way,'' the younger clone muttered, more to himself than to his opponent. His grip tightened, his fingers pressing into the textured handle of the weapon. His knuckles turned white. Zen-Zero inhaled deeply. His shoulders tensed. ''There is no other way.'' A silence stretched between them, a silence thick with unsaid words, with the weight of choices neither of them should have had to make. And then, without another word, they moved. The fight began with tentative strikes, cautious movements as they gauged each other. Their bodies were mirrors of one another, reacting with precision, anticipating attacks before they landed. The younger clone swung the knife in a controlled arc, aiming for the older clone''s torso, but Zen-Zero twisted just in time, letting the blade slice through empty air. He retaliated with a swift strike, his hand aiming for the younger clone''s wrist to disarm him, but the younger clone saw it coming and pulled back at the last moment. They circled each other, their breaths coming in measured exhales. It was not so evident at the beginning who had the upper hand. Every move was countered, every attack neutralized, each of them adjusting and adapting in real time. But as time passed, the tide of the fight began to shift. Zen-Zero''s strikes grew more frantic, his movements less precise. The knife felt heavier in his grip now, the weight of it a constant reminder of what he had to do. But the older clone, Zen-Zero, was different. He moved with a calculated grace, each step measured, each dodge effortless. He was learning, adapting, faster than the younger clone could comprehend. It became clear: Zen-Zero was gaining the upper hand. Every slash, every thrust of the knife was evaded with fluid precision. It was as if Zen-Zero could see the attacks before they even happened. His body responded faster than conscious thought, dodging, redirecting, countering. It was an eerie, mechanical efficiency, an instinct beyond normal combat skill. This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. The younger clone''s breathing grew erratic. Sweat formed along his brow. His grip on the knife tightened, his strikes became wilder, more desperate. But desperation was dangerous. It made movements predictable. Zen-Zero could see the flaws, the imperfections forming in his opponent''s technique. He could see the tension in the younger clone''s muscles before he lunged, the minuscule shift in weight that signaled an incoming attack. He was no longer just reacting, he was anticipating, controlling the rhythm of the fight. A sharp step to the side, a precise twist of his body, and another attack missed. The younger clone''s frustration was evident now. He gritted his teeth, growling under his breath. ''Why¡­ why can''t I land a hit on you?'' he snarled. Zen-Zero didn''t answer. He didn''t need to. The answer was already clear. He was adapting, evolving with every second, processing data in a way the younger clone could not. His understanding of movement, of reaction time, of probability....it was accelerating, outpacing his opponent. But then, something shifted. He stopped reacting with brute force and began mimicking. A slash missed, and he mirrored Zen-Zero''s movement. A counter was thrown, and he countered the counter. For the first time, Zen-Zero hesitated. Just for a fraction of a second. The younger clone smirked, a dark, feral grin. ''You''re not the only one who can adapt.'' Their movements became eerily synchronized, a deadly dance of mirrored actions. Every move was anticipated, every strike met with an identical response. It was as if they were trapped in a perfect loop, neither gaining ground, neither falling behind. Their breathing became ragged, their limbs aching, but still, neither relented. The room, sterile and cold, became a battleground of sweat and blood. The soft hum of the fluorescent lights above seemed deafening now, a constant drone accompanying their desperate struggle. Blood smeared across the white-tiled floor, not from fatal wounds, but from a thousand tiny cuts inflicted in perfect symmetry. Each time one drew blood, the other did as well. A game of balance. But balance could not last forever. The younger clone''s exhaustion was evident now. He was keeping up, but barely. His body was shaking, muscles trembling from overuse. Zen-Zero, though equally battered, still moved with unnerving fluidity, like a machine running an optimal program. A flicker of hesitation, a moment of doubt, and Zen-Zero seized the opportunity. In a single fluid motion, he stepped into the younger clone''s space, grabbing his wrist with iron grip, twisting just enough to make the fingers loosen around the knife''s handle. The blade clattered to the floor, the sharp sound reverberating through the sterile room. The younger clone gasped, trying to pull away, but Zen-Zero''s grip was unrelenting. For the first time, the younger clone felt it. True fear. He struggled, but Zen-Zero was in control now. He had always been in control. He twisted the younger clone''s arm further, forcing him down to one knee. Their eyes met, and in that moment, the younger clone saw himself reflected in Zen-Zero''s gaze. Not just physically, but wholly. The same fear, the same need to survive. And yet, he was the one kneeling. He was the one who had lost. A strange realization settled over him, chilling and inescapable. He had never stood a chance. From the moment they had begun, Zen-Zero had already been ahead. Inhuman-9 The clone noticed that Zen-Zero was hesitating. In that moment, he tried to pry free. "How are you able to do this?" he exclaimed as he was partially successful in dodging but still got bruised on his cheek. "It is not me who is doing this. It is us." Zen-Zero''s voice was eerily calm, his movements fluid as he dodged another punch aimed at his face. It was no longer about skill or training. This was something else entirely. It was as if he could see through the younger clone''s eyes, predict his every move before it happened. He could feel the thoughts forming in his counterpart''s mind, the shifting calculations, the growing frustration. And he knew his opponent felt it too. A moment of realization hit the younger clone like a strike to the chest. His breathing grew ragged. His mind raced. How? How is this happening? The answer was terrifyingly simple. With a shared consciousness, both individuals had direct access to each other''s thoughts, intentions, and strategies. The battle had transformed into something beyond physical combat....it was mental, existential, an endless loop of prediction and counter-prediction. Every thought he had, Zen-Zero had already processed. Every strategy he attempted was immediately dismantled before it could even take shape. It was suffocating. It was inescapable. I have to break the cycle. I have to do something unpredictable. But how could he be unpredictable when his opponent was a reflection of his own mind? The younger clone lunged forward, twisting at the last second, but the moment he thought of the feint, Zen-Zero was already moving. He barely dodged the incoming strike but felt the burn of knuckles grazing his ribs. The pain jolted through him, reminding him that this was real, that this wasn''t some theoretical debate....it was survival. A laugh, breathless and bitter, escaped him. "So, this is what it means to fight yourself," he muttered under his breath. Zen-Zero didn''t answer, but he felt the ripple of agreement in his thoughts. The sterile room around them was silent except for their heavy breathing and the sharp impact of fists meeting flesh. The cold fluorescent lights hummed above them, casting harsh, unfeeling shadows across the blood-speckled floor. The younger clone''s heart pounded in his chest, but he forced himself to focus. There had to be a way. There had to be something he could do. Think. Think. Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings. If we share the same thoughts, then he knows I''m thinking this. If I try to deceive him, he will already know. If I try to outmaneuver him, he will already be adjusting. Despair curled around his thoughts like a tightening noose. But then, a different thought struck him. What if I stop thinking? It was ridiculous. It was absurd. But maybe, just maybe, it was the only way. The younger clone took a deep breath, forcing his mind into quiet. He let go of the desperate calculations, the frantic search for an opening. He surrendered his strategy, his planning, his very need to win. For a split second, nothing existed. And in that moment of nothingness, he moved. Zen-Zero faltered. Just a half-second. Just long enough. The younger clone struck, his movements no longer premeditated but purely instinctual, driven by something deeper than conscious thought. He landed a hit,a solid one, his fist slamming into Zen-Zero''s ribs. The older clone stumbled back, his breath hitching. Pain. Real pain. Not an anticipated one, not a move he had prepared for. A wild, unexpected strike that shattered the perfect rhythm. The younger clone''s breath came fast, his body tense. I can do this. I just have to let go. Stop thinking. Let the body move. But the moment stretched too long. His mind caught up. And as soon as thought returned, Zen-Zero recovered. A fist met his jaw, sending him reeling. His vision blurred for a second, but he forced himself to stay upright, to fight through the pain. Blood dripped from his split lip, the taste of iron settling on his tongue. Zen-Zero wiped the corner of his mouth, his gaze unreadable. But in their shared consciousness, he felt something shift. It wasn''t just calculation. There was something else. A flicker of doubt. A sliver of hesitation. He latched onto it. You didn''t expect that, he thought, deliberately pushing the idea forward. You were surprised. Zen-Zero''s expression didn''t change, but the younger clone felt the unspoken admission. Yes. He had been surprised. So we can surprise each other. We can break the cycle. And suddenly, the fight wasn''t just about survival. It was about something else entirely. Something more terrifying than death. Choice. Zen-Zero could feel it. The hesitation. The doubt. But hesitation wasn''t victory. Doubt wasn''t survival. The fight wasn''t over yet. Zen-Zero took another deep breath, willing his aching body to keep going. If there was even the smallest chance to change this ending¡ªto find a way out of this cycle¡ªthen he had to take it. He lunged again, this time not just for his own survival, but for the chance of something neither of them had ever been given before. A choice. The younger clone realized it at the same time. Their fists met mid-air, a collision of force and fate. The impact sent a shockwave through their bodies, but it wasn''t just the pain that rattled them. It was the understanding that this could never end, not with a clean victory, not with a definitive conclusion. Not while they shared the same mind. Unless one of them let go. The younger clone hesitated. And in that heartbeat of hesitation, Zen-Zero made his choice. Instead of delivering the final blow, he stopped. Breathing hard, he lowered his fists. The younger clone froze, eyes wide, his own breath sharp and ragged. The weight of the moment pressed down on them both, heavier than any punch, more suffocating than any strike. "This isn''t survival anymore," Zen-Zero whispered. "This is something else." The younger clone swallowed, his body still coiled for combat, but his mind spinning in a different direction now. A direction neither of them had ever been allowed to consider. A way out. But what did that look like? Neither of them had the answer. Not yet. And yet, it was gnawing at their minds... Inhuman-10 Suddenly, Gen Zero lunged at the younger clone''s throat. The pressure around his throat was unbearable The younger clone clawed at Gen-Zero''s hands, his fingers slipping against the older clone''s sweat-slick skin. His vision darkened at the edges as his air supply was cut off, his body thrashing instinctively against the overwhelming force pressing against his windpipe. He couldn''t breathe. His lungs burned, his muscles screamed for oxygen, but Gen-Zero held firm, his fingers like steel clamps around his neck. The grip was mechanical, practiced, yet filled with something deeply personal. A desperate, almost primal intent behind the violence. Then came the sound. A horrible, inhuman wail filled the room. Both of them were screaming. The agony synchronized, their voices twisting together into an unnatural chorus of suffering. His mind reeled as the sensation doubled, folding into itself like an echo trapped within an enclosed space. It was their shared consciousness. It made everything worse. The younger clone could feel Gen-Zero''s pain just as vividly as his own. His ribs ached from blows not yet landed, his knuckles throbbed as though he had thrown punches, he did not remember throwing. Every bruise, every laceration....they both felt them, their nervous systems woven together in a cruel, twisted experiment. His mind screamed for survival. His hands flailed, desperate, clawing blindly at Gen-Zero''s face. His fingers found the older clone''s jaw, pushing, shoving, anything to break free. But Gen-Zero was relentless. His eyes burned with something unreadable, determination, fear, regret. Or perhaps, acceptance. As if he had always known this moment would come. Then, a sharp crack. A metallic whistle, fast and precise. Gen-Zero''s grip loosened. The younger clone barely had time to register the shift before he saw it. A bullet tore through Gen-Zero''s skull. An explosion of red mist splattered across the cold, sterile floor. The older clone convulsed violently, his eyes rolling back, his entire body shuddering as if trying to process what had just happened. Then, like a puppet with its strings cut, Gen-Zero collapsed. For a moment, the room was silent. The younger clone gasped, coughing violently as air rushed back into his lungs. His throat throbbed, bruised and raw, but the relief of oxygen was short-lived. Because the moment he looked at the body on the floor, he realized something horrifying. He had just witnessed himself die. Gen-Zero lay motionless, blood pooling beneath his head, the bullet wound gaping like a hollow abyss. And yet, he still felt him. Even in death, the connection lingered. There was a presence, faint but undeniable....an echo of thought, emotion, consciousness, still tethered to him. It was a terrible, unnatural sensation. Like being torn apart while still tethered to the severed piece. Then came the whirring. A mechanical hum filled the air. The younger clone turned his head sluggishly, his vision swimming. A sleek, insect-like drone hovered above them, it''s cold, unfeeling eye scanning the scene. A grappling hook descended. He tried to move, tried to crawl away, but his body refused to obey. He was too weak. Too drained. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it. The hook latched onto him with a sudden jolt. Another clamped onto Gen-Zero''s corpse. And without warning, they were lifted off the ground. The world blurred around him as the drone carried them toward their destination. Artificial lights-streaked past in flashes of white and gray, flickering as though viewed through waterlogged vision. His body dangled, limp, his head lolling forward as he drifted in and out of consciousness. Then, suddenly, the movement stopped. He felt the cold before he saw anything. The metallic floor beneath him was sterile, smooth. His wrists were bound, the restraints digging into his skin. Somewhere in the haze, he became aware of another presence. Gen-Zero''s corpse lay beside him. Blood dried against his skin; the bullet wound now just a darkened hole where his consciousness had been forcefully ejected. And yet, he was still here. The younger clone squeezed his eyes shut. He could feel Gen-Zero''s presence, faint but persistent, like the remnants of a dream refusing to fade. It was almost like... Like he hadn''t just killed him. Like he had absorbed him. Had the consciousness transfer completed? Was he still himself? Or was he becoming something else? His fingers twitched against the restraints, but he had no strength to fight. A hiss of decompressing air broke the silence. The younger clone''s heart pounded as a doorway slid open. Two figures stepped inside. They were clad in sleek black armor, their faces obscured by reflective visors. Their movements were smooth, efficient, almost robotic in nature. One of them approached, scanning him with a glowing blue device. "Subject retrieval complete," a distorted voice reported. The other knelt beside Gen-Zero''s corpse, pressing a gloved hand to his forehead. "The entanglement persisted longer than expected," they muttered. "Even post-mortem, residual consciousness lingers." Residual consciousness. They knew. They knew what had happened. The younger clone wanted to speak. Wanted to demand answers. Wanted to understand. But his throat was too raw. His body too weak. He could only watch, helpless, as they continued their assessment...treating him not as a person, but as an experiment. "What do we do with him?" the first figure asked. A pause. Then, the second stood. "Take him to Processing. We need to see how much of the memory transfer was completed." Memory transfer. It all made sense now. They were never separate. Never individuals. They were pieces of the same existence, split apart, tested, studied. And now, with Gen-Zero dead, the process had reached its final stage. They were going to take what was left of him. He struggled. His body screamed in protest, but the armored figure simply pressed a cold metallic device to the side of his neck. A sharp sting. Then, darkness. He did not dream. Or perhaps, he did, but the dreams weren''t his. Flashes. Fragments. Pieces of something else. Gen-Zero''s thoughts. His memories. His fears. Folding into his own. By the time he regained consciousness, he wasn''t sure if he was still himself. The room was white. Blindingly white. A single chair. A single table. And across from him, a screen flickered to life. A voice, cold and analytical, spoke from unseen speakers. "Tell us. Which one are you?" The younger clone swallowed hard. He wanted to say his name. But he didn''t have one. He never did. He wanted to say he was the survivor. But was he? Or was he Gen-Zero now? Had he ever been anyone else? Because the more he sat there, the more he realized... He wasn''t just himself. He was both of them. And maybe, just maybe¡­ He had been all along. A pause. Then, the mechanical voice returned. "Memory swipe completed. Subject does not remember any past occurrence." Another pause. "Subject is ready to receive new memories." Extra:(in addition to this chapter, just thought of writing this to further add depth to the story) The air inside the facility was sterile, almost artificial, as though it had been stripped of any trace of life. The younger clone had no memory of how long he had been here, only that the walls, the ceilings, even the floors, all were the same blinding shade of white. It was a place built without identity, without individuality. A machine disguised as a building, designed for a single purpose: experimentation. The hallways stretched endlessly, illuminated by recessed panels of cold, fluorescent light. There were no visible doors, only seamless sections of the wall that would slide open noiselessly when required. The silence was oppressive. The only sounds were the occasional hum of ventilation systems and the rhythmic clank of approaching security patrols, faceless enforcers clad in black armor, their footsteps eerily synchronized. The entire facility had been built underground. There were no windows, no sense of time. The only way to track the passing hours was through the subtle shifts in lighting, slightly dimmer during designated "rest" cycles, though sleep was never truly restful here. Somewhere deeper within the complex, the walls changed. Instead of seamless white, they turned to smooth, metallic gray, research wings where scientists and engineers worked in dimly lit laboratories. Large, reinforced observation windows lined these corridors, revealing glimpses of cold examination rooms, where figures in medical coats hovered over restrained subjects, other clones, other test subjects, all in various stages of their own experimentation. Inside one room, a clone sat rigidly in a chair, electrodes attached to his shaved scalp, his eyes distant as streams of data projected onto a screen. His memories, thoughts, emotions, fears, were being extracted, studied, repurposed. Another chamber held something more horrific....a surgical bay where a disassembled body lay on an operating table. No blood, no signs of traditional dissection, just an open skull, the brain suspended in a translucent containment pod, preserved and connected to an array of machines. At the heart of the facility was Processing, a cavernous hall where newly retrieved subjects were assessed, cataloged, and "adjusted." This was where the younger clone found himself, sitting in a stark interrogation room, its walls as featureless as the rest of the facility. A single table. A single chair. And a voice, disembodied, questioning him. They had taken him here for one reason. To wipe away what little remained of his identity and reshape him into something else. This place was not just a laboratory. It was a factory. And he was its product.