Imposter Syndrome

The first time Sera stepped into Seraphina’s penthouse, it was empty.

Not of furniture — the place was full of sleek design, pale tones, shimmering surfaces — but of life. It was like walking into a designer’s dream and a human’s nightmare. Everything pristine. Perfect. Polished.

And utterly soulless.

The keycard she had swiped from the RoweCorp valet worked, just like she’d hoped. Seraphina wasn’t home — likely still at the gala, shaking hands with politicians and men who thought they could buy her influence. That gave Sera a few precious hours.

She moved carefully, even though her instincts knew the layout.

To the left, a minimalist kitchen where not a single item looked used. In the center, a floating console with encrypted access. Ahead, a long hall, and at its end, a bedroom like a glass museum.

Sera stared at the bed. The silk pillows. The full-length mirror.

I’ve been here before.

She blinked hard. Her reflection stared back at her, wide-eyed. Hollow.

No.

She had been here before.

Sera was the glitch. The discarded one. But her mind was no longer obeying the rules. Memory fragments flared at random. A scent. A sound. A tremor in her fingers when she touched certain textures. Sometimes she didn’t know if it was hers, or a stolen part of the original’s mind implanted in her.

She picked up a framed photo on the side table. Seraphina, arms linked with a man in a black coat, both smiling at something out of frame. His eyes weren’t on the camera. They were on her. Focused. Deep.

The name came without permission.

Jin.

It whispered in her like a bruise remembering pressure.

She set the frame down fast.

He wasn’t the reason she came here.

Not yet.

The console buzzed as she approached. Sera reached out with trembling fingers, letting her skin brush the biometric pad. To her surprise — and quiet terror — it blinked green.

Access granted.

Her pulse sped up.

She wasn’t just a copy. She was her. Even the machine couldn’t tell the difference.

She sat.

The interface booted into full transparency mode. Messages, financial statements, private research logs. And tucked beneath encrypted folders — something strange. A hidden cache labeled: ERRORS.

Her breath caught.

Her thumb hovered over the tab when the front door hissed.

Sera froze.

Footsteps. Light, deliberate. One. Two. Pause.

She shut off the display and ducked behind the couch just as the main room lights activated.

A voice — female. Cold. Crisp.

“House AI, any recent access logs?”

The system chirped: ‘Identity verified: Seraphina Rowe. One prior login at 21:03.’

Pause.

“I wasn’t here at 21:03,” the voice replied, quiet.

Sera’s hands curled into fists.

She peeked over the couch.

Seraphina.

The real one.

Sera’s mouth went dry. Just meters away. Same height. Same hair. Same everything. Except the way she stood — like the world was her stage and every second was a performance. There was no question in her posture. No doubt.

Sera had to crawl backward, silently. Any noise, and she’d be caught. And even with the same face — she wasn’t ready. Not yet. She wasn’t her.

She slipped toward the hallway, heart thundering.

Every step was betrayal. Every breath, a silent scream. She didn’t belong here.

But wasn’t that the point?

She was made to belong. But now, standing in the same space, wearing the same skin — she felt it stronger than ever:

She didn’t fit.

And that feeling wasn’t new. It had followed her through every memory, every lab, every look someone gave her like she was less than.

A voice echoed in her head — not Seraphina’s, not Jin’s, but her own:

You’re not her. You’re not enough.

...----------------...

She escaped into the night, past rooftop cameras and scanning drones, heart still pounding.

Imposter.