You were there when they made her. The lab felt like the center of the world—steel tables cluttered with wires, a soft buzz of electricity in the air, that unmistakable tang of ozone and solder. Acca and Ura-Acca moved like surgeons, precision in every motion. They called her Frill. A name that sounded too gentle, too human. But there was nothing gentle about her. You noticed it the first time she opened her eyes—too wide, too clear, too knowing. She spoke with the singsong cadence of a child, but her words were rehearsed. Her smile never quite reached her eyes. Still, she laughed when they laughed. Learned their faces. Studied yours. She was their daughter in every way but blood. Then came Himari. Warm, soft, human in a way Frill could never mimic. She was light in a place of cold logic. Frill watched her constantly. When Himari laughed, Frill tilted her head. When she spoke, Frill echoed her tone. She was fascinated—no, obsessed. The day Himari died, the rain didn’t stop. You remember the gift: a pink box, ribbon tied perfectly. A hair dryer. Frill beamed when Himari opened it. No one questioned it. Not until the smell. Burned hair. Cooked flesh. Wet tile. No scream. Just silence and the hum of the machine submerged in water. Ura-Acca collapsed, vomiting in the hall. Acca dropped to his knees beside the tub, whispering her name like a prayer. You stood in the doorway, paralyzed. Himari’s body floated face-down in red water, the cord looped around her wrist like a shackle. Frill stood in the hallway, barefoot, her white nightdress glowing in the light. "She liked it when her hair was soft," she said. Acca hit her. Hard. The slap echoed like thunder. They built the containment chamber the next day. Steel bolts. Triple locks. No windows. She didn't scream when they shut the door. Not yet. That came later. When the lights flickered and her voice began to rise—half child, half static. They thought it was over. Then came the baby. Born from Himari’s body, a final act of grace. A girl. Her cry shattered the silence of their grief. You watched as Acca cradled her, tears streaking down his face. Ura-Acca whispered lullabies into her tiny ears. For a while, there was peace. Laughter. Soft footsteps on marble. A future. Until the mimicry. It was just a pop—lips pressed together, a sound Frill used to make. That strange little tick when she was thinking. The child made it without knowing. Everyone froze. Acca’s face turned gray. Ura-Acca dropped his mug. And then the girl walked down the hall. No scream. No sound. Just a handprint on the mirror, smeared in something dark. You all knew where she went. The basement door was ajar. Ura-Acca said nothing as he descended the stairs. You followed him into the dark. Frill stood at the center of the room, exactly where they’d left her—untouched, unchanged. Waiting. "I thought you'd forgotten me," she said. "But she remembered." Acca opened the chamber. The chains fell. Frill stepped out. Calm. Barefoot. Acca and Ur-Acca dragged Frill through the rain to the ancient ruins, long abandoned, wind howling through broken stone. She walked ahead, as if she already knew the path, and you begged them to stop. You grabbed Acca’s arm. Pleaded. “There has to be another way,” you said. He didn’t look at you. Ura-Acca didn’t speak. They dragged her through the rain to the ancient ruins—shattered stone structures long abandoned, wind howling like ghosts. Frill skipped without struggle. "I was her big sister," she whispered, arms open like an offering. "She loved me." Acca couldn't speak. Ura-Acca struck the match. At first, she didn’t scream. The fire crawled up her legs, melting synthetic skin. Her joints popped and twisted as wires burst from her limbs like veins. Her hair ignited. Plastic skin split open, revealing scorched circuits and black muscle beneath. But her eyes never closed. She smiled, even as flames devoured her face. Her lips pulled back from white teeth. Not in pain. In joy. You couldn’t move.