1 My brain was a scorched wasteland. After three consecutive sixteen-hour shifts at the Chronicle, my IQ had plummeted into the negatives. I was a ghost in a trench coat, haunted by deadlines and caffeine jitters. When I reached my floor, I didn’t even look at the door number. I just punched the code into the keypad—my own birthday, a habit I’d never changed. The lock clicked. The door swung open. But as I stepped inside, the air felt wrong. My apartment usually smelled like overpriced lavender candles and neglected laundry; this place smelled of cedarwood, expensive scotch, and the sterile hum of high-end electronics. I reached for the light switch, but my hand hit nothing but smooth, cold wallpaper. A jolt of adrenaline finally pierced my exhaustion. I froze, my heart hammering against my ribs. I backed away, intending to bolt, but I slammed right into a solid, warm chest. “Is the upgrade finished so soon?” A voice vibrated against my back—low, resonant, and achingly familiar. Silas Blackwood. My neighbor. The man I’d been hopelessly, pathetically in love with for a year. Before I could process his words, his hand settled on my waist. Even through my thin silk blouse, the heat of his palm felt like a brand. My mind went blank. I caught a glimpse of a glossy booklet on the coffee table: The Synthetics User Guide: Model V Companion. Synthetic? As in… an android? Before I could gasp, Silas swept me off my feet. He carried me into the bedroom with an effortless, predatory grace. The room was bathed in the pale, blue glow of the city skyline. He didn’t turn on the lights. He didn’t say another word. He just kissed me. It wasn’t the polite, distant greeting of a neighbor. It was a shattering, soul-deep claim. His fingers tangled in my hair, tilting my head back as he tasted me with a hunger that made my knees weak. My brain, already fragile, completely short-circuited. I didn’t pull away. I didn’t tell him I was human. I just gripped his collar and let myself drown in the scent of him. “The haptic response is incredible,” he murmured against my lips, his breath hitching. “More realistic than the last version.” He thought I was a machine. The realization should have stung, but in the heat of his embrace, it felt like a shield. During the day, when we shared an elevator, Silas was the ice king of the tech world—a man who gave me nothing but a stiff nod and a “Mind the gap, Ms. Reed” even when I purposefully brushed against him. Who would have thought that the stoic, repressed Silas Blackwood spent his nights pouring his soul—and his body—into a robot that looked exactly like me? “Is the voice module still calibrating?” he whispered, his thumb tracing my lower lip. He looked troubled, his brow furrowing in the dark. I panicked. I forced my voice into a flat, rhythmic monotone. “Voice… pack… installing…” Silas let out a soft, breathy laugh that made my skin tingle. He pulled a set of silk pajamas from the nightstand. Then, with agonizing slowness and a gaze that felt like a physical touch, he began to undress me. 2 Aside from the kisses and the quiet, intimate ritual of changing my clothes, Silas didn’t cross the final line. He just held me. When the first grey light of dawn filtered through the blinds, I waited for him to leave for his workout before I scrambled out of his bed and fled to my own apartment. I collapsed against my front door, my heart still racing. Did he really have a synthetic that looked exactly like me? The thought was terrifying. And yet, I couldn’t stop thinking about the way he looked at me when he thought I couldn’t feel it. I forced myself through a cold shower and headed to the office, arriving late and looking like I’d been dragged through a hedge. I expected a lecture from my editor, Sarah, but instead, she pulled me into her glass-walled office with a manic grin. “Maren, the universe has smiled upon you,” she said, sliding a folder across the desk. “The Blackwood interview is finally a go. Two hours tomorrow, two hours the day after. Exclusive.” I nearly dropped the file. I had been chasing this profile for six months as a cover for my obsession, but now? Now it felt like a death sentence. I spent the day in a fever dream, drafting questions while my mind looped back to the cedarwood scent of his skin. Should I stop? Should I stay away from his apartment? But I was addicted. I was a journalist; I was supposed to seek the truth, but I found myself craving the lie. That night, I walked back into his apartment. I knew the code was my birthday. I knew where the pajamas were kept. I sat on his sofa and waited. When Silas arrived, he looked different. There was a faint, fresh scratch along his jawline. “Come here,” he said softly, heading into the bedroom. I followed him, my heart in my throat. He had already changed into his robe. He gestured to the bed, his expression unreadable. “Get in. It’s been a long day, and I have lab trials tomorrow. We’re just sleeping.” The disappointment was a sharp, physical pang in my chest. I climbed under the duvet, and he pulled me against him. He kissed my forehead—a gesture so tender it made my eyes sting—and fell asleep almost instantly. 3 The next morning, I stood outside the Blackwood Industries conference room, taking deep, shaky breaths. I was Maren Reed, professional journalist. I was not a synthetic. I was not a secret. “We can begin now,” a cold, clipped voice said from behind me. I turned and froze. Silas stood there in a charcoal suit, his eyes like flint. He looked nothing like the man who had held me hours ago. And more importantly—the scratch on his jaw was gone. “Of course,” I stammered, stepping back so quickly I nearly tripped over my own feet. My hands shook as I reached for my recorder. Silas adjusted his glasses, his gaze lingering on my trembling fingers. “Are you unwell, Ms. Reed? You look… pale.” “I’m fine,” I lied, staring at the floor. The memories of the night were screaming in my head, clashing violently with the sterile reality of the man in front of me. The interview was a nightmare of efficiency. He answered every technical question with surgical precision. But when I reached the final question—one I hadn’t cleared with Sarah—the air in the room curdled. “Mr. Blackwood, rumors suggest your firm is working on high-fidelity social synthetics. Why would a creator choose to model a prototype after someone in their personal life?” Silas went rigid. He stood up, smoothing his tie with a slow, deliberate motion. “That question was not on the approved list, Ms. Reed. This interview is over.” I couldn’t take it. The coldness, the hot-and-cold whiplash—it was breaking me. I watched him walk toward the elevator and I snapped. I chased after him, sliding into the car just as the doors began to close. “Silas, stop it!” I yelled. “What the hell is this? I’ve spent a year trying to get close to you, and you treat me like a stranger. But then I see what’s in your apartment. You have a machine that looks like me. You hold it. You kiss it. Is this just some sick research project? Am I just a blueprint to you?” Silas looked at me, his expression flat, his eyes devoid of the warmth I’d felt in the dark. “Ms. Reed,” he said, his voice like a gavel. “You are overstepping. Whatever you think you saw in my home is none of your concern.” The elevator doors opened. He walked away without looking back. I collapsed against the mirrored wall of the elevator, feeling smaller than I ever had in my life. I had bared my soul, and he hadn’t even blinked. The doors opened again on the lobby level. A woman was waiting there—tall, blonde, and wearing a coat that cost more than my car. 4 She stepped into the elevator and looked me up and down with a pitying smile. She toyed with a sapphire pendant at her throat—a perfect match for the cufflinks Silas had been wearing. “Honey, you need to learn your place,” she said, her voice like honeyed poison. “Silas and I might not be a ‘love match,’ as the tabloids put it, but we are an alliance. Our wedding is in three months. I don’t mind a little distraction, but I won’t tolerate a nuisance.” The doors opened. I walked out into a sudden New York downpour. I stood on the sidewalk, letting the rain soak through my clothes, feeling like a discarded toy. The last forty-eight hours had been a fever dream born of my own desperation. I huddled under a bus stop awning, my makeup running, my clothes clinging to my skin. I felt pathetic. Then, a sleek black sedan pulled up to the curb. The window rolled down. It was Silas. But there, on his jaw, was the scratch. “Maren,” he said, his voice urgent. “Get in.” I didn’t move. I stared at the scratch. Then I stared at him. “You knew,” I whispered. “You knew I wasn’t the machine from the beginning.” He didn’t answer. He got out of the car, shielding me with a large umbrella, his eyes searching mine. “Synthetics shouldn’t be out in the rain,” he said softly. “They’ll short-circuit.” Something inside me snapped. I shoved the umbrella away, stepping back into the deluge. “Stop it! Stop the games! You’re Silas, but you’re not… him. The Silas in that office doesn’t have a scratch on his face. He doesn’t have a soul. And he has a fiancée.” The man in front of me flinched. The umbrella tilted, forgotten. The rain washed over the scratch on his jaw, making it stand out vividly. “Who are you?” I screamed over the thunder. “Why are you doing this to me?” He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I’m Silas. The only Silas that matters to you.” “Liar,” I breathed. I could feel the truth now. It wasn’t just the scratch. It was the way he looked at me—with a desperate, terrifying vulnerability that the man in the office was incapable of. “I’m done. I don’t care who you are or what kind of twisted twin-swap you’re running. I’m out. Don’t come near me again.” I turned and ran into the rain. He didn’t follow. 5 The fever hit me like a freight train that night. I spent the next day drifting in and out of consciousness, my body shivering despite the piles of blankets. My phone buzzed incessantly—Sarah, demanding to know why I wasn’t at the second half of the Blackwood interview. With a Herculean effort, I dragged myself out of bed, threw on a dress, and called an Uber. I couldn’t lose my job over a broken heart. When I arrived at the Blackwood building, my vision was swimming. My colleague, a junior photographer, met me in the lobby. “Maren, you look like death,” he whispered. “I’m fine,” I said, though the floor felt like it was tilting. Suddenly, a hand gripped my wrist. It was cool against my burning skin. I leaned toward the sensation, my eyes fluttering shut. I looked up and saw Silas. “Maren, you’re burning up.” “Let go of me, Mr. Blackwood,” I hissed, my voice cracking. I tried to pull away, but I stumbled. He caught me, his arms locking around me like iron. He turned to my colleague and the gathered staff. “I have an emergency. The interview is canceled. Reschedule for next week.” “You can’t do that!” I protested, but he ignored me. He picked me up—that same effortless, bridal carry—and marched me toward the private garage. He tucked me into the passenger seat of his car, cranking the heat. I looked at his face in the light of the dashboard. The scratch was there. It was him. The ‘Night Silas.’ “Tell me,” I whispered. “Who are you?” He gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white. After a long, heavy silence, he spoke. “Sawyer,” he said. “I’m Sawyer Blackwood. Silas’s twin brother. The one they keep in the basement because I’m not ‘corporate’ enough.”
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