Lena's fingers hovered over the dossier, the paper crisp but stained with something that looked like dried blood. The lab coat she'd stolen from Dr. Shen's cooler (she'd swiped it while he rambled about "temporal stabilization") hung off her shoulders, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows—too loose, as if it belonged to someone taller. Her own arms were marked now: faint blue veins pulsed under her skin, branching like circuitry, matching the patterns on the jade earring.
Her phone buzzed again. Same unknown number. This time, the video played without glitching.
It was her. Or a her. Seventy years old, hair a brittle white, strapped to a chair in a room that smelled of antiseptic and copper. Technicians in masks loomed over her, their hands gloved in black latex. One held a bone saw; another, a vial labeled "7B Serum." The old Lena's eyes were wide, unblinking, as if she'd forgotten how to blink. When the saw touched her jaw, her mouth gaped in a silent scream—then her molars cracked, black sludge oozing out, and Lena felt it in her own teeth. A sharp, electric pain.
She dropped the phone. It clattered to the floor, screen still playing. The old Lena's lips moved, as if mouthing words. Lena leaned closer, her breath fogging the screen. "Find the radio," the lips formed. "Under the floorboards. 1937."
The door slammed open.
Dr. Shen stood in the hallway, his lab coat flapping like a cape, the prosthetic hand glowing faintly blue. "You shouldn't have that," he said, nodding to the phone. "Memories are contagious. Especially expired ones."
Lena scrambled to her feet, the dossier clutched to her chest. "Who are you? Really?"
He tilted his head, the chrome claw clicking. "I'm the reason you're alive. The reason your clones died at 27 instead of 17, 12, 5. The experiment was failing until I… optimized it."
"Optimized?" Lena's voice shook. "You mean tortured them. What's in the serum? What's in my teeth?"
Dr. Shen stepped into the room, his eyes lingering on the open dossier. "Your DNA isn't human. It's a hybrid—part Neanderthal, part… something older. The earring? A quantum transceiver. It pulls memories from parallel timelines. That's why you're seeing 1937. That's where the original code was written."
"Original code?"
He pointed to her arm. "The blue veins. Quantum ink. It's a language. Your body records everything: every life you've lived, every death, every secret. The problem is, the ink degrades. Clones start losing memories at 20. By 27, they're empty shells. That's why we need you. You're the 17th iteration, and your ink's still stable. You're the key to… preserving the code."
Lena's stomach churned. "Preserving it for what?"
Dr. Shen reached into his pocket and pulled out a vial of black liquid—the same stuff that had leaked from her molars. "For the eclipse. In three days, the moon will align with Shanghai's old radio towers. If we don't inject the code into the towers by then, the quantum field will collapse. All timelines will bleed together. Past, present, future. Chaos."
"Why me?"
"Because you're the only one who can access the code. The earring's tuned to your DNA. You're a living antenna." He paused, his voice softening—almost human. "Look, I didn't choose this. Your grandfather… he started it. He wanted to save lives. To use the code to heal diseases, to rewrite tragedies. But the government saw it as a weapon. They took over. Now we're all just… pawns."
Lena's gaze fell on the dossier. A photo slipped out: two girls, back-to-back, one in a qipao, the other in a lab coat. The lab coat girl had a jade earring. Her.
"Who's the other girl?" she asked.
Dr. Shen's face hardened. "Twin 7A. Your anchor in 1937. She's… deteriorating. Her DNA's breaking down. If she dies, you die. And if you die…" He gestured to the vial. "The eclipse will unravel everything. Time itself."
Lena's phone buzzed again. This time, it wasn't a video. A text message: "Check under the floorboards. Trust no one."
She froze. The voice was hers—her own, now. Not the old Lena's.
Dr. Shen's prosthetic hand twitched. "You're getting interference. From 1937. She's trying to reach you."
Lena's legs moved before she could think. She bolted past him, heading for the bedroom. The floorboards creaked under her weight as she knelt, prying up a loose board with the heel of her hand. Beneath it lay a metal box, rusted but intact, with a familiar jade earring pressed against the lid.
She opened it. Inside: a map of 1937 Shanghai, marked with a red X; a key engraved with twin dragons; and a note scrawled in blue ink that matched the veins on her arm:
Lena, if you're reading this, I'm sorry. The code isn't a weapon—it's a bridge. Burn the labs. Destroy the towers. And never let them make you forget who you are.
—7A
Behind her, Dr. Shen's voice cut through the silence. "Give that to me."
Lena turned, clutching the box to her chest. "Who are you working for? The government? The original project?"
He took a step closer, the prosthetic hand whirring. "I'm working for you. For all of us. The code's the only thing keeping the timelines from collapsing. If you destroy the towers, you'll unravel everything—every life, every memory. Including yours."
Lena's fingers tightened around the box. "Including 7A's?"
Dr. Shen hesitated. "Especially hers."
The room hummed. The walls pulsed, matching the rhythm of her veins. Lena looked down at the earring in her palm, its circuitry glowing faintly. She could feel the pull of 1937, the scream of copper, the weight of 17 dead clones.
And then she remembered the old Lena's words: "Find the radio."
Somewhere, beneath the floorboards of a 1937 Shanghai basement, a radio waited. And in her hand, a key.
Dr. Shen lunged.
Lena ducked, slamming the box into his prosthetic hand. The chrome claw sparked, and he yelped in pain. She bolted for the door, the map and key clutched tight, the note burning against her palm.
Behind her, the lab coat she'd stolen caught on a nail, tearing at the shoulder. As she ran, she didn't look back.
She didn't need to.
Somewhere, in the static between timelines, a girl in a qipao was still screaming.