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He knows every version of her. She remembers none of them. She wakes to silk sheets and a wedding ring hanging too loose on her finger. The man beside her, Silas is beautiful. Devoted. Obsessed. Also, a liar. The house has no windows. The doors do not unlock. The fog beyond the glass erases landscapes and memories alike. Evelyn was meant to recover. Instead, she has been rebuilt-again. She suspects-but Silas is practiced at shaping suspicion into surrender. At breakfast, she finds a single pill waiting on porcelain. She swallows it, passing a test she never agreed to take. Then a staircase. A locked basement. A faint mechanical pulse humming below like a heart that should not exist. A wardrobe opens like inventory. Everything fits. Nothing feels personal. A drawer reveals a handwritten list in her own elegant script, past-her trying to reframe captivity as consent. She dreams of thirty-one women with her face, all circling, silent, unanimous: You're next. Silas says their love was rare enough to frighten poets. He plans to make her love him again. Rebuild her identity. Rewrite them both. As many times as it takes. But a woman who keeps finding teeth in drains eventually asks harder questions. And even the perfect copies start thinking about escape.

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