The voicemail was only three seconds long, but it replayed in her head for years. “Wrong version.” She worked night shifts at the facility—security, mostly. Logging entries, monitoring cameras, making sure nothing moved where it shouldn’t. Officially, the building didn’t exist. Unofficially, it contained things that didn’t fit anywhere else. Most of her job was routine. Boring, even. Until the night she saw herself sign in. Same name. Same ID. Different timestamp. She rewound the footage. Watched it again. The other her moved with purpose. Familiar, but… sharper. As if she knew exactly where she was going. She checked the visitor log. Two entries. Same name. Ten minutes apart. Her phone buzzed. “Wrong version.” She stood slowly, heart pounding. Followed the path the other her had taken—down corridors she rarely used, past doors that required higher clearance than she had. Each one opened anyway. At the end of the hall: a room she had never seen. Inside, a machine. And inside the machine— Another her. Sleeping. Or suspended. Or waiting. The standing version of her turned as she entered. “You’re early,” she said. “Or I’m late.” They stared at each other, identical and not. “Which one of us is supposed to be here?” she asked. The other her smiled, tired and resigned. “That’s the problem.” The alarms didn’t sound until it was already too late. Containment protocols activated. Records sealed. Two entries in the log became one. Two bodies became one. One incident report, simplified. They agreed to call it an accident, because the alternative required too much paperwork.