The biometric scanner blinks red three times and dies.
Celine presses her thumb harder against the glass. The hospital bracelet they cut off is in a trash can two blocks back. The clothes she stole from a locker room still smell like someone else's deodorant. But it's her building. Vault Bio. Sixty-two floors of carbon-neutral glass and the most advanced neural interface tech on the planet. She built this place. Her retina. Her thumbprint. Her stock options vesting in eighteen months.
Red again. The security kiosk stays dark.
"Ma'am." The guard leans out. He's new. She doesn't recognize him. "You need to check in at reception."
She wants to say *I'm Celine Zhao. I'm the COO*. But the face in the lobby glass behind him isn't hers. Narrow jaw. Smaller nose. The name on the ID she lifted says Nora Webb, and Nora Webb has no clearance here.
She steps back. "Sorry. Wrong building."
The guard nods and goes back to his phone.
She walks half a block. Stops. Turns around.
There's a coffee shop across the street. She buys an Americano with cash she found in Nora's wallet and takes the window seat. From here she can see the whole lobby. The security desk. The elevator bank. The digital board listing department heads.
She pulls out the phone. Not hers. This one's older. Cracked screen. But it works. No password. Just a swipe and she's in.
Three contacts: Mom, Jason, Vault HR.
No messages. No emails. No life.
She opens the browser and types *Celine Zhao Vault Bio*.
The first hit is the company page. Her page. Executive leadership.
There's a photo.
It's her face. Her hair. The blazer she bought for the Series C pitch. But the name underneath says Celine Zhao, COO, and the bio says she joined Vault Bio six years ago after a stint at a neural-implant startup in Shenzhen.
Six years. She's been COO for six years.
She scrolls. The next article is from *TechCrunch*, two months old. **Vault Bio COO Celine Zhao Takes the Helm After Founder Scandal**. The subhead says she steadied the ship. Saved the IPO. Got the board to double down on the Blackwater protocol.
Blackwater.
The word punches through her chest. She doesn't know why.
She keeps scrolling. More articles. More photos. All of them her. All of them not.
She looks up.
Across the street, the glass doors slide open. A woman steps out. Charcoal suit. Slate-blue blouse. Hair pulled back in the twist Celine's assistant used to do every morning before the eight-thirty.
It's her.
The woman who's wearing her face.
She's talking to someone. A man in a dark coat. He's nodding. She's gesturing with one hand, the way Celine does when she's explaining cap tables or burn rates. The man laughs. She doesn't. She just keeps talking.
Celine's coffee goes cold in her hand.
The woman—*fake Celine*—stops mid-sentence. Pulls out her phone. Glances at it. Frowns. Then she says something to the man and heads back inside.
The man stays outside. He lights a cigarette. Checks his watch. Then his phone rings. He answers. Walks south.
Celine stands. The chair scrapes. A couple at the next table looks over. She doesn't care. She leaves the coffee. Walks out. Crosses the street.
The man is half a block ahead. She follows.
He walks fast. She keeps a gap. He turns left on Folsom. She counts to three. Turns.
He's stopped outside a loading dock. Still on the phone. His voice carries.
"I don't care what the board says. If she signs off on the next trial before we audit the Blackwater data, we're looking at criminal liability. Not civil. Criminal."
Pause.
"Yeah. She knows. She just doesn't care."
Another pause.
"Because she's the one who wrote the protocol."
Celine's heart kicks. She steps back. Her heel hits a trash can. The man turns.
She keeps walking. Head down. Phone out like she's texting. He watches her pass. Doesn't follow.
She makes it to the corner. Stops. Breathes.
*She's the one who wrote the protocol.*
She opens the phone again. Types *Blackwater protocol Vault Bio*.
Nothing. Just a 404 page. Access restricted.
She tries *Celine Zhao Blackwater*.
One hit. A cached forum post from three years ago. Someone with the username *diver_52* asking if anyone else got pulled from the Blackwater volunteer pool without explanation. The replies are all deleted. The thread is locked.
She screenshots it. Goes back.
The man is gone.
She walks back to Vault Bio. The lobby is busier now. Lunch hour. People in branded hoodies. Catered salads. She spots the woman again. Fake Celine. She's standing by the elevator with two others. A blonde in a pencil skirt. A guy with glasses and a tablet.
Fake Celine is smiling. The blonde says something. Fake Celine nods.
Celine can't hear them from outside. But she can read the blonde's lips. Two words.
*Thank you.*
Fake Celine touches her shoulder. The blonde beams.
The guy with the tablet says something else. Fake Celine's smile fades. She shakes her head. The guy looks worried. She says something short. He nods. They get in the elevator.
Celine watches the floor indicator climb. Thirty-four. Thirty-five. Stops at forty.
Executive floor.
Her floor.
She turns. Walks back to the coffee shop. Buys another Americano. Goes back to the window seat.
An hour passes. Then another.
At four-fifteen, the doors open again. Fake Celine walks out. Same coat. Same posture. She's alone this time. She stops on the sidewalk. Pulls out her phone. Types something. Waits.
A black car pulls up. Not a rideshare. A private service. She gets in.
Celine runs outside. The car is already moving. She tries to see the plate but a bus blocks her view. By the time it passes, the car is gone.
She stands there. People walk around her. Someone bumps her shoulder. She doesn't move.
Her hand is shaking.
She goes back inside the coffee shop. Sits. Puts the phone on the table.
Then it buzzes.
A text. Unknown number.
*Sixty-five hours, Nora.*
She stares at it.
Another buzz.
*Stop looking for her. She's looking for you.*