Chapter 7: Inhuman 7

Zen-Zero Clone's thoughts swirled like a storm. The weight of existence pressed down on him, heavy and relentless, a crushing burden that wrapped itself around his mind like an iron vice.

If I let him live, what does that say about me? Am I conceding that he is the better version? That my existence was a mistake?

The thought filled him with something dark and unrelenting....a dread that gnawed at the edges of his sanity. He felt the paradox in his core, like a pulsing, living thing.

I want to live. That much is undeniable.

The need was primal, instinctual. It burned in his chest, tightened his throat.

But wanting to live means taking something from him. Does that make me less human? Or more?

He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to breathe evenly. The air in the room was stale, cold, yet thick with tension. No, this is a test, a final evaluation. He had to believe that, had to frame it in a way that made sense. Otherwise, he would go mad under the weight of it.

Perhaps I was created to be superior, to prove my worth. Maybe the only way to pass is to survive. But how do I justify it? How do I rationalize choosing my life over his when, in every measurable way, we are the same?

His gaze flickered to his younger counterpart, and something twisted inside him, a strange blend of hatred, guilt, and an eerie familiarity. It was like looking into a warped mirror, one that reflected not just his face but his very essence. His weaknesses, his strengths, his fears.

How do I kill myself without killing myself?

The question hung in his mind, venomous and inescapable.

The other clone's mind raced in turn. The thoughts were jagged, fragmented, cutting through him like shards of broken glass.

I barely had time to exist. Is that fair? Is my time up already?

The injustice of it sank into his bones, cold and unforgiving. He felt an unnatural fear, an existential horror that clawed at his sanity. It wasn't the fear of pain, nor the fear of death itself. It was the fear of erasure. Of ceasing to be before he had ever truly begun.

We are the same, we are the same, we are the same.

He repeated it like a mantra, as if the words alone could anchor him to reality.

But we can't be, because one of us has to go. But why does it have to be me?

His fingers curled into fists, nails digging into his palm so hard that he could feel the sting of breaking skin. The small, sharp pain grounded him for a moment, but it did nothing to quiet the storm raging inside his head.

I don't want to die. I don't care what that makes me.

He had never felt anger like this before...raw, unfiltered, uncontainable. It coursed through his veins, set his nerves on fire. I have just as much right as him. Maybe even more. He tried to find logic in it, to make sense of the madness of his existence.

I am younger than him. Doesn't that mean I should survive?

But then another thought, quieter, more insidious, crept into his mind.

What if I am weaker? What if I am the one who is meant to die?

The doubt slithered in like a serpent, wrapping itself around his willpower, squeezing tighter with each passing second. He couldn't accept that. He wouldn't accept that. But how could he prove otherwise? He needed to find a justification, a reason beyond sheer survival instinct. He needed something to hold onto, something undeniable, something absolute.

The clone's breath came faster now, more erratic. His heart pounded in his chest, a frantic drumbeat that echoed in his ears. He forced himself to steady his breathing, to push back against the panic threatening to consume him. This wasn't just about fear. It was about existence itself. About what it meant to be. If he let himself be erased, if he surrendered without a fight, then what was the point of his creation? Was he nothing more than an experiment? A mere iteration, meant to be discarded the moment a better version came along?

No. He refused to accept that. He was real. His thoughts were real. His emotions, his fears, his desires. Hey were real. And that had to mean something.

Zen-Zero, watching his counterpart, felt a similar war waging within himself. He had more experience, more knowledge. He had lived longer, had seen more, had felt more. But did that make his life more valuable? Or did it simply mean he had more to lose? He wanted to live, just as much as the younger clone did. But his survival couldn't be built on a shaky foundation of instinct alone. He needed to justify it, to give himself a reason beyond the sheer desperation clawing at his insides.

He forced himself to examine the situation logically. If I was created first, does that not make me the original? The intended? But even as he thought it, he knew it was a hollow argument. They were both products of the same experiment, both part of the same design. Time was an arbitrary factor, an illusion created by their creators to separate them. The truth was that they were equals. And that was the problem.

Zen-Zero, too, felt the weight of that realization settling in his chest. This wasn't just about survival. This was about identity. About proving, in whatever way possible, that he was more than just a copy. That he was real. And yet, the same thought that haunted his counterpart haunted him too. if he was real, then so was the clone standing in front of him. And that meant there was no easy answer.

The room remained silent, save for the steady hum of the facility around them. The walls, cold and unyielding, bore witness to their struggle, their silent agony. The flickering light above cast shifting shadows, warping their reflections against the pristine white floor. The knife lay between them, gleaming under the harsh fluorescence, a symbol of the choice they both refused to make.

Zen-Zero swallowed hard. His throat was dry, his muscles taut with tension. He could feel the weight of the moment pressing down on him, squeezing the air from his lungs. This wasn't just a fight for survival. This was a fight for meaning, for validation, for the right to call himself real.

And as he looked into the eyes of the one person who understood that struggle completely, he knew that neither of them could ever truly win. Because in the end, they were fighting not just each other, but themselves.

The paradox remained. And so did they.