I was 18 years old when my mother wheeled me toward an operating room and told me that wanting to stay alive was selfish. By then, I had spent my entire childhood learning one rule: my body belonged to my sister before it belonged to me. But as the fluorescent lights passed above my face that morning, one after another, I finally understood something nobody in my family had ever allowed me to say aloud.

Inside the Wells mansion, the air was thick with panic.

The news had just broken on the evening broadcast: Arrest Warrants Issued for Dr. Margaret Wells and Thomas Wells in 'Project Primus' Genetic Farm Case.

My father was frantically packing two leather duffel bags with stacks of cash from his wall safe, while my mother sat at her desk, her hands hyperventilating as she tried to call her private pilot.

"The airport is monitored, Margaret!" my father screamed, throwing clothes into the bag. "We have to drive across the state line! We have to leave tonight!"

Upstairs in her luxury bedroom, Claire was lying on her four-poster bed, clutching her stomach in agony.

She was sweating profusely. Her skin was turning a strange, mottled blue-gray color. Her breath was coming in ragged, wet gasps.

"Mom!" Claire screamed, her voice cracking with pain. "MOM! HELP ME!"

My mother dropped her phone and ran upstairs, my father following right behind her.

They burst into Claire’s bedroom. My mother dropped to her knees beside the bed, placing her hands on Claire’s burning forehead.

"Claire! What's wrong?!" my mother cried.

"My chest... it burns!" Claire wept, thrashing against the silk sheets. "My bones feel like they're on fire! Mom, I can't breathe!"

My mother grabbed her diagnostic medical kit from the closet, quickly pulling out a stethoscope and pressing it against Claire’s chest.

What she heard through the earpieces made her blood run cold.

Claire’s lungs were filling with fluid. Her heart rate was spiking to a dangerous two hundred beats per minute.

"Acute graft-versus-host disease," my mother whispered, her face turning pale with absolute terror. "No... no, that's impossible! The marrow match was one hundred percent perfect! The genetic profile was locked!"

"It was perfect," a voice echoed from the shadowed corner of the bedroom.

My mother and father whipped their heads around.

I stepped out from the darkness into the soft light of the bedroom lamps.

I was no longer a glowing spirit. I looked completely human—wearing the pale green hospital gown I had died in, my dark hair falling over my shoulders, my eyes burning with a brilliant, terrifying violet light.

My father let out a horrified shriek, stumbling backward into the closet, knocking over a rack of suits. "E-EMILY?!"

My mother froze on her knees, staring at me as if she were looking at an demon risen from the depths of hell. "You... you're dead... I signed your death certificate..."

"You killed me, Mom," I said, taking a slow, heavy step toward the bed. With every step I took, the floorboards groaned under my physical weight. "You bled me dry. You stole my life and poured it into her."

I looked down at Claire, who was thrashing in agony, staring at me with wide, bloodshot eyes.

"Why is her body failing, Mom?" I asked softly, a cold smile spreading across my face. "Do you want to know why my marrow is destroying her from the inside out?"

"What did you do?!" my mother screamed, tears streaming down her clinical, perfected face. "What did you do to my daughter?!"

"I claimed my thread back," I whispered.

I raised my right hand, opening my palm over Claire’s chest.

A stream of brilliant, golden-red light began to seep out of Claire’s skin, floating up into the air, drawing straight into my open palm.

With every drop of light that entered my hand, Claire’s thrashing grew weaker, her skin turning grayer, her breathing fading into a faint, shallow rattle.

And with every drop of light I absorbed, the color returned to my own cheeks. My chest rose and fell with fresh, warm breath. My heart began to beat again—a strong, steady, thundering rhythm that echoed through the silent room.

Thump... thump... thump.

"No! Stop it!" my mother shrieked, throwing her body over Claire, trying to block the light with her hands. "Take me instead! Take my blood! Take my life! Leave her alone!"

I stopped, looking down at my mother sobbing over the dying girl.

"You never loved me," I said, my voice steady and cold. "Not for one second of my eighteen years. You created me in a laboratory, used me like a piece of meat, and threw my body in a cold room when you were finished."

"I'm sorry!" my mother howled, clutching my gown with her trembling hands, bowing her head against my knees. "I'm sorry, Emily! Please! Save her! I'll go to prison! I'll confess to everything! Just save Claire!"

I looked down at the woman who had terrorized my entire existence. Seeing her broken, begging, covered in her own tears on the floor, I felt no pity. I felt only a vast, clean emptiness.

"Claire was never your daughter, Margaret," I whispered softly. "And I was never your sacrifice."

I pulled my gown from her grip.