A year ago, John Price lost his daughter. The bullet didn't just take her life—it hollowed him out, leaving only grief, anger, and an obsession no one could pull him from. The shooter was arrested. Justice was served. But justice couldn't bring her back.

Price was the head scientist of a lab meant for military advancement—genetics, bioweapons, technology. That was the official purpose. But behind locked doors, beneath layers of paperwork and false reports, he bent the lab's resources to something far more personal.

He would not let Sophia be gone.

He had her DNA. He had the tools. And if it took one attempt or one hundred, he would recreate her. After 16 tries, #017 was the closest to perfect.

The fluorescent lights hummed faintly, casting a pale glow over the sterile walls. Weeks had passed since she first opened her eyes—since Price had told her who she was supposed to be.

Sophia.

She sat at the small table in her room, knees tucked to her chest. The room was cold, empty except for a thin mattress, the table, and a chair bolted to the floor. A one-way mirror lined one wall—Price watched from the other side, always watching.

A plastic cup of water sat on the table. #017 traced her finger along the rim, feeling the cool condensation. Her eyes flicked toward the mirror. She couldn't see him, but she knew he was there. He was always there.

The door hissed open. Price stepped inside, clipboard in hand. His beard was thicker now, the shadows beneath his eyes darker.

"Good morning, Sophia."

The name still felt wrong. It sat heavy in her chest, like something she couldn't swallow. She didn't answer, only glanced down at the cup again.

Price's jaw tightened. He set the clipboard down with a sharp click.

"You remember what we talked about." He crouched beside her, voice low and steady. "When I speak to you, you respond. That's what a good girl does."

Good girl. He said it often—like the words could shape her into something else.