Chapter 6 Clone Protocol

The Blood Banquet's digital archives were notoriously impenetrable—a safeguard for their wealthy clientele who preferred their human acquisitions untraceable. But money has a way of opening doors, especially when applied with precision.

I sat in my office at 2 AM, waiting for confirmation from Julian, the hacker I'd hired at an exorbitant fee. My computer screen flickered, then filled with a chat window.

"I'm in," Julian's message read. "But there's heavy encryption on the lot files. What exactly are you looking for?"

"Lot 1037," I typed back. "Everything they have on him. Acquisition details, medical records, origin documentation."

"Working on it. Give me twenty minutes."

While waiting, I pulled up the live feed from Rowan's chamber. He wasn't sleeping. Instead, he sat cross-legged on the floor, eyes closed, breathing measured—meditation, something the Rowan I knew had never practiced.

My phone buzzed with an incoming call from Dr. Chen.

"Ms. Rothschild, I have the full genomic sequencing results," he said without preamble.

"And?"

"It's... puzzling. The DNA is unmistakably Rowan Vale's, matching our previous samples perfectly. However, there are unusual methylation patterns that weren't present in the earlier samples."

"Meaning?"

"Epigenetic modifications—changes in how genes are expressed without altering the DNA itself. These particular patterns are consistent with extreme stress or trauma."

I watched Rowan on the screen, his face serene despite what Dr. Chen was describing. "Could these changes affect behavior? Personality?"

"Potentially. Epigenetic alterations can influence neurological function, emotional responses, even memory retrieval." He paused. "There's something else. His cellular telomeres—the protective caps on chromosomes—show abnormal lengthening."

"What does that indicate?"

"Typically? Anti-aging intervention at the cellular level. It's experimental technology, primarily theoretical in humans."

My computer chimed with an incoming message from Julian.

"I need to go, Doctor. Send me the full report."

After ending the call, I opened Julian's message: "Found something weird. Lot 1037's file has an EX suffix—not standard auction tagging protocol."

"What does EX mean?" I typed back.

"Based on their database structure? Experimental. Also, his acquisition chain is incomplete. No record of how he entered the auction system—just that he was processed through a facility in Switzerland eight months ago."

"Can you trace the facility?"

"Working on it... Got it. Helvetica Wellness Institute. Except it doesn't exist in any public records. Shell company, registered to... oh shit."

"What?"

"It's a subsidiary of Rothschild Biomedical. Your family's company."

My blood ran cold. My father's pharmaceutical division had always operated with considerable autonomy, but human experimentation?

"Download everything," I instructed Julian. "Then wipe your tracks."

I disconnected, mind racing. Rothschild Biomedical. My father. The timing aligned with Rowan's disappearance three years ago.

My phone rang again—my father. I let it go to voicemail, then played the message.

"Cassia, I expect you and your... acquisition at dinner tomorrow night. Non-negotiable. There are matters we need to discuss regarding your recent activities."

The cool authority in his voice triggered both long-ingrained obedience and newfound suspicion. If my father was involved in whatever had happened to Rowan, confronting him directly might be dangerous.

But refusing would only intensify his scrutiny.

Julian's final data packet arrived—hundreds of encrypted files that would take days to analyze fully. But one document caught my attention immediately: a medical intake form for "Subject 1037EX" with a photo of Rowan, unconscious on an examination table. The location: an abandoned psychiatric hospital outside the city—one my family's foundation had supposedly converted to a research center years ago.

I needed to see Rowan. Now.

The night guard looked surprised when I arrived at the east wing past 3 AM.

"Ms. Rothschild? Is everything alright?"

"Fine, James. I need to speak with the subject privately."

"Of course. Do you want security on standby?"

"That won't be necessary."

Rowan was still awake, now reading a book on his bed. He looked up when the door slid open, his expression shifting from surprise to wariness as I entered.

"Burning the midnight oil?" he asked, setting the book aside.

I didn't respond immediately, studying him with new eyes. Was he a victim or a willing participant? A clone or the original, modified beyond recognition?

"What does 1037EX mean to you?" I asked finally.

His face remained impassive, but I caught the slight tensing of his shoulders. "Should it mean something?"

"It's your designation in the Blood Banquet system. The EX stands for experimental."

"Fascinating." He stretched, a deliberate show of nonchalance. "Is there a point to this late-night etymology lesson?"

I moved closer, pulling up the intake photo on my phone and holding it in front of him. "This is you, eight months ago, at a facility called Helvetica Wellness Institute. A shell company owned by my family's corporation."

He didn't look at the phone. "Your family owns many things, Cassia. I'm just the latest acquisition."

"Stop lying." I sat beside him on the bed, close enough to see the flecks of amber in his green eyes. "Rowan disappeared three years ago. You appeared eight months ago in a Rothschild facility. What happened in between?"

He met my gaze steadily. "What do you think happened?"

"I think..." I hesitated, the possibilities too disturbing to voice. "I think you're either a very convincing impostor, or you're what's left of him after something terrible."

A bitter smile touched his lips. "Why not both?"

The admission—if it was one—hung between us like smoke.

"My father wants to meet you," I said after a moment. "Tomorrow night. Dinner at the estate."

This got a reaction—alarm flashing briefly across his features before he masked it. "Declined."

"It's not a request, Rowan. He's insisting."

"And you always do what Daddy says?" He leaned closer, voice dropping to a dangerous purr. "Even when you suspect he's been playing God with your ex-fiancé's body?"

The crude accusation made my stomach turn. "I need to know the truth."

"No, you don't." He caught my wrist, his grip gentle but insistent. "You need to let this go, Cassia. Walk away. Sell me to someone else. Forget you ever saw me at that auction."

The urgency in his voice was new—not anger or manipulation, but something that sounded almost like... concern.

"Why?" I whispered. "What are you afraid will happen?"

"I'm not afraid. I'm certain." His thumb traced circles on my inner wrist, the touch sending shivers up my arm despite everything. "There are worse things than losing someone, Cassia. Like finding out they were never who you thought they were to begin with."

I pulled my hand away. "You're coming to dinner tomorrow. And afterward, you're going to tell me everything."

He laughed, the sound hollow. "If we make it to afterward."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Instead of answering, he reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear with surprising tenderness. "You still wear the same perfume. Jasmine and something else... sandalwood?"

The intimate observation caught me off guard. "Yes."

"Some things don't change." His hand lingered near my face. "Even when everything else does."

I stood abruptly, needing distance from his touch, from the confusion it stirred in me. "Be ready at seven tomorrow. Marcus will bring you appropriate clothing."

As I turned to leave, he called after me.

"Cassia."

I paused at the door.

"Check the back of my neck. Under the hairline."

"Why?"

"Just do it."

Cautiously, I approached him again. He turned, bowing his head forward to expose the nape of his neck. I brushed aside his hair, revealing a small, raised mark I hadn't noticed before—not quite a tattoo, more like a brand or barcode.

"What is this?" I asked, fingers tracing the strange pattern.

"My serial number," he said quietly. "1037X."

The X—not EX. A subtle difference, but significant. "What does it mean?"

He turned to face me again, eyes dark with something I couldn't read. "It means I'm not the only one."

The implication hit me like a physical blow. "There are others? Other... versions of you?"

"I don't know for certain. But I wasn't the first specimen in whatever program created me." His expression hardened. "Your father would know."

"My father..." I struggled to process what he was suggesting. "You think he's behind this?"

"I think he's involved. How deeply? That's what I've been trying to figure out since I woke up in that clinic with memories that don't quite fit and skills I never learned."

The confession—raw, unfiltered—shook me. For the first time since the auction, I was hearing something that felt like pure truth.

"Why tell me this now?" I asked. "Why not when I first brought you here?"

"Because I wasn't sure if you were part of it." He stood, closing the distance between us. "I'm still not entirely convinced you're not."

"I would never—"

"Wouldn't you?" His eyes searched mine. "The devoted daughter, following in Daddy's footsteps? The woman who buys people at auction for entertainment? Where exactly is your moral line, Cassia?"

The accusation stung because it contained elements of truth. I had become someone I barely recognized these past three years—harder, colder, more like my father than I cared to admit.

"I'm not part of this," I said firmly. "Whatever this is. And I'm going to find out the truth."

"Be careful." He touched my face again, the gesture at odds with his warning. "Some truths destroy everything they touch."

I left the chamber with more questions than answers, my mind reeling from the implications. Back in my office, I reviewed the files Julian had extracted, focusing on the facility where Rowan had been processed.

The abandoned psychiatric hospital appeared in several documents—requisition forms for specialized equipment, security protocols, staff transfers. All bearing the electronic signature of Alexander Rothschild, my father.

I pulled up satellite images of the location. The building appeared dormant, but thermal scanning revealed active power signatures. Someone was still there.

I needed to see it for myself.

Dawn was breaking as I finished preparations. I'd told Elise I would be unavailable until the evening dinner, citing personal business. My security detail believed I was taking a day to myself at the spa—a common enough occurrence that no one questioned it.

As I changed into nondescript clothing, I caught sight of myself in the mirror. The woman staring back at me looked determined, focused—and afraid. Not of what I might find, but of what it might mean.

If my father had done something to Rowan—created this version of him somehow—what did that make me? Complicit through blood relation? Through ignorance?

My phone chimed with a message from Julian: "Found something else. Audio file, heavily encrypted. Working on it now."

Whatever answers awaited at that hospital, I needed them before facing my father across the dinner table tonight. Before bringing Rowan—or whoever he truly was—into the lion's den.

As I slipped out through a private exit, the rising sun cast long shadows across the grounds. Somewhere in the east wing, Rowan was probably watching the same sunrise, carrying memories that might not be his own, wearing a face that belonged to the man I'd once loved.

1037X. Not the only one.

The possibility haunted me as I drove away from the estate, heading toward the truth—no matter how devastating it might be.