Chapter Fourty Three
478 Words
Chapter Forty-Three
Mila’s POV
Darkness.
Then—light. Too bright. Too white.
A steady beep… beep… beep filled her ears. She tried to move, but her limbs felt heavy—like she was underwater.
And then she heard a voice.
> “Increase the dosage. Subject M-01’s resistance is spiking again.”
A man’s silhouette leaned over her. His voice was calm. Familiar.
> “She’s not supposed to remember.”
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
She wanted to scream, to open her eyes, to ask who he was—
—but then everything glitched.
The white light shattered into fragments, breaking apart like glass.
*****
Mila jerked awake in her bed, gasping. Her sheets were damp with sweat, her heartbeat wild and uneven. The room was dark except for the faint city glow leaking through her curtains.
She pressed a trembling hand to her chest.
A dream.
Just a dream.
Except it didn’t feel like one.
Because she could still hear the machine beeping, still see that cold silhouette. And—she knew that voice. She just couldn’t place it.
Mila stood, pacing to her window, trying to shake it off. But then something sharp pulsed behind her eyes.
A memory—short, fast, like a flash of static.
A syringe.
A bright room.
A man saying, “She’s the prototype.”
She gasped and stumbled back, clutching her head.
What the hell was that?
*****
The next morning, her father was already waiting in the dining room. His tie was perfect, his expression unreadable—but his eyes lingered on her too long.
“You didn’t sleep well,” he said, pouring coffee. Not a question.
Mila froze. “How did you—”
He smiled thinly. “You talk in your sleep, darling.”
Her stomach dropped. “What did I say?”
He stirred his cup slowly. “Just… fragments. Nothing to worry about.”
She sat down, trying to steady her breathing. But when he reached for the sugar bowl, his sleeve slid back—revealing a faint scar on his wrist.
A circular mark.
Like a burn.
Like the kind left by—
Her throat went dry.
She remembered it.
That same mark, from her dream. The man leaning over her had it too.
“Mila?” her father asked softly, his tone a little too even.
She forced a smile. “Nothing, Dad. Just tired.”
But her hands wouldn’t stop shaking under the table.
*****
That night, when she opened her laptop to distract herself, a notification flashed on her screen — an anonymous message.
> “You’re not supposed to remember either.”
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.
But before she could type a reply, the message disappeared.
Deleted.
Erased.
And on the blank screen, her reflection stared back at her — pale, wide-eyed, and utterly terrified.
- Writer
