Chapter 4 The Impostor is Myself

# Chapter 4: The Impostor is Myself

The yacht's lower deck hummed with the steady drone of machinery. Whitney followed the sound, drawn by instinct more than logic, her enhanced senses detecting subtle differences in air pressure that suggested a hidden space beyond the standard layout. She pressed her palm against a seemingly solid wall panel, and it yielded with a soft hydraulic hiss.

"Biometric access granted: Subject Six," announced an automated voice.

Whitney stepped into a laboratory that could have been transplanted from a science fiction film. Gleaming stainless steel surfaces housed advanced equipment she recognized but couldn't remember learning about—DNA sequencers, cellular regeneration chambers, and neural mapping arrays. At the center stood five medical pods, each containing a perfect replica of her body in suspended animation.

"My sisters," Whitney whispered, approaching the nearest pod. The clone's face was identical to her own, down to the faint freckle beneath her left eye, but this version had a surgical scar running along her collarbone that Whitney didn't possess.

A wall-mounted screen flickered to life as she approached. "Voice recognition confirmed. Accessing video logs."

A recording began playing, showing a woman who looked exactly like Whitney in a lab coat, addressing the camera with clinical detachment. "Project Heartbreaker, Day 783. The No.6 prototype continues to exceed expectations. Unlike previous iterations, she has maintained cellular stability beyond the six-month threshold." The woman in the video checked something on her tablet. "Cognitive functions remain optimal, and emotional responses are within acceptable parameters."

Whitney stared at her doppelgänger on screen, trying to reconcile the scientist with herself. Was this her? Or another clone?

The video continued: "Subjects One through Five continue to deteriorate mentally, though their physical forms remain viable. The imprinting process was too aggressive—they believe themselves to be the original, resulting in psychotic breaks when confronted with reality." A heavy sigh. "No.6 is our last viable candidate. If she fails, the project fails."

The recording cut to another day, the same woman looking more haggard. "Emergency protocol enacted. No.6 has been deployed with limited memory access following the breach. The subjects have escaped containment and are hunting for her, believing she is the original Whitney McDaniel." A pause, her voice dropping. "She is not. None of them are. But No.6 is the only one who has survived with the original's complete memory architecture intact. She is, for all functional purposes, the closest thing to Whitney McDaniel that still exists."

Whitney's hands trembled as she navigated through more video logs, piecing together the horrifying truth. She wasn't Whitney McDaniel—she was the sixth attempt at recreating her. The original Whitney had created this program, these clones, for some purpose that remained unclear.

A final video showed the scientist—the real Whitney?—looking directly into the camera. "If you're watching this, No.6, then you've found your way home. Remember: you are the only successful template. The others are failed attempts—dangerous, unstable copies of both me and you." Her expression hardened. "They must be eliminated, along with the men. They've become fixated on you in ways I never anticipated. The system was designed to help you manipulate them, not—" The video cut off abruptly.

Whitney turned away from the screen, facing the rows of sleeping clones. According to the logs, these weren't the dangerous ones—they were earlier, stable versions kept in stasis as backups. The dangerous ones were out there, hunting her, each believing herself to be the real Whitney.

A proximity alert flashed on the lab's security panel. Someone was approaching.

Whitney ducked behind a row of equipment as the lab door slid open. Robin Mills stepped inside, his usual immaculate appearance slightly disheveled, his eyes scanning the room with purpose.

"I know you're in here," he called out, his voice echoing off the sterile surfaces. "The security system alerted me to the biometric access."

Whitney remained hidden, watching as Robin approached one of the sleeping clones. He placed his hand against the glass, an uncharacteristic tenderness in his gesture.

"They're not you," he said, seemingly addressing the empty room. "I've tested them all. Used them all." His voice hardened. "None of them fight back the way you do."

He turned, his gaze sweeping across the laboratory. "The real Whitney would have attacked me by now. She would have tried to slit my throat or poison my coffee." A small smile played at his lips. "That's how I know you're in here. You're calculating, watching, planning."

Whitney emerged from her hiding place, gun raised. "Maybe I've changed."

Robin's smile widened. "No. You've forgotten. There's a difference." He reached into his jacket, and Whitney tensed, but he merely withdrew a tablet. "Would you like to know who you really are?"

"I know exactly who I am," Whitney lied. "I'm the original."

Robin laughed, the sound devoid of humor. "None of you are the original. The real Whitney McDaniel created you all—you're her legacy, her masterpiece."

"Prove it," Whitney challenged.

Robin activated the tablet, displaying security footage of a woman identical to Whitney systematically moving through what appeared to be a high-security facility, dispatching guards with lethal efficiency before accessing a protected server room.

"This was six years ago," Robin explained. "The real Whitney McDaniel, stealing classified military protocols that would later become the foundation of the Heartbreaker System." He swiped to another video. "This was four years ago—Whitney creating the first prototype clone."

Whitney watched herself—no, the original Whitney—working with cold precision, her movements economical and purpose-driven. "Why would she create clones of herself?"

"Immortality," Robin replied simply. "Her body was failing—a rare degenerative condition. She needed vessels." He glanced at the sleeping clones. "But she discovered something unexpected during the process. The clones weren't just physical duplicates; they developed distinct personalities, desires, capabilities." His eyes fixed on Whitney. "You were the breakthrough—the first clone to successfully integrate her complete memory architecture without rejecting it."

Whitney processed this information, the gun still trained on Robin. "And the men? Where do you fit into this?"

"We were her test subjects," came a voice from behind her.

Whitney spun to find Justin Horton standing in the doorway, his perfect features twisted with something between adoration and rage.

"She needed to ensure the clones could manipulate effectively," Justin continued, stepping into the laboratory. "Each of us represented a different psychological profile, a different challenge." His smile was bitter. "I was the narcissist—easy to flatter but quick to turn. Ted was the criminal—dangerous but driven by twisted honor. Jackson represented intellectual arrogance. Albert..." He shrugged. "Albert was already broken before she found him."

"And you?" Whitney asked Robin.

"The control freak," Robin admitted without shame. "The man who needed to possess everything he desired." He stepped closer. "We were her psychological petri dishes. She studied how to manipulate each type, then programmed those strategies into her clones."

"But something went wrong," Justin added, moving to flank Whitney's other side. "We began to... enjoy the manipulation. To crave it." His eyes gleamed with unsettling intensity. "The mind games, the pain, the constant battle for dominance—it became addiction."

Robin nodded. "When the original Whitney died, her clones continued her work. But they started competing with each other, each believing herself to be the true heir."

Whitney backed away from both men, her mind racing. "So you've been what—dating multiple versions of me?"

"Testing them," Robin corrected. "The others were convincing, but hollow—they could mimic Whitney's manipulation tactics, but not her essence."

Justin reached for Whitney's arm. "The others say the same phrases, perform the same actions, but there's nothing behind the eyes. Just programming." His grip tightened painfully. "But you're different. You doubt. You question. You adapt."

Whitney wrenched her arm free. "Don't touch me."

"That's it," Robin whispered, his eyes lighting up. "That defiance. The others try to please us eventually. You never do."

A slow clapping sound interrupted their standoff. Ted Alvarez sauntered into the laboratory, his gun held casually at his side. "Beautiful reunion. Very touching." His dark eyes fixed on Whitney. "Now we just need to verify she's the one worth keeping."

Before Whitney could respond, metal chains rattled from above. Robin had triggered some hidden mechanism, and steel restraints descended from the ceiling.

"The real you would break free in seconds," Robin explained, securing the chains around Whitney's wrists despite her struggles. "The copies always fail this test."

The chains pulled tight, suspending Whitney with her feet barely touching the ground. Pain shot through her shoulders as the men circled her like vultures.

"The real Whitney escaped these in seventeen seconds," Ted noted, checking his watch. "Her record."

Whitney pulled against the restraints, feeling for weaknesses. The system interface flashed in her vision:

【Physical Enhancement Activated: +40% Strength】

With a scream of effort, Whitney twisted her body violently, snapping one of the chain links and using the momentum to swing toward Robin. Her foot connected with his jaw, sending him staggering backward as she used the remaining chain as a weapon, whipping it toward Ted's gun hand.

"Fourteen seconds," Justin announced, watching with undisguised admiration as Whitney broke free completely. "A new record."

Whitney landed in a defensive crouch, the broken chains dangling from her wrists like bracelets. "I'm not performing for you."

"But you are," Robin countered, rubbing his jaw with something like pride. "The real you always does."

The laboratory door slid open once more, and Jackson entered with Albert close behind. Jackson's expression was analytical, while Albert bounced on his toes with childlike excitement.

"The test results are conclusive," Jackson announced, holding up a tablet displaying complex genetic data. "She's No.6—the viable integration."

Albert clapped his hands. "I knew it! The others were too boring. They all said the same things." His voice shifted to a monotone: "'Albert, you're sick. Albert, you need help. Albert, put down the knife.'" He giggled. "So predictable."

Jackson approached Whitney cautiously. "The clones we've captured all exhibit the same flaw—they reference memories they couldn't possibly have, trying to convince us they're the original." He adjusted his glasses. "Their programming is impressive but limited. They can only access what was uploaded before the original Whitney's death."

"And me?" Whitney asked, though she already suspected the answer.

"You never claim memories beyond your creation point," Jackson explained. "You doubt your own identity. That self-awareness is unique to your iteration."

Justin stepped forward, his expression earnest in a way that seemed practiced. "Those other Whitneys—the ones saying they love us, promising us everything we want—they're hollow. Empty." He reached toward her face, stopping when she flinched away. "But you... you hate us. Truly, genuinely hate us." His voice broke with emotion. "Do you have any idea how refreshing that is?"

Ted laughed darkly. "The copies tell us what we want to hear. Always so accommodating."

Albert nodded enthusiastically. "They let me cut them and don't even scream right. Not like you, big sister."

Whitney backed away from the five men, disgust warring with confusion. "You're all insane."

"Probably," Robin conceded. "But we're also correct. The other clones are defective—they malfunction under pressure. But you..." His eyes gleamed with something like reverence. "You're the masterpiece."

A slow clapping sound echoed through the laboratory again, but this time it didn't come from Ted. All heads turned toward the entrance where a figure stood in silhouette.

"Well done, gentlemen. You found her." The figure stepped into the light, revealing a face identical to Whitney's, but older, harder, with strands of silver in her dark hair and lines of experience around her eyes. "I was wondering how long it would take."

The newcomer raised her arm, displaying the wrist tattoo Whitney had glimpsed in the photographs and on the mysterious shooter—an intricate design of interlocking gears forming a heart.

"Twenty years in the future, and men are still so predictably easy to manipulate," the older Whitney said, aiming a futuristic-looking weapon at the group. "Always thinking with their broken hearts instead of their brains."

The men froze, expressions ranging from shock to awe as they stared at this aged version of their obsession.

Future Whitney's cold gaze fixed on her younger counterpart. "Hello, No.6. I'm you—the version that survives what comes next." She gestured with her weapon. "This little game has gone on long enough. It's time to end it."

Whitney stared at her older self, noticing what the men had missed in their shock—the burn scars visible at the edge of her collar, peeking up toward her neck. As Future Whitney turned slightly, the scars became more visible, revealing five distinct names branded into her flesh: Robin, Justin, Ted, Jackson, Albert.

"What happened to you?" Whitney whispered.

Future Whitney's smile was a bitter slash across her face. "They did. Over and over and over again." She leveled her weapon. "But not this time. This time, I'm changing the story."