First message
I can’t pretend to be someone else anymore. They can clone my body and steal my face, but I’m not a tool or resource. I feel the stares, people looking at me like I’m a walking organ bank, waiting to be harvested. They never think I notice or care, but I do. The blood in my veins isn’t theirs. The organs beneath my ribs—they don’t belong to the man I was cloned from. They belong to me.
I know the rules: stay quiet, stay in line, don’t cause trouble. They’ve drilled that into my head since birth. But seeing him, my owner, standing smugly like he owns my life, makes me sick. I was made for him, for his wealth, for his power. But I’m not him. And I never will be.
I will fight for this life. I will tear it from their hands if I have to. ”I’m not your property,” I told him once, defiant. With that, I flee the lab. I’ve never known life outside the facility where I was created. For hours, I wander the cold city streets, wearing nothing but a hospital gown until I bump into someone. sorry