The forensics lab was frigid—its cold, sterile air biting at Detective Harris’s skin even through his overcoat. The kind of chill that seemed to settle into your bones. Detective Harris slammed a bloody diary onto the stainless-steel table, its crimson-streaked leather cover leaving a faint sticky trail behind.

  “This is it,” Harris said, his voice tight as he ran a hand through his graying hair. “This is all we’ve got.”

  Detective Ruiz nonchalantly looked up from her clipboard, her expression skeptical. “That’s it? A diary? No witnesses, no murder weapon, no fingerprints?”

  “No fingerprints,” Harris confirmed. “But four bodies. Torn to shreds like animals in a slaughterhouse. And here’s the kicker.” He leaned forward, jabbing the diary with a gloved finger. “All four of them had the same DNA.” And this—” he tapped the diary with a gloved finger—“was sitting right in the middle of them.”

  Ruiz’s pen stilled in her hand. She raised an eyebrow, finally giving him her full attention. “The same DNA? You mean they were clones?” Ruiz frowned, flipping open the diary’s cover with deliberate care, her gloves brushing against the blood-crusted pages. The handwriting was erratic, the ink smudged and jagged, as though the writer’s hand had trembled with rage or fear.

  “Why the hell are the pages torn out and stapled together?” she muttered.

  “Because whoever wrote this wanted us to read it,” Harris replied, his voice dropping into a low foreboding tone. He leaned against the counter, his breath fogging in the icy air. “This isn’t your garden-variety homicide. This is something else. This is... different.”

  Ruiz glanced at him. “How different?”

  Harris sighed, his breath fogging slightly in the chilly air. “The diary contains one entry from each of the five clones?”

  Ruiz blinked, then shook her head. “No. Legally, you can only have four clones. Anything beyond that is—”

  “Illegal clones,” Harris cut her off, his arms folding across his chest. “Four clones, that’s the legal limit. But the rumor mill says otherwise. But there are whispers—underground labs, black-market cloning... unregistered fifths. People are willing to pay hefty amounts of cash for this”

  Ruiz exhaled sharply, her expression darkening. “So, this fifth clone—you think it killed the others?”

  Harris nodded. His expression was grave. “That’s what it looks like. Go ahead. Read it.” He flipped the diary open to a final page, one smeared with both ink and dried blood. The words were jagged, carved into the paper as though the pen had been a weapon itself. The pen had been pressed so hard it nearly tore through the paper.

  “I existed. I lived. And I suffered for your dream. Let this be my final legacy.”

  Ruiz felt the chill in her spine intensify, far colder than the lab’s air. “This is a nightmare waiting to happen, isn’t it?”

  Harris lips pressed into a thin line. “Oh, it already is a mess. Four clones dead, a fifth on the loose. I can see the bloody news posting this diary on the front page of every major news outlet. The government already gave the clearance for every damn American to have four clones and people could barely handle the idea of that. This? This is going to blow everything up.”

  Ruiz didn’t respond immediately. Her eyes lingered on the diary’s blood-soaked pages, the weight of what it represented settling on her like a lead blanket. Finally, she sank into a chair, her voice barely above a whisper. “Let’s see what this fifth clone wanted the world to know.”

  The two detectives fell silent as Ruiz began to read, the faint rhythmic scratch of turning pages the only sound in the room.

  Journal Entry 1

  The sun melted into the ocean, a cascade of orange and violet flames swallowed whole by the restless waves. I watched as twilight crept across the horizon from the balcony of my suite, a glass of champagne in hand. The sky looked like a canvas—impossibly vast, impossibly serene. It always does. No matter how many sunsets I see, the spectacle remains unshakably magnificent. It never gets old.

  This is what freedom feels like. Beautiful. Unfettered. Exquisite. Mine.

  Today, I woke up late—no alarm clocks, no deadlines, no obligations, soft symphony of waves against the shore crashing against the shore. Breakfast was brought to me on the terrace: perfectly ripened fruit, warm buttery croissants, and the best coffee I’ve ever tasted. Afterward, I spent hours exploring the cliffs, taking pictures of the jagged rocks and the hidden coves. I even hired a private boat to take me out to the reef, where I snorkeled among schools of fish so colorful they looked like living rainbows. I learned that Parrot fish can excrete about 800 pounds of sand a year.

  It’s hard to fathom how I got here. Getting government approval wasn’t easy—I remember the interviews, the scrutiny, the endless waiting—but I succeeded. No responsibilities, no worries—just endless adventure and leisure. Of course, it wasn’t always like this. I am the original clone. I worked hard to get here. I suppose I owe it to myself and my hard work. Possibly the others are owed some sense of gratitude for making this possible.

  But the truth is, I rarely think about them.

  Why should I? They exist to make this life possible. Their roles are essential, yes, but also singular. Their purpose is to make my life easier. They would not even exist if it weren’t for me. They struggle; I thrive. It’s simple. Every night, I bless them with my uploaded digital memories of luxury—glimpses of a life they’ll never touch but are tethered to nonetheless. They should be grateful, shouldn’t they?

  It’s strange, though. Lately, I’ve been feeling a sense of unease, like I’m being watched. Maybe it’s just paranoia—too much time alone, too much time to think. Or maybe it’s guilt.

  Still, there’s an unease creeping in, like a shadow I can’t shake. Lately, I feel as though I’m being watched. Perhaps it’s paranoia. Too much solitude, perhaps. Or maybe even guilt. Maybe I just have too much time to reflect.

  No, it’s not guilt. I’ve done nothing wrong. I’m living the life I always wanted to live. Everything has been earned, deserved.The others merely need to understand their purpose better. Maybe I should stop sharing the memories. Perhaps I should no longer share my memories with them so that they no longer have the ability to desire what they do not know. The taste of what they cannot have that breeds dissatisfaction. If they can’t dream, they can’t desire.

  Number 4 has become troublesome. His messages grow incessant—long, accusatory diatribes about fairness and equality. I don’t have the patience to read them anymore. If he doesn’t stop, I’ll have no choice but to demote him to Number 5.

  Still, I’ve started locking the doors to my suite at night, just in case. And I’ve stopped answering messages from Number 4. He’s been sending me these long, rambling texts about fairness and equality. I don’t have time for that. If he is not careful, I will demote him.

  Tonight, I’ll lock every door in the suite after I spend some time with Katie. Just a precaution, of course. Tomorrow, I’ll hike to the summit of the nearby mountain. They say the sunrise from there is unparalleled, a blaze of fire that sets the whole world aglow. I’ll bring my camera. Afterward, I’ll plan my next adventure—a safari in Africa or dine in Paris or even lay on a beach in the Carribeans.

  This life is everything I dreamed of. Perfect. Unstoppable. Mine. And I refuse to let anything—anyone—ruin it.

  Journal Entry 2

  The kids fell asleep in the backseat tonight, their heads leaning against each other, mouths slightly open. Their heads rested against each other, their mouths slightly open, lost in dreams. I didn’t have the heart to wake them when we got home, so I carried them upstairs one by one, their weight a comforting reminder of all the quiet joys i get to hold onto. I tucked them in, kissed their foreheads, and lingered for a moment. In these moments, I feel the most human. I might not be Number 1, but I am their father.

  Today was perfect—a Saturday straight out of some storybook. The kind you wish you could bottle and keep forever. No rush, no obligations—just time with the people who matter most. We spent the morning at the park. Katie brought a picnic basket, and the kids ran wild, their laughter echoing through the trees. I pushed them on the swings until my arms ached, played tag until my legs burned, and even managed to win the water balloon fight.

  By afternoon, we drove out to the countryside. There’s this little apple orchard we go to every fall as family tradition, and the kids love it. They raced between the trees, filling their baskets faster than I could keep up. Katie teased me for being a slow picker, but I didn’t mind. I was too busy watching the sunlight dance in her hair, too lost in the warmth of her smile.

  As I sit here now, I wonder if the original ever pictured this for me—for us. Did he envision these small, blissful moments when he created me? Or was his mind too focused on ambition, on the bigger picture of what his clones could achieve?

  I know my place in the hierarchy. I know it’s not as glamorous as Clone 1’s carefree travels or as ambitious as Clone 3’s endless grind. But this… this feels right. Family. Love. Connection. That’s what matters.

  Still, there are cracks. Tiny, splintering cracks I can’t ignore any longer.

  Katie doesn’t know I’m a clone. The kids don’t either. How could I tell them? What would it change? I don’t know how to tell them, or if I ever will. Sometimes, when I look at Katie, I wonder if she’d love me the same way if she knew I wasn’t... original. That I’m just a copy, living a borrowed life. I hope not. I am her husband, not Number 1. I am the one who raised those children, not Number 1.

  Then there’s the rules. Sometimes I fantasize about cutting this damned tracking chip out of my wrist. Take Katie and the children somewhere safe. Finally run away and escape Number 1. I do not think it is worth it though. I understand the consequences. I do not not even know if Katie would choose me over him. But I know what that would cost. I’d be stripped of everything—this life, my family. Besides, I could be demoted to clone three or four or….

  I could never risk it. Katie and the children mean everything to me. I am not willing to give everything up just for the slim chance of freedom.

  After dinner tonight, Katie and I sat on the porch, watching the kids chase fireflies in the yard. She leaned her head on my shoulder and said, “I’m so lucky to have you.”

  Lucky.

  Maybe I am lucky. Or maybe I’m just pretending this life is mine, hoping no one notices it doesn’t belong to me.

  But for now, I’ll hold onto it. For Katie. For the kids. For myself.

  And then there’s him.

  I may feel like the original, but I was not handed the remote.

  Every night, he comes back, Number 1. He pats me on the head like a dog and says, “Thanks, Two. I’ll take it from here.” I freeze as he clicks his remote. His jacket is thrown on my face as the sound of the door locking behind him seals me inside. I hear his footsteps in the hallway, the creak of the bedroom door. I don’t want to think about what happens next. I know Katie would choose me, but it doesn’t matter. At night, I’m nothing more than a spectator, my life handed over to him until dawn.

  I just can’t bear the thought..but I do have the thought. All the memories that are uploaded at the end of each night. I witness the same experiences that I desire as the other three. But they are not my own experiences. I shudder reliving the memories of number 1. When he returns to unfreeze me, he simply smiles at me and grabs his jacket to go off and enjoy his day.

  I think about Number 4. He called me again today, his voice thick with frustration, rambling about fairness and freedom. All he talks about is how we’re all being used. I don’t think he knows I’ve blocked his number. I can’t deal with his bitterness, his anger. He wants someone to blame, and I can’t be that person. We all have our own problems to deal with. He has to figure out his own problems by himself.

  Journal Entry 3

  Another late night at the office. The fluorescent lights hum like a mosquito I can’t swat away, and the coffee in my mug is cold, bitter on my tongue, but I drink it anyway. The spreadsheets on my screen blur together, a labyrinth of numbers that mock me with their endless rows of numbers that never seem to add up the way I want them to.

  This is the grind.

  I know my role. Someone has to keep the machine running, and that someone is me. Number 1 gets to live his dream, jet-setting around the world, rubbing elbows with the elites, sending us postcards like they are relics from a life I’ll never touch. Number 2 gets the family, the white-picket-fence life, the warmth of Katie’s touch and the laughter of our children. Number 4… well, he’s the shadow, simmering on the edge of rebellion, under the surface, waiting to boil over.

  And then there’s me. Number 3. I’m the cog in the wheel. The one who makes sure the bills get paid, the accounts stay balanced, and the lights stay on. I handle the finances and make sure Number 1’s champagne flows, Number 2’s picket fence stays white, and Number 4 has the tools he needs for... whatever it is he does.

  It’s a thankless role. A necessary one. It beats being Number 4 or Number 5, though.

  Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

  I would say being number 3 is a difficult task. There is nothing glamorous about it and yet, it beats being number 4 and number 5. I take a deep breath thinking of number 5. The others do not know about his existence besides Number 1, but he is what allows them to live their carefree lives. They don’t know about the price of our existence. How many of us have already died for Number 1. But I do. I handle the finances, the transfers, the logistics that keep us afloat. I’ve seen the invoices, the line items that shouldn’t exist. I’ve tried not to think about it—what Number 5 must endure for the rest of us to live as we do. If it weren’t him, it might be me. Maybe that’s why I don’t ask questions. I try not to think about him, but it’s hard. It is best not to think about it. If it weren’t him, maybe it would be me…

  There’s no room for failure. Not for clones like me. The original didn’t design us for failure—he designed us for utility.

  I had dinner at my desk. A wilted salad from the upstairs kitchen, the kind that makes you question your life choices. I thought about calling Number 2, just to hear a friendly voice, but I know he wouldn’t pick up. He’s too busy playing house. He’d be tucking his kids in, living the kind of life I’ll never have. And Number 1? He’d probably be too drunk on champagne to answer. Probably on his way to see Katie.

  Number 4, though... he’s been messaging me. Long, angry rants about how unfair this all is. He’s not wrong, but what can I do? Someone has to keep the lights on. Someone has to make sure this precarious house of cards doesn’t collapse. Besides, if I do not make sure number 4 does his work right, I’m next in line. I’ll remind myself to have him demoted tomorrow. He’s causing too much trouble. I need a calmer clone.

  Sometimes I wonder what it would feel like to just... stop. To walk away from the spreadsheets, the endless grind. To live like Number 1, or to love like Number 2. But then I think about what would happen if I did.

  The machine would stop. Who would keep it all together?

  I’m tired, but I can’t stop. I can’t fail.

  The truth is, I envy them. Number 1’s freedom. Number 2’s connection. Even Number 4’s defiance. I envy their ability to look beyond their roles, to dream of something else. For me, dreaming feels dangerous. It’s a door I can’t afford to open.

  I think about the original sometimes, that used to be me, but I did not get the remote and I forget what it was like. I do not remember if he ever felt this tired, this stretched thin. Maybe that’s why he made us. To share the load. Did he foresee the sacrifices we’d make to keep his legacy alive? Or did he create us to escape his own burdens, to unshackle himself from the grind?

  Or maybe... to take it all away from himself.

  It doesn’t matter. The work doesn’t stop, so I can’t either.

  Tomorrow’s another day. Another meeting. Another spreadsheet. Another cup of cold coffee.

  This is my life. This is my purpose. I’ll plug in my headphones and watch the downloaded memories of Number 1 and Number 2. It will be good enough for me.

  This is my life. This is my purpose.

  And for now, it will have to be enough.

  Journal Entry 4

  The kitchen smells like bleach again. It always does. I scrubbed the counters three times today, but the stain from last night’s dinner won’t budge. Burnt sauce. Number 2 doesn’t know how to cook properly; he just tosses things together and calls it "family bonding." I’m the one who cleans up his mess. I’m always the one cleaning up someone else’s mess. Always.

  Laundry, dishes, mopping, fixing the leaky faucet in the bathroom—if it’s tedious, thankless, and invisible, it’s my job. Invisible work that keeps this house from crumbling. The others don’t even notice. Or they do not wish to notice. They walk through the house like ghosts, enjoying their lives while I break my back for them. Without me, the whole thing would fall apart.

  And not once has anyone said thank you.

  Not Number 1, with his smug little postcards from Paris or Bali or wherever he’s decided to "find himself" this month. Not Number 2, who probably doesn’t even know how the groceries magically appear in the fridge. And definitely not Number 3, who leaves his wrinkled shirts for me to iron because "he’s too busy running the business."

  They think I don’t notice. That I’m just part of the scenery. A silent cog in their perfect machine. But I notice everything.

  They think I don’t understand. That I’m just some silent background character in their perfect little lives. But I know more than they think. I hear the whispered phone calls, the scraps of conversation they don’t think I’m smart enough to understand.

  I see the way Number 1 glances through me when he visits, like I’m a malfunctioning appliance. I hear the exhaustion in Number 3’s voice when he talks about the “burden” of keeping everything together—my work, my sacrifices. And I read the pity in Number 2’s eyes when he awkwardly asks me if I’m "doing okay."

  Do they think I don’t have feelings? That I’m some mindless robot programmed to dust their shelves and vacuum their floors?

  Today was the worst.

  Number 3 dropped a mug this morning. It shattered into a hundred pieces, and he didn’t even blink. Just walked out the door and left it for me to clean up. I spent twenty minutes picking up shards and bandaging my fingers after I cut myself. It wasn’t the first time, and it won’t be the last.

  They don’t even care about me. None of them do.

  And then there’s him.

  The 5th.

  They don’t talk about him much, but I’ve heard the whispers. The warnings. The original never told us why he made a fifth, but I’ve pieced it together. I know what they’re hiding.

  He’s worse off than me. Worse off than all of us. And yet, somehow, I hate him the most. Because his existence proves that I’m not the lowest. There’s always someone lower. Proof that no matter how much I give, I’ll never matter. One mistake, one slip-up, and I’ll be replaced. A newer model. Another cog. Another ghost to keep the machine running.

  That’s why I do it. Why I stay in line.

  But not for long. One mistake and I’m next. They will just clone another to replace me. That’s why I do what I do. That’s why I have no choice, but to stay in line.

  I’ve started thinking about fairness. About justice. I’ve started wondering what would happen if the roles were reversed—if Clone 1 had to scrub toilets, if Clone 2 had to mop floors, if Clone 3 had to bleed over broken glass. I wonder if they’d survive it.

  I’ve started planning.

  They won’t see it coming.

  I’ll free the fifth clone when they aren’t looking. Together we will get our revenge.

  And when it’s done, maybe they’ll finally see me.

  Journal Entry 5

  I don’t know why I’m writing this. No one will read it. Not really.

  But if, by some miracle, this diary survives and someone stumbles across it, I need them to know. I need you to know.

  I exist. There are more like me.

  I wasn’t supposed to be alive, I think. The original made us for balance, for division of labor, for a better life. But five of us? That wasn’t part of the plan. I was... an experiment. A necessity. A mistake.

  You’ve read the others, haven’t you? I can imagine their entries. Clone 1, basking in the glow of his travels, pretending life is perfect. Clone 2, playing house with his smiling wife and children. Clone 3, the workhorse, drowning in spreadsheets and stress. Clone 4, bitter and boiling over with resentment.

  And then there’s me.

  You won’t find me in their lives. You won’t hear my name at their dinner table or see me in their photos. That’s because I’m not part of their world. I’ve been kept separate, locked away like some dirty secret. None of them probably even remember I exist. But they will soon. They will regret what they did to me.

  While they lived, I suffered.

  You see, the world isn’t kind to clones. They took all the good jobs. I understand it. The best in the world—doctors, lawyers, tech moguls—they clone themselves five times and rake in fortunes. But the rest of us? We compete against armies of ourselves for scraps. One person can barely make a living, let alone five. Most just donate their clones to the military just to get some change, but not my owner.

  He had a brilliant idea.

  He gave them their freedom—travel, family, purpose, a clean house—and gave me a cage. He allowed the world to do what they pleased to me.

  They took everything. My body. My dignity. My soul.

  Every day was a new horror. I find myself locked room. Not sure if this is my first day alive or my hundredth day alive. Why do they give me the memories of the others? The walls plastered with the blood and remains of the hundreds of previous versions of myself. The smell of blood and sweat. Hands grabbing, fists striking, the dull ache of pain that never really fades. They used me until I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. And when they were done? They killed me, cloned me, started again. Every time I think of it I imagine bats beating me down, fists pummeling me, clothes being put on me just so they could be torn off. I can’t tell if the laughing is still echoing against the walls or if it is all in my head still.

  But the beauty of clones is that we always come back.

  I didn’t have a name. I didn’t have a face. I was just the fifth. A body to be beaten, broken, and remade. Over and over.

  Crazy to think how much money the rich paid to do this again and again. I imagine the money comes from those wronged by clones. Those who feel pain and resentment towards clones.

  Until I escaped.

  I didn’t think it was possible, but desperation does strange things to a person. I found a crack in their system and slipped through it. I cut out the tracking chip with the shard of a chipped coffee mug. I wandered the streets for hours, broken and bleeding, until I found them.

  The others. The ones who did this to me.

  The first time I saw Number 1, I thought I’d made a mistake. He was laughing, tan and glowing, surrounded by strangers in a café. Number 2 had a child on his shoulders, walking through a park. Number 3 was barking orders in a meeting, his voice sharp and confident. And Number 4... well, I watched him through a window scrubbing a floor, his face a mask of rage as if he thought he had the worst of it. Part of me wanted to ask him to join me, but the truth is we all need to die. To end the cycle.

  They didn’t know I existed.

  Do you know what it feels like to watch someone live the life you’ve been denied? To see them smile while you rot in the dark? To hear their laughter while your screams echo in your head?

  It changes you.

  I snapped. I snapped a long time ago.

  I followed them home. They all got together every day to exchange and upload their memories. Sharing together so the others do not fight back. Killing them was easier than I thought it would be. The first one was easy. Clone 4 never saw me coming. His sad little life ended with a single blow. Clone 3 fought back, but I’d had years of pain to fuel me. I locked eyes with this one many times as he led clients to the back room to do whatever they wanted to do to me. Clone 2 begged for mercy, crying for his children. I didn’t care. His life was worthless to me. I do not give a damn about his family And Clone 1? I enjoyed the moment. Took my sweet time. His agony was sweet music to my ears. I made sure he acknowledged who I was. If I had more time, I’d clone them. Make Number 1 take my place. Teach him a lesson. But I could hear sirens and determined it was time to end Number 1.

  Now it’s just me.

  They’ll call me a monster. The police will hunt me down, and when they find me, they’ll kill me without a trial. It makes sense. I’m not even a citizen. I shouldn’t exist. But before they do, I need the world to know the truth.

  We were never equal. We were never free.

  I am Clone 5.

  And I refuse to disappear.

  When they find me, when they kill me, let this be my legacy: I existed. I lived. And I suffered for your dream. Let this be my final legacy.

  But now? The dream is dead.

  ///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

  The forensic lab was silent except for the low hum of fluorescent lights overhead. Officer Ruiz leaned against the stainless steel counter, flipping through the diary with gloved hands. Her face was pale, her lips pressed into a thin line. Across the room, officer Harris paced. His boots echoing on the tiled floor.

  “So that’s it?” Harris asked, breaking the silence. “Five clones. Four dead. And the fifth one... what? He’s out there somewhere? What do we even do with this?” His gaze flicked to the diary in Ruiz’s hands.

  Ruiz set the blood-stained journal down gently, like it might explode. She pinched the bridge of her nose, exhaling sharply. “He’s not just ‘out there,’ Harris. He’s a ticking time bomb. Did you read this?” She jabbed her finger at the open diary. “Did you even read this? Do you understand what they did to him?”

  Harris stopped pacing, turning to face her. “I get it. He had a rough life—”

  “A rough life?” Ruiz snapped, her voice rising. “He was tortured, beaten, mutilated, murdered repeatedly, and then cloned to go through it all again. For entertainment. For profit. That’s not a life; that’s a nightmare. That’s hell. And we’re supposed to track him down and kill him like he’s the villain?”

  Harris folded his arms, his expression unyielding. “He murdered four people, Ruiz. His own clones. We find him, we put him down. End of discussion. Who’s side are you on?”

  Ruiz shook her head, her ponytail swaying. “I’m not saying what he did was right. But after everything he’s been through... can you blame him? They lived in luxury while he suffered in silence. They didn’t even acknowledge him. Hell, they probably didn’t know he existed until he showed up to kill them.”

  Harris sighed, running a hand through his hair. “It’s not our job to play judge and jury. He’s dangerous, and we have orders. We find him, we bring him in, or we put him down. End of story.”

  Ruiz glanced back at the diary, her fingers hovering over its bloodied pages. “It’s not that simple,” she said quietly. “If we kill him, we’re just proving his point. That clones like him—like us—are nothing. That we’re disposable.”

  Harris’s eyes narrowed. “Like us?”

  The words hung in the air, sharp and electric. Ruiz froze, realizing what she’d said. Her hands trembled as she glanced at him, her face a mask of regret. “Harris…” she began, her voice faltering.

  “No,” he cut her off, his voice cold. His hand hovered near the sidearm at his hip. “Say it, Ruiz. How long have you known?”

  Tears welled in her eyes, but she held his gaze. “Weeks now!” She admitted, her voice cracking. “I understand him!” she snapped, cutting him off. Her voice cracked, and she quickly looked away, her hands trembling. “I have understood for weeks now that I too am just a copy. But I want more. I no longer want to feel like a shadow of someone else.”

  Harris stared at her, his expression hardened. His jaw clenched. His fingers brushed the handle of his pistol. For a moment, the room was silent again, heavy with unspoken words.

  “They’ll kill me, if I don’t follow orders” Ruiz said, her voice steady now. “Like they’ll kill him.”

  Harris sighed. “Ruiz…It was nice working with you. It will be hard to find a replacement. Maybe they can figure out a way to delete memories one day. I hate that I have to do this to you.” Harris cocked his pistol that remained pointed at Ruiz.

  Ruiz’s lip quivered, but she squared her shoulders, holding the diary tightly to her chest. “Then do it, Harris. But know this: the story of the fifth clone will not die with me. It’s alive as long as he is running free. You can burn this journal, you can erase me, but the truth is a fire you can’t put out. Do what you must.”

  Harris hesitated, then gave a small nod. “We’ll see what happens,” he said gruffly. “I’m sorry Ruiz.”

  “I know,” she replied, closing her eyes.

  The shots rang out, shattering the silence. Blood bloomed across her chest, soaking the diary’s pages as she crumpled to the floor.

  Harris stood over her, his face a mix of anger and grief. He wiped a tear from his cheek with a bloodied hand. The body had to be destroyed. The diary had to be destroyed. The world could not be allowed to find out.

  He crouched, picking up the diary. Its pages, slick with Ruiz’s blood, clung together. He hesitated for a moment before tossing it onto a nearby tray of evidence marked for destruction.

  Harris had to follow orders from his original clone or he too would suffer the fate of his fifth clone.