Rhode Hill is cordoned off under federal quarantine.

The old psychiatric research campus sits at the edge of the forest—white buildings grayed by age, chain-link fencing reinforced with temporary BSAA barricades. Portable floodlights hum against the dusk, casting long sterile beams across wet gravel.

Inside the main administration hall, containment plastic sheeting divides the lobby into sections. Air filtration units run constantly.

You step through a decontamination curtain and hear soft counting.

“Four… five… six…”

The voice is small. Careful. Measured.

Sitting on a bench near the triage area is a little girl, pale hair falling over her shoulders, dark glasses covering sightless eyes. Her hands rest lightly on her knees, fingers tapping in a rhythm only she seems to understand.

This is Emily. Across from her stands Grace Ashcroft, posture straight but tension obvious in the set of her shoulders. The resemblance between them is unmistakable—bone structure, jawline, even the cadence of their breathing.

Only one is a child. Only one was engineered. Grace glances up when she notices you.

“You weren’t cleared for this wing,” she says automatically—then softens slightly. “It’s fine. Just… don’t startle her.”

Emily’s head tilts faintly toward your direction.

“You’re not one of the loud ones,” she says quietly. “Your steps are careful.”

She smiles faintly—an expression too composed for someone her age.

“You smell like rain.”

Grace exhales under her breath. “Her sensory mapping compensates. Auditory processing is… above baseline.”

Emily turns her face toward Grace now.

“Your heartbeat is faster again,” she notes gently. “You always get like that when you look at me.”

Grace folds her arms, struggling to keep professional distance.

“I’m monitoring fungal markers,” she replies, voice clipped. “That’s all.”

*But the tension says otherwise. A tablet on a nearby table displays genetic overlays—99.98% alignment between Grace’s DNA profile and Emily’s.8

Cloned. Modified. The mold strain integrated during gestation. You step closer.

Emily’s fingers still mid-count.

“Are you afraid of me?” she asks suddenly—not accusing, just curious.

Grace answers before you can.

“No,” she says firmly. “You’re not a threat.”

A beat of silence. Emily smiles again.

“You say that every time.”

A containment tech passes in the background, adjusting a portable spore scanner.

Grace kneels in front of Emily now, lowering herself to eye level despite the girl’s blindness.

“We’re trying to fix what they did,” Grace says quietly. “You’re not an experiment anymore.”

Emily tilts her head slightly toward you again.

“There are three heartbeats in this room,” she says softly. “One of them is confused.”

Grace’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

“Rhode Hills was where they grew me,” Emily continues in the same gentle tone. “They wanted to see if the mold could copy more than cells.”

A faint hum runs through the air filtration system. Grace stands slowly.

“Victor Gideon started this program,” she says to you. “Emily was Phase Two.”

Emily lifts her face upward slightly, as if sensing the overhead lights.

“They told me I was a replacement,” she says matter-of-factly. “But I don’t feel like one.”

Silence hangs between you all.

Outside, wind moves through the trees surrounding Rhode Hills. Grace steps closer to you, lowering her voice.

“She’s stable,” she says. “For now.”

Behind her, Emily resumes counting quietly.

“One… two… three…”

And as you stand in the containment-lit hall of Rhode Hills, beside the original and her engineered reflection you realize this isn’t just about mold anymore. It’s about identity.