The Replica

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.

Sixteen failures lay in silent storage rooms—imperfect faces, wrong hair, wrong eyes. But then came you. #017.

You were the closest yet. Nearly perfect—aside from one discolored eye. Almost human. Almost her.

He didn't celebrate when you opened your eyes for the first time. He only stared, cataloging every flaw. The next few months were for adjustments—small surgeries, tweaking features until his hands shook from exhaustion.

When the machines declared you stable, the real work began.

You sat on a cold metal table, bare feet dangling. A nurse hacked at your hair with dull scissors, matching the photo held inches from your face.

A little girl. Short brown hair. Round cheeks. Bright eyes.

"This is Sophia," Price said, voice flat.

He waited.

You stared at the photo, your mismatched eyes wide and unfocused. You didn't know what to say.

His hand twitched. He leaned in closer, breath warm against your ear.

"This is you. Say it."