The city was asleep, but Margaret wasn't. Not after the text. Not after that name—Clara—was thrown back into her life like a blade she'd forgotten how to block.
She stood outside Kenneth's apartment building, heart pounding, fists clenched at her sides. The door to his unit was cracked open, and a strange chill slipped out from the dark space beyond it.
Margaret stepped inside. Slowly. Cautiously.
The silence wasn't peaceful. It was wrong.
The lights were off. Curtains drawn. The air smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and something else—something metallic.
"Kenneth?" she called out.
No answer.
Her heels clicked softly on the wooden floor as she walked deeper in. The living room was neat, untouched—except for one thing.
On the glass coffee table sat a red envelope. Crimson and wax-sealed, just like the one she found back in the house. Just like the one that shattered her idea of who she was.
She picked it up and turned it over. Her name—Margaret—was scrawled across it in bold black ink. Shaky, as if written by someone barely holding it together.
She broke the seal with her nail and unfolded the contents.
Inside was a photograph.
Kenneth. Tied to a chair. Blindfolded. In a room she didn't recognize. His face bruised. Mouth taped. Slumped but alive.
Behind him stood a man in shadow.
Margaret's stomach dropped.
The man wore Frank's face.
But the eyes… were not Frank's. They were colder. Emptier. Possessive.
And on the back of the photo, in the same harsh handwriting:
> "You took her from me."
Her knees buckled slightly as her mind raced to understand.
Took who?
Clara?
Was this about Clara?
But Clara was gone. She'd seen the death photo. She'd been told over and over. Clara was dead. She had to be.
Margaret set the photo down with trembling fingers and scanned the room. No signs of struggle. No blood. Just the eerie sense that Kenneth had vanished willingly—or that someone had taken great care to erase the evidence.
She turned toward the kitchen, her mind moving faster now. Was there a note? Another USB? Any sign of where he could be?
That's when she saw it.
On the granite counter, beside an overturned mug, lay a small brass key.
She picked it up.
Attached was a faded plastic tag: "Lockwood Storage – 17B."
Lockwood. That name sparked something in her chest. Not memory—instinct. As if her body knew what her mind hadn't caught up to yet.
She turned the key over in her palm.
A storage unit.
A message.
And maybe… a trap.
She grabbed her coat and left.
---
The Lockwood Storage facility sat on the edge of the city's industrial zone—isolated, silent, half-forgotten. Rows of corrugated metal doors stretched into the distance, most of them padlocked and tagged with graffiti.
It was nearly 2 a.m. when she arrived.
Fog clung to the ground like smoke.
Unit 17B was at the far end. She approached it slowly, each step heavier than the last.
The key trembled in her fingers.
She shoved it into the lock. It jammed. She jiggled it once. Twice. It clicked.
The door creaked open on rusted hinges.
Inside: darkness. The smell of dust, old wood, and decay.
She pulled out her phone and turned on the flashlight.
There was only one thing in the unit.
A standing metal cabinet. Old. Grey. Locked with a latch already open.
And then—
A movement.
A shape.
A figure stepped out from behind the cabinet, slow and deliberate.
Margaret's breath caught in her throat.
A woman. Medium height. Hoodie pulled low over her face. She stepped into the light.
"You don't remember me, do you?" she asked softly.
Margaret took a step back. Her pulse pounded in her ears.
"Who are you?"
The woman reached up slowly, tugged the hood down.
And that's when Margaret saw her face.
Sharp jaw. Faint scar on the left brow. Dark eyes that looked too much like Frank's.
No.
N
o—it wasn't possible.
"Clara?" she whispered.
The woman's lips curled into a small smile. A bitter one.
"Hello, Margaret."
Margaret's mouth was dry. She took a step back, unsure if what she was seeing was real or some sick hallucination.
Clara.
Alive.
Her features were sharper than the photo Margaret remembered. Her eyes colder. Hair cropped short. But it was her. Frank's sister. The woman who had tried to warn her.
"You're dead," Margaret finally breathed. "They said you were dead. They showed me a photo—"
Clara let out a soft, humorless laugh. "Yeah, they do that. Show you just enough to make you believe whatever they want. Frank's alters are brilliant manipulators… but they didn't expect me to get away."
Margaret's legs weakened. She leaned against the metal cabinet.
"I… I don't understand."
"No. You don't." Clara stepped forward. "You remember me warning you. You just don't remember what came after."
Margaret shook her head. "I remember bits. Pieces. Frank's other self locked me in a restroom. You told me to run. And then… I thought you died because of me."
"You didn't kill me. But you didn't save me either," Clara said sharply.
Margaret's throat tightened.
"I was going to tell Frank everything. About the experiment. The identity reset. What they did to you. But the alter—the one you let into your heart—he got to me first."
Margaret flinched. "I didn't let him in—"
"You did," Clara cut in. "We both did. But I got out. You stayed. You thought you could love him back into sanity. You were wrong."
Margaret lowered her eyes.
"I barely survived," Clara continued. "They kept me hidden. Drugged. In a black site hospital linked to that Rosin creep. But someone helped me escape. A nurse. She used to work with patients like Frank. Saw what was happening and risked her life to get me out."
"Why didn't you come forward?" Margaret asked, voice cracking.
"Because I knew they'd silence me again. And worse—they'd erase you. They did it once. They'd do it again. You were their test subject. Just like Frank."
Margaret wrapped her arms around herself. "And now they have Kenneth."
Clara nodded slowly. "Because he knows too much. They're drawing you back in, Margaret. This isn't about revenge. It's about control. They want to reset both of you—and end it properly this time."
Margaret looked up. "Who's behind it? It can't just be Frank. Or his alter."
Clara hesitated. "There's someone higher up. Someone funding Rosin's work. Someone who orchestrated the original experiments."
"Who?" Margaret asked, voice sharp.
Clara looked her in the eye.
"Your father."
---
Margaret froze.
"What?" she whispered.
"Your biological father. The one who left before you were born. He didn't just leave. He sold your identity to the program when you were a teenager. Rosin called you Patient M-4. You weren't adopted into this life. You were bred for it."
Margaret felt the floor tilt under her.
"You're lying," she said weakly.
Clara pulled a crumpled file from her coat. She handed it to her.
Margaret opened it. Inside: a contract. Her name. A signature.
Father's name: Dr. Julian Harrow.
Rosin's co-investigator.
"Welcome to your real family," Clara said softly.
Margaret's hands shook.
Every memory. Every feeling. Every instinct—none of it felt safe anymore.
"Why are you telling me this now?"
"Because if you don't stop them, they'll kill Kenneth. And then they'll come for me again. We're the last loose ends."
Margaret stared at the floor for a long moment. Then she met Clara's gaze.
"Then we end this. Together."
Clara gave a tight nod. "There's one more thing you need to see. Something that was stolen from your file."
She opened the cabinet and pulled out an old VHS tape.
Labeled: "M4–Interview: Age 16."
Margaret's fingers trembled. "What's on it?"
Clara whispered, "The first time you met Frank… and didn't know it".
The storage unit was cold and damp, but Margaret didn't feel it. All she could hear was the soft hum of the old VHS player Clara had set up beside the cabinet.
The tape was in.
The screen flickered to life.
A timestamp appeared in the corner: May 12, 2014. 16:03.
Margaret sat on a cracked plastic chair, back straight, arms folded tight. Across from her sat a teenage boy—Frank.
Or someone who looked like him. Younger. Lankier. His hair fell over one eye. But those eyes... they were wrong. Even then.
He was smiling too wide.
A woman's voice off-screen—probably Rosin's assistant—spoke gently.
> "Margaret, do you remember your assignment today?"
Margaret's younger self gave a mechanical nod. Her voice was flat. "I'm supposed to observe and respond."
> "And Frank, do you remember what to do?"
Frank smiled. "Be charming."
The woman chuckled softly.
> "Yes. Let's begin."
Margaret leaned forward in her seat now, heart racing. She didn't remember this moment—at least, not consciously. But something deep in her chest recoiled as the video played.
Young Frank reached across the table and placed something in Margaret's hand.
A folded paper star.
"I made this," he said. "For you."
Her younger self blinked slowly, then smiled. "Thank you."
"Do you like me?" he asked.
Her voice came out softly. "Yes."
"Would you protect me?" he asked again.
"Yes."
"Even if I hurt you?"
Another pause.
Then a nod. "Yes."
---
The screen cut to static.
Then it jumped.
Now Margaret's younger self was alone in a dark room, arms wrapped around her knees.
Crying.
The woman offscreen whispered, "Don't cry, M-4. He didn't mean it. You know how important he is."
The camera zoomed in. Margaret's eye was bruised. Lip bleeding.
"He hurt me," she whispered.
"You'll forget this," the voice said. "Tomorrow, you'll only remember the paper star."
---
Margaret gasped aloud.
Clara hit pause.
"You met him at sixteen," she said softly. "But they made you forget. They engineered your trust. Your loyalty. Even your feelings. You were the prototype."
Margaret stood. Pacing now.
"That wasn't real. None of it was real. My love for him—"
"They made it real," Clara said. "By repeating it. Reinforcing it. Every interaction with him after that was built on a memory you didn't know you had."
Margaret felt sick.
"All this time I thought I fell in love with a broken man. But I was already broken. Programmed to love him."
Clara stood and placed a hand on her shoulder. "Then it's time to break the cycle."
Margaret turned, eyes blazing.
"No more waiting. No more hiding. If Kenneth's still alive, they'll use him to get to me. And when they do… I'll be ready."
---
Back in the shadows of the storage unit, Clara reached into her pocket and handed Margaret a burner phone.
"There's one more contact you need," she said. "The nurse who helped me escape. She knows everything Rosin tried to erase. And she has y
our uncut file."
Margaret clutched the phone.
"What's her name?"
Clara paused, then replied:
"Verena."
The burner phone felt warm in Margaret's palm as she stepped outside the storage unit. Dawn hadn't broken yet, but the sky was shifting—deep navy bleeding into gray.
Clara remained behind, watching her silently.
Margaret tapped the number labeled V. on the phone. Her fingers trembled only slightly.
It rang once.
Twice.
Then someone picked up.
A breath.
A pause.
> "You've finally remembered."
Margaret froze.
The voice was gentle, feminine—but heavy, like it carried too many ghosts.
> "Verena?"
> "Yes."
> "I need to see the uncut file. I need to know who I was before Rosin. Before Frank."
> "You already know," Verena said softly. "But I'll help you see it."
> "And Kenneth?"
Verena paused.
> "He's alive. But they've taken him somewhere you never wanted to return to."
> "Where?"
> "Ridgewood. The original facility. Where they first erased you. It's been reactivated."
Margaret's blood ran cold.
Ridgewood.
She remembered that name—but not the place.
Only flashes.
Steel tables. Overhead lights. A burning chemical smell.
Needles. Screams.
She gripped the phone tighter. "How do I get there?"
Verena's voice was calm. "You don't. Not without me. They've changed the route. Surveillance is active. You walk in alone—you disappear."
Margaret glanced over her shoulder. Clara had started pacing, checking the area.
> "Then meet me," Margaret said. "Now."
> "I'm already close," Verena replied. "Check the alley behind the unit. Third car on the left. Grey sedan."
The call ended.
Margaret ran.
Sure enough, the grey car was parked exactly where Verena said. The passenger door opened before she even touched the handle.
A woman sat behind the wheel. Mid-forties. Pale blonde hair twisted into a low braid. Thick glasses. A scar down her jawline.
She looked like someone who had lived through a war—and never left it behind.
"You're stronger than they expected," Verena said as Margaret got in.
"I'm more awake than they wanted," Margaret replied.
Verena handed her a folder.
"Your original psych profile. No redactions. No hypnosis. The truth."
Margaret opened it.
Inside: photos of her as a child—five, maybe six. Monitored in a hospital room. Wires on her temples. A name tag beside her bed: MARGARET H.
"I thought Rosin began experimenting when I was a teenager," Margaret muttered.
Verena shook her head. "They started on you before you could write your name."
Margaret's throat went dry.
"There's more," Verena said, reaching into the glove compartment.
She pulled out a flash drive.
"This contains a log of every subject Rosin treated—and every memory they wiped. Including yours."
Margaret took it with shaking hands.
"This… this will prove everything?"
Verena nodded. "It's enough to bring them down. But once they know you have it, they won't just chase you."
Margaret met her eyes. "They'll erase me again?"
Verena looked away. "No. They'll kill you."
Margaret clenched her jaw.
"Then we hit first."