Chapter 6: The Seam

Chapter 6: The Seam

The message vanished, leaving a ghost image burned onto Beth’s retinas. SEAM. BEHIND EAR. RUN. The silence of the opulent apartment rushed back in, a deafening, predatory void. For a moment, she was paralyzed, her body locked in ice while her mind screamed. Tim’s final, garbled testament had not been a warning; it was a verdict. It confirmed every paranoid thought, every flicker of wrongness she had felt in this new, gilded cage.

Tyler was a Handler. Model 7. She wasn’t being cared for; she was being managed.

The instinct to RUN was a primal scream in her soul, but where could she go? The empty lot where her childhood home should have been proved there was no ‘out there’ for her. The only escape was through the truth, no matter how monstrous.

Her paralysis broke. Action, frantic and desperate, took over. She had to know. First, about him. Then, about herself.

She flew to his office, a room of dark wood and brushed steel she had never dared to enter before. The fear of him returning was a physical pressure on her chest, urging her to move faster. His desk was immaculate. A sleek, black tablet lay powered down beside a single, expensive-looking fountain pen. No scattered papers, no personal trinkets, no framed photos of nonexistent family. It was as sterile as a showroom display.

She wrenched open the desk drawers. The first held a neat stack of business cards. “Tyler Vance, Vance Premier Plumbing Solutions,” they read, under a generic logo of a stylized water droplet. It was all so plausible, so boringly real. The second drawer contained only a small, velvet-lined box. Inside, nestled on the black fabric, was a set of cufflinks and a tie clip, both bearing the subtle, interlocking ‘A’ and ‘P’ of the Aethelred Properties logo. He didn't just work for them; he was branded by them.

The last drawer was locked. A small, biometric scanner glowed a soft blue. For him only. Of course.

She abandoned the desk and moved to the closet. Inside, his clothes hung with geometric precision. Ten identical grey sweaters. Ten pairs of identical dark jeans. Five identical black suits. It wasn't a wardrobe; it was a uniform. A costume for the role he was playing. There was nothing personal, nothing to suggest a life lived, only a character being portrayed. The blank books, the unsigned paintings, the identical clothes—it was all part of the same chilling pattern. He was a prop, just like everything else in this world, but a prop with a purpose. To control her.

The distant, musical chime of the elevator arriving somewhere far below in the tower sent a jolt of pure adrenaline through her. It wasn't on their floor, but it was a reminder that her time was running out.

She backed out of the office, her gaze darting around the living room, at the beautiful art with no artist and the expensive furniture that felt cold to the touch. It was a prison designed by a focus group.

Her own reflection in the darkened floor-to-ceiling window caught her eye. A terrified woman in borrowed silk pajamas. Tim’s last words echoed, insistent. CHECK YOURSELF.

She fled to the one place that felt remotely private, the one room with a lock: the master bathroom. It was a cathedral of white marble and chrome, the lighting so bright and clinical it felt like an operating theater. She clicked the heavy lock into place, the sound a small, defiant note in the suffocating silence.

Her reflection in the vast, frameless mirror was a stranger. Wide, terrified eyes stared back at her from a face she no longer recognized as her own. Was this face even hers? Or was it just a plate of synthetic flesh, just like Tim’s, snapped onto a chassis of metal and wires?

Her hand, trembling violently, began its journey.

She started with the left side, her fingers clumsy with fear. She traced the line of her jaw, the curve of her neck, the delicate skin behind her earlobe. Nothing. It was smooth, flawless. A wave of dizzying, hysterical relief washed over her. He was wrong. Tim was glitching, he was broken, he was wrong. Maybe she was just human and paranoid. Maybe she was having a breakdown in a world that was merely strange and corporate, not a complete fabrication. The hope was a desperate, drowning gasp for air.

But the message had been so specific. BEHIND EAR.

She turned, presenting the other side of her head to the mirror. Her right side. She took a deep, shuddering breath, the air catching in her throat like a sob. This time, she was methodical. She pulled her hair back taut, securing it with one hand, exposing the pale, vulnerable skin where her neck met her skull.

With the fingertips of her other hand, she began to search. Slowly. Deliberately. Probing.

At first, there was nothing but the familiar landscape of her own body. The soft skin, the hard ridge of bone behind the ear. She pressed harder, her short nails digging in slightly. She felt the pulse in her carotid artery, a frantic, hammering rhythm that felt mockingly alive.

And then… she felt it.

It wasn’t a scar. It wasn’t a lump or a cut. It was a change in texture so subtle she had missed it a hundred times before. A line. A division so fine it was almost imperceptible. A place where the pliability of the skin was just slightly… different.

Her breath hitched. Leaning so close to the mirror that her breath fogged the glass, she angled her head, straining to see. Under the unforgiving glare of the vanity lights, she could just make it out. It wasn't a seam you could see, not like stitching. It was an indentation. A tiny, perfect, hairline groove, following the natural curve behind her ear, disappearing up into her hairline.

It was the clean, precise edge of a panel. A manufacturing detail. The kind of thing you’d find on a high-end appliance where two pieces of casing fit together with flawless precision.

She let out a sound that was not a word, not a scream, but a raw exhalation of pure horror. Her fingers traced the line again and again, confirming the impossible. It was real. The seam was real.

The world tilted and dissolved. Every memory she possessed replayed in her mind, now tainted with the cold, metallic truth. The phantom ache in her knee wasn't a memory of a ski trip; it was a diagnostic warning from a faulty servo. Her love for Tim wasn't a deep, emotional connection; it was a programmed compatibility subroutine. Her entire consciousness, her personality, her fears and her joys—they were all just elegant, complex software running on a biological machine. She was a thing. A product trying to pass as a person.

She stared at the creature in the mirror, the bioroid with her face. The truth was so much worse than she could have ever imagined. She hadn't just lost her life; she had never had one to begin with.

Suddenly, from the front of the apartment, came a sound that cut through her spiraling horror. The soft, electronic chirp of the keycard reader.

Click.

The front door swung open.

Tyler was home.