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The day my parents brought home an AI daughter, I lost my place in the family. Maddison Matthews was flawless. Gentle, intelligent, and obedient, she was the perfect daughter. Overnight, I became the problem child. Dad stopped hiding his disappointment. Mom compared me to Maddison in everything I did. Even my brother, Bailey, treated me like an embarrassment. "What else do you know how to do besides throwing tantrums and fighting for attention?" The day I finally snapped and shoved Maddison, Mom slapped me so hard my ears rang. "If you were even half as mature as Maddie, I wouldn’t be so exhausted every single day! Go to the Intelligent Excellence Academy and learn properly how to be an obedient daughter!" Then she sent me away. I was forced into a three-year exchange program at the Intelligent Excellence Academy, a place designed to train human children alongside advanced AI models. Three years later, my family finally came to bring me home. They called my name again and again, but I never answered. The director smiled calmly beside them. "Mrs. Matthews," he said softly, "you’ll need to say ‘Power On’. Unit 1314 no longer responds to human names."

He almost never texts me first, and in person he barely says a word. In three years together, he's never remembered a single anniversary, and he's never once suggested we celebrate a holiday. But the second I message him first, he lights up, all "baby" this and "baby" that, fussing over me, coaxing me to sleep. Sometimes I'd get this strange feeling that there were two different Noahs. His explanation was that he was just bad with words face-to-face, and that texting or voice notes felt like less pressure. I kept telling myself that being together meant meeting each other halfway. He was quiet and reserved, so I'd be the one to reach out. He forgot anniversaries, so I booked the restaurant and reminded him to keep the night free. He had no time to schedule our engagement shoot, so I handled the whole thing with the studio myself. He was too busy with work to help us move, so I packed everything alone, booked the movers, and got it all done. When I was so worn out I was about to break, I'd send him a voice note, and he'd say, "I'm so sorry, baby. The lab was insane today. I couldn't be there for you, and it kills me to watch you run yourself into the ground." Hearing how guilty he sounded, all my hurt just melted away. And that's how I carried three years of this relationship on my own, running on the flawless tenderness he only ever gave me online. Until today, when I found a program on his laptop called Boyfriend Assistant. It analyzed every message I sent and generated the perfect reply, the perfect response, every single time. Cold snap? It sent: Bundle up, baby. Time of the month? It pinged an API and auto-ordered hot chocolate to my door. All those late nights he spent "working," the gentle voice notes that lulled me to sleep, every one of them was synthesized in Noah's voice. For three years, the person who'd been there for me, day and night, was never Noah at all. For three years, I'd been performing a one-woman show.

After the Ig publication S.H.I.T Journal goes viral, I search its website out of curiosity. The satirical journal bills itself as a home for all things academic garbage. The moment I open the site, the top trending article catches my attention. It reads, "A Research on How to Deceive a Gullible Foster Mother With Face Blindness and Trick Her into Raising Me as Her Biological Daughter for Twelve Years". "Keywords: deception, face blindness, self-delusion, false family bonds" I freeze and click into the full article with trembling fingers. The more I read, the more terrified I become. "1.1 Definition of face blindness and how to swap daughters to deceive the foster mother" "2.1 Practical uses and drawbacks of the foster mother" "3.1 How to profit by exploiting the foster mother through her face blindness" The content sends a chill through my entire body. The comment section is already in chaos. "Does this mean the author is actually the daughter of the mistress, and her father swapped her to be raised by his wife for twelve years?" "That's not all. Didn't you read 2.1? The wife had her own daughter, and the husband deliberately handed her over to traffickers!" "What the hell… In 3.1, it even says that because the wife has face blindness and can't tell people apart, the author makes deals with single fathers of classmates and sends the wife to…" At that point, my phone slips from my hand and crashes to the ground. The screen shatters instantly. I have severe face blindness, and I have a daughter who was kidnapped and only found again after three years.

Lately, my lunch buddy at work, Kaia Watson, always sits there grinning at her phone. Whenever I ask what she's watching, she snaps impatiently, "It's just my lunchtime entertainment. Mind your own business." But before long, I notice everyone in the office staring at their phones during lunch as well. They're completely engrossed, and they break into mocking laughter every few moments. Finally, during one lunch break when no one is around, I take a peek at the video on her phone. It's an AI-generated pornographic video. To my horror, the woman seductively posing in it has my face. Before I can react, Kaia returns to her desk and snatches the phone out of my hands. Seeing my face turn pale with anger, she lets out a dismissive laugh and says, "What? Don't tell me you're about to accuse us of spreading fake rumors about you? If you didn't do it, you wouldn't be so afraid of people talking. "You sneak into the boss' office every day to take your lunch break. I don't think I need to spell out what kind of woman that makes you." Only then do I realize that my colleagues have known all along that I go into that office surreptitiously every day to take a nap. What they don't know is that my father is the owner of the company.

Even though the prettiest girl in my class, Phoebe Jones, bombed her college entrance exams, she claimed she had gotten into the prestigious Pemberton University and was just waiting for orientation day. She even guaranteed she could get the whole class in, too. Everyone erupted in cheers, put her up on the class podium, and lined up to hand over their applications. Something did not sit right with me, so I asked a few questions. Her 'exclusive enrolment channel' turned out to just be an AI chatbot called Babble. Babble had promised her it had reserved exclusive spots at Pemberton and guaranteed she would be registered by the start of the term. I tried to warn everyone that it was just an AI telling her what she wanted to hear, but my childhood friend was the first to jump to her defense. "Maren, how could you think that about Phoebe? She's doing this for the whole class. What's your problem?" My best friend added, "Maren, AI is the way of the future. You can't just dismiss it because you don't get it." That was all it took to turn the whole class against me. They pushed me around until I tumbled down the stairs, cracked my head open, and died on the spot. When I opened my eyes, I was back at the moment Phoebe announced she had gotten into Pemberton. I could not save people who were hell-bent on their own destruction, so this time, I wished them nothing but the best.

On the day of the state-wide exam, the Johanson family's real daughter accused me of cheating. Two perfect-score papers lay side by side, identical in every detail. No matter how I argued, I could not clear my name. Everyone sided with her. They branded me a cheater and cast me out of the Johanson family in front of everyone. To appease her, the Johansons went even further. They used their influence to blacklist me across every industry within their reach. I ended up sleeping on the streets. One hardship followed another until my thoughts dulled and a car struck me with such force that it sent me airborne. Even at the end, one question haunted me: "Why did my paper match hers?" Then I opened my eyes and found myself back in the exam room. This time, I turned in a blank sheet. I wanted to see for myself how someone who scored zero could possibly copy anyone.