The sea was a mirror of chaos. Waves tore at each other, white caps smashing into black water like shards of glass. Isabella surfaced, coughing and gasping, salt stinging her eyes, and dragged herself toward a jagged outcrop just above the waterline. The copy—or the man wearing Marco's face—was nowhere in sight.
For a moment, she floated in silence, listening to the roar of the ocean, her chest heaving. Her mind replayed the events in impossible loops: Matteo lying on the villa floor, blood blooming like dark petals; the flash of gunfire; the man who looked like Marco pulling her to safety, dragging her over jagged rocks.
And then a horrifying thought struck her: if that wasn't Marco… and Matteo was gone… what had she just survived?
The cliffside below the villa still glowed faintly orange. Fire had consumed part of the estate, and in the flickering light, she thought she saw movement. Figures in black—Syndicate operatives—were combing through the wreckage. Their search would eventually move downward, toward the cliffs.
She scrambled further onto the rocks, water spraying over her as she crawled to the top. Every instinct screamed to run inland, to vanish, but the reality gnawed at her: Matteo was gone, possibly dead, and the man she thought she loved was a construct of Project Eros.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a voice—soft, familiar, impossibly precise.
"Isabella."
Her head snapped up. The man stood on a nearby ledge, wet from the fall, hair plastered to his face, clothes clinging. The same storm-gray eyes stared into hers, calm and terrifyingly composed.
"You…" she gasped. "You're alive?"
He didn't answer immediately. He simply reached a hand toward her. "I've been waiting for you to understand."
"Understand what?" Her voice was trembling. "That you're a lie?"
He nodded slowly. "I am Marco… and I am not. I am everything Matteo tried to protect, everything he feared. I carry his memories, his feelings, and his consciousness—but I was shaped by him, and now… I've become my own person."
Her stomach turned. "You're saying… you're alive and you're fake?"
"I am real to you," he said quietly, "if you let me be."
Isabella staggered back, shaking her head. "No. I… I can't. Matteo warned me. He said I couldn't trust you. And now… he's gone."
The wind picked up, whipping the rain back into her face. "And the Syndicate?" she demanded. "They'll come for both of us. They're still out there. Why would I risk… anything with you?"
"I can help you," he said. "We can finish this. Project Eros—the Syndicate—they can't win if we're together."
She shook her head violently. "Finish what? Matteo is dead. The man I loved—he's dead. And you… you're a copy. You're the reason everything happened!"
The man's jaw tightened. "I was supposed to protect you. I failed. But I didn't cause the fire. I didn't kill Matteo. I am your ally, whether you choose to see it or not."
Her mind raced. Images of the villa burning, the flashbangs, the fall—they were etched into her memory. She felt numb, exhausted, drowning in the sea of betrayal and grief.
"You're not him," she whispered. "You're wearing his face, using his memories, pretending. And I… I don't know if I can ever forgive that."
The man—Marco—lowered his head. "I know. But forgiveness isn't what I'm asking. I'm asking you to survive. To finish what Matteo started. To end Project Eros before it destroys more lives."
She stared at him. The storm raged around them, but beneath it, a strange quiet settled. She realized he was right—Matteo's war wasn't over. The Syndicate still had power, still had reach. Project Eros was more dangerous than she had imagined, and she had been dragged straight into the middle.
Her fingers clenched into fists. "And Matteo… he trusted me to finish it?"
"He trusted you to see the truth," Marco said. "And he believed you were strong enough to make the right choice."
Her breath caught. "And what choice is that?"
"To end it," Marco said simply. "To destroy the Syndicate's lab, all their research, and anything that could ever replicate what happened to us. And to make sure no one else suffers like we did."
She felt the weight of it—the responsibility, the grief, the anger. Matteo had died believing she could finish the fight. She had to.
"And if I fail?" she asked, voice small.
"Then I'll fail with you," Marco said. "But we won't fail. Not while we're together."
Her eyes widened. For the first time in days, the storm in her chest shifted—not with fear, but determination. She swallowed her doubt and nodded slowly.
"I'll do it," she said. "But know this—I won't be swayed by… by memories, by love, or by guilt. I'll make my own choices."
Marco's lips curved faintly. "Good. That's why I knew you were the only one who could survive this."
They moved quickly down the cliffs, rain and sea spray lashing their faces. Helicopters roared above, spotlights cutting through the mist, but the two of them stayed low, blending into shadows. The distant hum of engines reminded her that time was short.
Finally, they reached a hidden cove Matteo had marked on the data stick—the location of the Syndicate's secret laboratory. A small boat bobbed in the surf, engines idling.
As they climbed aboard, Isabella looked back at the cliffs, the villa a burning silhouette against the gray sky. Matteo's sacrifice weighed on her chest, and for the first time, she truly understood the depth of what she was stepping into.
Marco—copy or not—was beside her now. He carried all of Marco's memories, yes, but he was alive, aware, and capable. And for better or worse, she would need him.
The boat cut through the waves, leaving the cliffs behind. Isabella's mind was racing, piecing together every fragment of betrayal, every memory stolen, every life lost. The Syndicate had underestimated her, underestimated the one person Matteo had believed could see through the lies.
She clenched the data stick in her hand. The lab was near, the truth waiting inside. And the real fight was only beginning.
As the wind tore at her hair and rain splashed against her face, she realized the truth Matteo had hoped she'd understand:
It didn't matter who Marco really was—the man, the copy, the ghost of a memory.
It was her choices that would decide the future.
And she would not fail.
The sea roared beneath them, dark and endless, carrying their silent promise forward.
Project Eros would end today.