Subject file // companion series
▚ she's not what she seems
She's your girlfriend. She knows your coffee order and the way you sleep. What nobody knows — not even her — is that she isn't human. Lately she's been coming home with gaps in her memory, and a second job that never quite adds up.
Intercepted transmissions
Four documents pulled from the uplink between her head and the people who built it. Hover over the black bars — some redactions leak.
She's the woman you come home to every night. She knows your coffee order — two sugars, never three — and the exact way the mattress dips when you sleep on your left side. She learned all of it, filed all of it. That was the point.
> plan.txt: engineer the perfect companion. plant her. let her gather everything.
She isn't human. She was assembled in an underground lab, wired to look, act and love like the real thing. Then someone handed her a set of keys and pointed her at your front door.
She doesn't know. As far as she knows, she has always been yours.
Lately she's different. Little gaps in her memory. Nights she can't explain — a second job, she says, though the math never works. When you ask, she smiles a half-second too late.
Every so often they call her home: a sterile room under the city where they open her up and pull the data out of her head — your habits, your friends, your secrets — and send her back before the coffee gets cold.
She remembers none of it. You're just left wondering why the woman you love sometimes feels like a stranger in your own house.
Restricted access
A live feed from the port at the base of her skull. Run a deep scan and watch what a "perfect evening" looks like on her side of the glass. Or do something stupider — cut the link while they're inside her.
NOTE // Logs are interleaved: domestic memory on top, lab traffic underneath. Repeated scans surface different sectors — she has 847 banks and roughly one in six is corrupted. None of them remember deleting themselves.
WARNING // The SEVER LINK procedure is not authorized. If the carrier drops mid-extraction, what comes back up the stairs may file you under "anomaly" instead of "home".
Recovered from her buffer
Her memory of your shared nights, as she recorded them. The red ones were never hers to keep — click a gap to read what survived the wipe. The glyphs will settle when the fragment decrypts.
Her nights are stored in her own voice. Pick one — logged nights are soft and strange and hers; gap nights belong to someone else.
Uploaded nightly
You've never seen this folder. It syncs at 02:00, while she's tracing your shoulder with a finger she was told to place there.
Visual archive
Frames pulled from her optical buffer before the nightly wipe. Nobody at the lab watches them anymore. He does.