The room held its breath.
Dust drifted through the shards of shattered glass, catching the faint gray light from the sea. The only sound was the low hum of wind through the broken window—until the click of the gun's safety broke it.
The man wearing Marco's face stepped forward. His movements were deliberate, calm, almost gentle. His gun was trained on Matteo, but his eyes—those storm-gray eyes—never left Isabella's.
"Isabella," he said softly, "move away from him."
Matteo shifted closer, shielding her with his body. "Don't listen to him. He's not who you think."
The other man's jaw tensed. "And you are? Tell her the truth, Matteo. Tell her what you made me for."
Matteo's breath came out rough, strained. "You were supposed to protect her. You malfunctioned."
"Malfunctioned?" The man's laugh was sharp, bitter. "You mean I remembered."
Isabella pressed a trembling hand to her mouth. Her heart thudded in her ears. They were mirror images of each other—same voice, same body, same quiet rage simmering beneath the surface—but there was something in the eyes that set them apart.
Matteo's were human, haunted. The other man's burned with an eerie steadiness, too controlled, too precise—like someone who had learned emotion rather than felt it.
"Put the gun down," Matteo said. "You're making this worse."
"You already did that," the copy said. "When you turned me into your brother."
He took another step forward, and the agents—those still standing—lifted their weapons. Isabella felt the air grow electric with tension. One wrong move, and everything would end in blood.
"Stop!" she cried, stepping between them. "Both of you!"
They froze.
She turned to Matteo first. "You told me he was dangerous. That he was made to kill."
Matteo nodded slowly. "He was created using Marco's neural imprint. He inherited every emotion Marco ever had—every attachment, every weakness. But without the ability to separate what's real from what's programmed, he became unstable."
"Unstable?" the other man echoed, voice low. "You stole a man's memories, Matteo. You filled me with his grief, his love for her—" he pointed at Isabella—"and then told me none of it was real. What did you expect me to do?"
"You were never supposed to feel anything," Matteo said. "You were a construct, not a person."
The man's expression hardened. "Then why do I hurt?"
The question hung in the air like a wound.
Isabella's throat tightened. Her eyes darted between them, trying to see the truth in their faces. "You both keep saying you did this for me—but all I see are lies."
Matteo's voice softened. "Isabella, everything I did was to keep you safe. The Syndicate wanted Marco's formula. They wanted a perfect copy of a perfect heir. I had to make one before they did—someone who could take Marco's place, fool them long enough for you to escape."
"And me?" she asked, her voice trembling. "Was I just part of the experiment too?"
His face broke. "No. You were the only real thing in any of it."
But the other Marco—if that's who he was—shook his head. "He's lying, Isabella. He used you. He wanted to test if a construct could feel love. That's why he sent me to you. You weren't protection—you were proof."
Her breath caught. "That's not true…"
"Is it?" the man said, staring at Matteo. "Tell her what the project was called."
Matteo's silence was answer enough.
The man turned back to her, his voice gentler now. "Project Eros. That's what he named it. Love as a weapon. He wanted to see if emotion could be engineered—if memory could rewrite biology."
Isabella staggered back, the room spinning. Matteo tried to reach for her, but she pushed him away.
"Don't touch me," she whispered. "You made him out of your brother's mind?"
"He was supposed to die," Matteo said, his voice cracking. "Marco was already gone. The Syndicate killed him. I just—copied what was left."
The other Marco's eyes darkened. "You didn't copy him. You trapped him. I remember everything, Matteo. The night of the explosion. The way you stood over him, crying, while you downloaded his memories. I remember you whispering—'I'll bring you back.'"
Matteo flinched. "I was trying to save him."
"You were trying to play God."
The silence that followed felt suffocating.
Outside, thunder rolled across the coast. The wind picked up, carrying the smell of rain and smoke. Somewhere in the distance, engines approached—black vans moving through the mist.
The Syndicate was coming.
The agents shifted uneasily, their radios crackling with static. "We need to move her now," one of them said. "We're compromised."
But Isabella didn't move. Her gaze was locked on the man who looked like Marco. "If what you're saying is true, then what are you?"
He hesitated. "I don't know anymore."
"You have his memories."
"Yes."
"You love me."
He looked at her then—truly looked—and for a heartbeat, she saw the same warmth she'd once known, the same tenderness that had made her fall for Marco in the first place.
"Yes," he said quietly. "But I don't know if it's mine or his."
A tear slid down her cheek. "Then how am I supposed to choose?"
He lowered his weapon. "Don't choose either of us. Choose the truth."
Before she could speak, Matteo lunged forward, grabbing her wrist—the one with the faint scar.
"Isabella, listen to me. That man isn't human. He'll say anything to make you doubt what's real."
She yanked her hand free. "And you wouldn't?"
His face twisted in anguish. "You think I wanted this? You think I wanted to create my brother's ghost? I tried to destroy him. But they got to him first."
"Who?"
Before he could answer, the windows burst inward again—flashbangs rolling across the floor. The world erupted in light and thunder.
Isabella hit the ground, ears ringing. Through the smoke, she saw figures in black storming the room—Syndicate operatives.
Gunfire exploded.
Matteo dove for her, but before he reached her, a single shot cracked through the chaos.
He fell, blood blooming across his shirt.
"Matteo!" she screamed, crawling toward him—but a hand caught her arm. The other Marco pulled her back, dragging her behind cover.
"They'll kill us both," he hissed. "We have to move."
"I can't leave him—"
"You'll die if you stay."
She looked over. Matteo lay on the floor, eyes unfocused, blood pooling beneath him. He met her gaze for a fleeting second and mouthed one word—run.
Then the light went out of his eyes.
The copy pulled her to her feet, forcing her toward the broken window. "There's a boat waiting below the cliffs. We can make it if we go now."
She didn't think. She just ran.
The wind tore at her hair as they fled down the slope, the roar of the sea growing louder. Behind them, the villa burned—orange light flickering against the fog like the end of a dream.
When they reached the edge of the cliffs, the man turned to her, his face streaked with ash and blood.
"You have to trust me," he said.
She stared at him, trembling. "You keep asking for that. But I don't even know if you're real."
He took her hand and pressed it against his chest. "Then tell me what you feel."
Beneath her palm, his heart was pounding—strong, steady, human.
And yet… something about it felt too perfect. Too measured.
The waves crashed below. Helicopters echoed in the distance.
Isabella looked into his eyes—eyes that once felt like home—and whispered, "If you're really Marco… tell me what you said to me the first night we met."
He hesitated. Just for a fraction of a second.
And in that silence, she finally knew.
She stepped back. "You're not him."
His expression shattered. "Isabella—"
The world erupted in light again as the cliff gave way beneath them.
And as they fell toward the raging sea, she wasn't sure who she was trying to save anymore—the man she loved, or the lie that wore his face.