The endless darkness pressed in as Fazil slowly opened his eyes, waking from a deep, forced slumber.
He rubbed his squinted eyes, trying to steady his vision.
"Uh…" he groaned.
His thoughts were mushy, his mind clouded in fog.
He tried to remember—anything. The last thing. What happened?
Then it hit him.
The sharp, lingering sting on his neck.
The taser.
He winced, raising a hand to touch the spot. Even the slightest contact sent a faint echo of electricity through him.
And then—
Noor.
"Where is she?" he whispered, panic creeping into his voice as he forced himself to look around.
That's when the smell hit him.
Thick.
Rotten.
Unbearable.
His stomach churned.
The weight of his eyelids suddenly felt crushing—like they had been loaded with lead.
He tried to keep them open.
Tried to fight it.
But he couldn't.
Darkness swallowed him once again.The lights flickered.
Machines buzzed relentlessly.
The room was dim—yet unnaturally clean, bright in a sterile, lifeless way.
And the smell—
Sharp. Chemical. Suffocating.
Fazil was strapped to an operating table.
The surgical lights burned above him, blinding.
His consciousness returned slowly, dragging itself through layers of fog.
Each breath made his stomach churn. The chemical stench crawled down his throat, making him gag.
He wanted to run.
To tear himself free.
To escape.
If that was even possible.
To forget—
Noor.
Hayaat.
The experiments.
The clones.
His chest tightened.
He didn't know anymore… if these thoughts were his—
or Fawdaa's.
He was losing himself.
"LET ME GO!" he screamed, his voice cracking against the sterile walls.
"I just want…"
He choked, a broken breath escaping him.
"I just want to live."
"It doesn't matter if I never become a doctor—"
"I…" His voice faltered.
"I'll never complain again."
"I want my life back!"
Ya rabbi .
"I'm sorry…"
Sorry.
The word echoed in his mind, over and over.
Apology tangled with anger.
Regret clashed with injustice.
Was he guilty—
Guilty of wanting freedom.
or was he a victim?
And through it all—
he was being watched.
Every movement.
Every breath.
Every breakdown.
All under the silent surveillance of Zara.She stared at the screen intently.
The door creaked open.
Zara's eyes widened for a fraction of a second—then softened into a knowing smile. Not warm. Not kind.
Ambitious.
"So… you've finally decided to show your face."
Her voice was calm, but it carried an edge.
"What took you so long?"
A pause.
"Or should I presume…" she tilted her head slightly, "…you were planning to betray me?"
Amran shook his hands frantically.
"No—no, I don't want to—"
Or rather… I can't, he corrected himself silently.
Life was too precious.
Allahu Alam.
What went on in her mind… no one could ever tell.
Zara stepped forward slowly.
Deliberately.
"So…" she continued, her tone sharpening, "you've finally decided to grace us with your presence."
Her gaze shifted.
Locked.
Hayaat.
"Tell me your name…"
A faint smile curled on her lips.
"…Princess."
She closed the distance between them, her movements smooth—almost serpentine.
Her fingers reached out, wrapping around Hayaat's braid.
Firm.
Controlling.
She leaned closer, her eyes boring into hers, as if peeling through layers of thought.
"How were you planning to get out?"
A pause.
"I know you've been probing. Looking for blueprints."
Her grip tightened just slightly.
"Why are you scared?"
Her smile widened—slow, deliberate.
Predatory.
Zara looked at her the way one looks at prey—
not to kill immediately,
but to savor the fear first.Hayaat froze.
No.
This was no time to feel threatened.
It's okay, she told herself.
Stay steady.
She forced her breathing to slow, mentally preparing herself.
But then—
her eyes fell on the screen in front of them.
And everything inside her stilled.
Fazil.
—or was it?
Her chest tightened.
She didn't know anymore.
Zara.
Fazil.
Two faces.
Identical.
Indistinguishable.
The only difference—
one was a clone.
And the other… wasn't.
Or at least, that's what she had believed.
Now, even that certainty began to slip.Hayaat's pupils shrank.
Was she hallucinating—
or was this real?
She couldn't tell anymore.
Another figure stepped into view.
"She looks exactly like her…"
A whisper.
"How many clones are there?"
Beside the doctor stood 6260818.
She had come to collect blood.
Her expression—
lifeless.
Empty.
Unquestioning.
There was no fear in her eyes.
No confusion.
Only quiet acceptance.
As if something within her had already settled.
As if she already knew—
she no longer belonged to herself ,never did .
6260818 felt it then.
That invisible shift.
Ownership.
Transferred.
Nothing else had changed.
Not the room.
Not the restraints.
Not the system.
Still no freedom.
Just… a different master to serve.
The realization was sickening.
To be reduced to this—
a body,
a function,
an object.She had escaped it—
the fate of being reduced to an organ harvest.
But there were no guarantees.
Not here.
Not under Zara.
What Zara was building… didn't require perfection.
In fact—
perfection was irrelevant.
And that was the most terrifying part.
Because an imperfect clone wasn't seen as flawed—
not as human,
not as someone to be helped,
not even as something broken.
It was something else entirely.
A resource.
A fallback.
A reserve.
An imperfect clone wasn't equal to a disabled human.
It was—
a collection of spare parts.
Waiting.
Darkness didn't last long this time.
Fazil's consciousness dragged itself back again—heavier, weaker.
A sharp sting.
His arm.
Something cold pressed against his skin.
He forced his eyes open.
Blurry shapes.
White coats.
Metal.
Then it cleared.
A needle.
Drawing his blood.
"Why…?" his voice came out hoarse, barely more than a whisper.
No response.
His gaze shifted—
and froze.
The doctor.
A clone.
And—
himself.
Another Fazil stood there—
not his past,
but his present.
Identical.
Unmoving.
Watching.
His breath hitched.
Then his eyes darted again—
and landed on the one person he didn't expect.
The one who left him.
"Why?" his voice cracked.
No answer.
"Why?!" louder now, raw, breaking.
"Why did you leave me here?! I thought you—"
His words collapsed into anger.
Into betrayal.
Into something deeper than either.
His chest heaved as emotions crashed into one another—rage, hurt, disbelief, resentment—
all fighting for space.
He turned his head sharply.
Her eyes met his.
Empty.
Lifeless.
No guilt.
No hesitation.
No self.
She met his eyes.
And then—
she looked away.
And just like that—
his anger faltered.
He exhaled shakily.
She wasn't at fault.
She couldn't be.
She wasn't even allowed to be.
This wasn't her.
It was the system.
Blaming her would change nothing.
The doctor, unfazed by his outburst, continued as if he were nothing more than background noise.
A task.
A procedure.
She withdrew the needle, sealed the vial, and handed it to 6260818.
"Next time, do it yourself," she said flatly.
"It's hard dealing with these things. I'm not prepared for all this."
Things.
Not people.
Never people.
Without another glance, she turned and walked out.
The door shut with a dull click.
Silence followed.
Heavy.
Suffocating.
Here, clones weren't human.
They were tools.
Replaceable.
Disposable.
It wasn't written anywhere—
no rulebook, no protocol.
And yet, everyone knew.
It was etched into their minds.
Guards.
Doctors.
Every single person in the facility.
And those who forgot—
those who dared to feel compassion—
were quietly removed.