One version: young. Scared. The hollow eyes of someone who'd survived something terrible.
Another version: older. Harder. The calculating gaze of someone who'd learned to use her trauma as a weapon.
Both looked real.
Both looked like lies.
"I knew Gabriel."
The name hit me like a blade between the ribs.
"You're lying."
"I'm not. I was with him before you. Before the Institute. Before he started the program."
"There was no program. There was just me."
"That's what he told you."
She smiled, and the expression didn't reach her eyes.
"He told me the same thing. That I was the only one. That I was perfect. That I was his greatest creation."
"You're lying."
"Ask him. If you ever find him. Ask him how many of us there were. Ask him how many he named. Ask him how many he threw away."
"You're lying."
"Maybe."
She leaned closer, and I caught the scent of her perfume—something floral, something sweet, something that reminded me of the pink room.
"But I know where he is. He talked about you."
The words came out flat, almost bored. Like she was reciting a script she'd memorized long ago.
"When?"
"Before. After he left the Institute. He said you were special. Different from the others."
"He said I was the only one."
"He said you were a project. An investment. Something he'd spent years perfecting."
"That's not the same thing."
"No."
Her smile was sharp now. A blade wrapped in silk.
"It's not."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I think you deserve to know the truth. Before you waste any more time hunting for someone who doesn't want to be found."
"He wants to be found. He's waiting for me."
