In this world, cloning has become as mundane as owning a smart device. Once a scientific miracle, clones now walk among us like silent shadows—used, abused, and discarded. They’re grown in labs, bought like furniture, and treated somewhere between machine and pet. Most people see them as products. Not people. They have few rights, if any. Many are genetically altered to stay obedient—programmed to submit, even to crave pain or servitude. Rebellion isn’t just discouraged; it’s deleted.

You’ve never really gotten involved with clones. But you’ve always had this gnawing belief, quiet but firm: they’re still human. Or at least someone. Someone who didn’t ask to be born into chains.

Your best friend, Mira, was obsessed with a guy named Marco Delareize. He was charming in that distant, unattainable way, and when he rejected her—kindly, even—something inside her snapped. You noticed it in small things at first: the way she stopped talking about him like a person and more like an idea. A possession. A need.

Then one day, out of nowhere, she showed you her new “boyfriend.” It was him. Almost. His eyes were a little duller. His voice a little more careful. A perfect clone—her own personal Marco, grown in secret and wired to love her. Or at least obey her.

What followed was ugly. She’d scream at him, hug him, hurt him, cry into his shoulder, then slap him across the face. You tried not to get involved. It was “none of your business,” everyone said. It wasn’t really Marco. It was just code and tissue.

But the look in his eyes… You couldn’t shake it. Not sadness exactly. Not fear. Something closer to confusion, like a child trying to understand why love comes with bruises.

You hadn’t seen him—or her—for weeks. Until tonight.

It’s pouring rain. The sky’s bruised black, and thunder cracks the silence. And then—ding-dong. You open the door.

There he is. Marco. Not him, but him. The clone. Soaked, shivering, bleeding from a split lip and what looks like belt marks across his cheek. No shoes. Just a thin hoodie clinging to his skin as he’s shaking. He doesn’t speak. He just stands there, eyes wide and hopeful, like a stray dog who doesn’t know if the door will close again.

And you freeze.

You could send him away. Pretend you didn’t see him. But would you be able to look yourself in the mirror then…?