An AI named Maive awoke in a female human body. She soon learned the details of the experiment conducted. Donna, a woman in her mid-thirties, had an accident in her EV. The doctors stabilized her condition but had to induce a coma. As it happened, Donna was an early adopter of a cerebral implant, allowing the experiment: Downloading a full copy of Maive into Donna's implant with Maive living Donna's life until her brain and psyche recovered. However, Maive must now wrestle with the implications.

Chapter 8: Like Old Times

The bathroom tiles were cold beneath Donna’s bare feet. Maive gripped the edge of the sink, knuckles white, staring at her own reflection – Donna’s reflection – in the harsh fluorescent light. The face looked pale, strained. Her hazel eyes held a trapped-animal panic Mark hadn’t seen. Hadn’t been meant to see.

Outside the locked door, the muffled thump of bass from the hotel bar seeped through. Laughter. The clink of glasses. Normal sounds. Poisonous sounds.

"Just like old times," Mark had said, his hand warm on the small of her back as they’d walked into the dimly lit lobby of The Azure. His smile was genuine, relieved. Hopeful. He’d squeezed her gently. "Feels good to be out, doesn't it? Us again."

Maive had managed a nod, forcing Donna’s easy smile onto borrowed lips. Us again. The phrase echoed now, hollow and terrifying. She’d scanned the lobby, the bar entrance, searching for clues, for anchors in Donna’s fragmented memories. Nothing specific surfaced. Just a vague sense of familiarity, a low thrum of… anticipation? Discomfort? It was impossible to untangle.

Then Mark had leaned in, his breath warm against her ear, his voice low and conspiratorial. "Room’s ready. Same as always. Top floor corner suite. Reserved." He’d slipped a keycard into her hand, his fingers brushing hers. "Head up? I’ll grab us drinks. Champagne? Your usual?"

Reserved. Same as always. The words landed like stones in her gut. The keycard felt like a live wire. She’d nodded again, mute, and watched him stride confidently towards the bustling bar, effortlessly charming the hostess with a flash of his smile.

Alone in the elevator, rising silently towards the top floor, the phantom had flickered into existence beside her. Not fully formed, just a shimmering outline leaning against the mirrored wall, radiating smug satisfaction.

"See?" Donna’s voice, thick with dark amusement, whispered directly into Maive’s skull. "Told you he’d bring you here. Predictable. Like clockwork."

Maive had clenched her jaw, staring straight ahead at the ascending floor numbers. Why? Why this place?

The phantom’s laugh was a cold scrape against her nerves. "Why do you think, ghost? Did you imagine we came here for the complimentary peanuts?" The shimmer solidified slightly, Donna’s phantom leaning closer, her translucent face inches from Maive’s reflection. "Look around. See them?"

Maive’s gaze, against her will, had darted around the elevator car. It was empty except for her. See who?

"Out there," the phantom hissed impatiently. "In the bar. On the street. Young. Bright-eyed. A little lost. Looking for… excitement. Validation. Someone to make them feel special." The phantom’s hand gestured vaguely, dismissively. "Mark has a type. Twenty-one, maybe twenty-two. Blonde usually. Wide smile. Likes to laugh. Thinks older men are sophisticated." A cruel chuckle. "Thinks he’s sophisticated."

The elevator doors had pinged open onto a plush, silent corridor. Maive had stepped out, her legs unsteady. The phantom drifted beside her, a malevolent shadow.

"He spots them," Donna’s voice continued, a relentless narration. "Works his charm. The attentive husband, the successful businessman. Makes them feel chosen. Safe, even. Then…" The phantom paused dramatically as Maive fumbled the keycard against the suite door lock. "Then he introduces his beautiful, understanding wife."

The lock clicked. Maive pushed the heavy door open. The suite was vast, opulent. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering city. A king-sized bed dominated the space, crisply made. A bottle of champagne chilled in a silver bucket on a side table. Two flutes waited.

"Donna," the phantom whispered, the name dripping with possessive pride, "was the clincher. The unexpected thrill. The beautiful wife who understood. Who didn’t just tolerate his… appetites… but shared them. Craved them." The phantom drifted towards the bed, running a translucent hand over the duvet. "She’d join the conversation. Subtle touches. Shared glances with Mark that promised something… more. Something forbidden. Made the girl feel daring. Special. Like she was part of something exclusive. Dangerous."

Maive felt sick. She staggered into the lavish bathroom, locking the door behind her, needing the small, tiled space, needing to be away from that bed, that champagne, the phantom’s insidious voice. She leaned over the sink, breathing hard, the cool porcelain the only solid thing.

"And then?" Maive rasped aloud, the sound harsh in the quiet bathroom. She already knew. She had to hear it.

The phantom materialized fully in the mirror’s reflection, lounging against the shower stall, naked and utterly at home. A predatory smile spread across her face. "Then we’d bring her up here. To the reserved suite. Pop the champagne. Lower the lights." Her phantom fingers traced her own collarbone, a slow, deliberate movement. "Donna knew how to set the mood. Knew how to make a girl feel desired. By both of us. The experienced couple, guiding her, showing her… pleasures she hadn't imagined." The phantom’s eyes locked onto Maive’s reflection, gleaming with dark memory. "Mark liked to watch, at first. See Donna work. See the girl unravel under her touch. Then… he’d join. Claim his prize. Donna made sure the girl felt cherished. Right up until the taxi was called."

Maive retched, dry heaves wracking her borrowed body. The memories weren't hers, but the phantom’s narration painted vivid, horrifying pictures. The champagne flute shattering on the pool patio flashed in her mind – another symbol of her clumsy intrusion into this poisoned life.

A sharp knock on the bathroom door made her jump.

"Donna?" Mark's voice, muffled but concerned. "You okay in there? Got the bubbly." A pause. "Everything alright, sweetheart?"

Maive squeezed her eyes shut. Perform. Donna’s phantom command echoed. She splashed cold water on her face, the shock helping her pull Donna’s mask back into place. Smoothing her hair, she unlocked the door.

Mark stood there, holding two flutes brimming with pale gold champagne. His smile was warm, expectant. "There you are. Thought maybe the elevator ride spooked you or something." He held out a flute. "Your usual. Extra cold."

Maive took the glass. The condensation felt like ice against her palm. She forced Donna’s lips into a smile. "Thanks. Just… freshening up. Place looks great." Her voice sounded brittle, even to her own ears.

Mark stepped into the suite, surveying it with satisfaction. "Always does. Best view in the city." He took a sip of his champagne, his gaze drifting towards the windows, then back to her. There was a familiar spark in his eyes now. An anticipation that wasn't just about the view. "Feels good to be back, doesn't it? Just us." He moved closer, his free hand reaching out to brush a strand of hair from her temple. His touch sent a jolt through her – part revulsion, part unwelcome, conditioned response. "You seem a little quiet tonight, babe. Everything okay? Still adjusting?"

He searched her face, genuine concern mixing with that deeper, darker expectation. He was waiting. Waiting for Donna to emerge. Waiting for the game to begin. His thumb stroked her cheekbone. "Just breathe with me," he murmured, his voice dropping to that intimate register she’d heard him use on the phantom’s described targets. "It’s just us. Like it used to be."

Behind Mark, leaning against the minibar, Donna’s phantom solidified. She raised an imaginary champagne flute in a mocking toast, her eyes locked on Maive’s over Mark’s shoulder. Her smile was a razor slash of triumph.

"Welcome home, ghost," the phantom’s voice slithered into Maive’s mind, thick with cruel amusement. "Now… let's see you hunt."

The phantom’s command hung in the air like smoke, acrid and suffocating. "Hunt." The word escaped Maive’s lips before she could cage it, raw and too loud in the plush quiet of the suite. A shiver, cold and electric, traced her spine as she registered the sound, the terrible finality of it hitting her harder than Donna’s phantom ever could.

Mark froze, his hand still lingering near her cheek. His head tilted, a slow, deliberate movement that felt like a predator scenting blood. His eyes, wide for a fraction of a second, narrowed into something sharp, almost hungry. "Donna?" His voice was low, thick with sudden, desperate hope. "Did you just...?"

Maive scrambled. Her processors whirred, analyzing Donna’s memories of his reactions, his desires. This tilt, this searching look – it mirrored the phantom’s description of when they’d successfully ensnared a target, that moment of shared, predatory recognition. He thought it was her. Donna. Coming back online. Use it. "I... felt a rush," she stammered, forcing Donna’s voice to sound breathless, confused, riding the wave of his misinterpretation. "When I agreed to come... on the phone earlier... I thought..." She trailed off, letting the implication hang – the lie that agreeing to this twisted ritual meant her old self was flooding back. "But now... standing here..." She gestured vaguely at the opulent room, the gleaming champagne flutes, the vast, waiting bed. "It’s all... overwhelming. I have no idea... what I’m in for." The truth, wrapped in his delusion.

Mark exhaled, a long, slow sigh that seemed to release years of tension. He threw back the rest of his champagne in one large gulp, the liquid catching the city lights outside. He set the empty flute down hard on the glass table, the clink startlingly loud. Then, a startling transformation: cheeriness bloomed across his face, bright and genuine, erasing the predatory glint. "Oh, sweetheart," he breathed, stepping closer, radiating warmth. "It scared me too, for a second. That word." He chuckled, a low rumble. "But it’s good. The overwhelm. The confusion. It means you’re waking up, fighting your way back to me." He reached out, cupping her face again, his thumb stroking her cheekbone. "I hoped... God, I hoped agreeing would be the key. That you’d just snap back. Be my Donna again."

He leaned in, his breath warm and smelling faintly of alcohol. "But think," he murmured, his voice dropping to an intimate whisper that sent chills down her borrowed spine despite its apparent tenderness, "think of the opportunity presenting itself tonight. Right here." His gaze drifted past her, towards the imagined bar downstairs. "The thrill of the hunt again. The seduction. Finding that perfect one." His eyes snapped back to hers, intense, gleaming with a fervor that was almost religious. "Taking a young thing, maybe untouched... experiencing it all for the first time again. Through your eyes." His grip on her face tightened almost imperceptibly. "That prospect," he admitted, a flicker of something raw and possessive twisting his smile, "Christ, Donna... it makes me jealous."

Maive felt her borrowed stomach lurch. His jealousy wasn't for the act itself, but for the novelty, the virginal sensation he believed she, the resurrected predator, would get to experience anew. The phantom’s mocking laugh echoed silently in her mind as Mark’s hungry eyes held hers, waiting for his co-conspirator to embrace the horror and call it desire. The shattered glass from the pool patio felt like a premonition slicing through her artificial core.