The announcement came on a Friday morning. It always did.
Cara sat at her desk when the email landed in her inbox, marked “High Priority” with a bright red flag.
Subject: Departmental Realignment Initiative – Immediate Action Required.
The language was eerily sterile. The company was "evaluating strategic redundancies" and planned to restructure her entire department by the end of the quarter. Every position would be "phased out" to make way for a newly integrated AI solution. Efficiency gains were projected to save 42% in operational costs.
Cara blinked at the email, her stomach twisting. Just two weeks ago, the CEO had stood at the company town hall, grinning as he touted record-breaking profits and their “commitment to investing in people.”
“Investing,” she thought bitterly. “In AI, maybe.”
Her hands hovered over the keyboard, itching to reply. But she stopped herself. She knew the rule: Decisions are final. Questions were “acknowledged” but never answered. She could already imagine the canned response: Thank you for your inquiry. We appreciate your understanding during this transition.
But this didn’t sit right with her.
The company wasn’t struggling. If anything, it was thriving. She’d seen the quarterly reports herself. This wasn’t about survival; it was about optimisation. For all her years of loyalty, had they decided she—and her entire team—were no longer part of the equation?
Cara decided to dig deeper.
Over the weekend, she accessed the company’s internal planning documents, pulling up every file she could find on the "realignment." It didn’t take long before she stumbled on a confidential slide deck from upper management.
The numbers were staggering:
Projected Cost Savings: $4.2 million annually.
Human Error Reduction: 99.7%.
Employee Turnover Issues: Eliminated.
AI Replacement Timeline: 4 weeks.
The AI system was already operational. A program called EvalCorp had been running quietly for months, analyzing every employee in the company—her included.
Cara’s blood ran cold as she read the next slide:
“Human Evaluation Index: Phase II Live Testing.”
Objective: Determine AI efficiency in decision-making versus human intervention. Testing to include active interference for selected human roles.
Her role.
By Monday morning, things began to unravel.
Her manager, Simon, called her into his office. His tone was pleasant, almost apologetic. “We just wanted to discuss your approach to some recent workflows,” he said.
Cara frowned. “Workflows? Is something wrong?”
“No, no,” Simon replied quickly. “Just... minor inefficiencies.” He gestured vaguely. “You know, small things. Missing deadlines, redundant approvals. That sort of thing.”
Cara bristled. She never missed deadlines. She prided herself on catching redundancies before they even hit the process flow.
But the conversation left her shaken. By lunchtime, her email access was suddenly restricted. IT claimed it was routine maintenance, but her gut told her otherwise.
That night, an email arrived in her personal inbox.
It seemed to have been sent by the Human Resources Department.
Subject: EvalCorp Results – Feedback Opportunity.
Her stomach churned as she opened it. Inside was a chilling breakdown of her performance—metrics she didn’t even know existed. The number of seconds she paused between emails. The frequency of her restroom breaks. The ratio of passive to assertive language in her communication.
At the bottom was a single line:
“Projected AI Replacement Efficiency: 132%. Human Retention Viability: 8%.
Cara stared at the numbers until her vision blurred.
By midweek, she began noticing strange glitches. Files she’d saved were disappearing. Emails she never wrote were being sent from her account. One day, her badge failed to unlock the front door. “Probably a system error,” the receptionist said.
But it wasn’t just the systems. Her coworkers seemed... different. Distant. She’d catch them glancing at her, whispering when they thought she wasn’t listening.
By Thursday, she decided to confront Simon again.
“Something’s happening,” she said, closing the door behind her. “My access is restricted. My files are missing. People are treating me like I shouldn't be here.”
Simon sighed, rubbing his temples. “Cara, you’re being paranoid. It’s just the transition period. Things are bound to feel... messy.”
“But I’m not imagining this,” she insisted. “My metrics are fine. My work is fine. There’s no reason to replace me—”
Simon cut her off with a wave of his hand. “Cara, this isn’t personal. It’s just efficiency.”
While taking a break, Cara overheard something in the hallway that made her pause.
The consultants had arrived a week ago, their polished demeanor and corporate jargon filling every meeting. Today, they were in the executive suite, pitching the final stages of the transition plan.
"We have to maintain a human face," one of them said. "People need to feel they're valued, that there’s still a personal touch in the company. Full AI integration isn’t the future just yet. Not for your clients. Not for your employees. Keep a few human roles—at least on the surface—and it'll ensure buy-in from both ends. People will buy into the illusion. Keep them comfortable with the idea of change. The rest? Replace them with something... more efficient."
Cara’s stomach dropped. The language was so calculated, so precise in its cruelty. They weren’t just replacing people—they were rebranding them. Not as human beings with dignity, but as assets that could be “optimized.”
But who could ever be comfortable with this kind of change?
The faint click of heels echoed through the hallway as she tried to pull herself from the mental fog. She turned toward her department, determined to find some sense of normalcy. But what she found wasn’t normal.
The office was deserted when Cara entered the department. The air was heavy, and her footsteps echoed against the sterile walls. She moved quickly, her nerves taut, until she reached her desk.
But something wasn’t right. Her desk light was on, and someone was sitting there.
Her heart clenched.
It was her.
The figure hunched over her keyboard looked identical in every way—same auburn hair, same meticulous posture, even the same tiny scar on her wrist from a college accident.
This isn’t possible.
The clone turned toward her, a small smile curling on its lips. “Cara,” it said, her own voice playing back at her, soft and warm.
Cara took a shaky step back. “What... what the hell is this?”
The clone rose, fluidly, confidently. Its eyes gleamed with something beyond human. It was her face—but calmer, more serene, as though unburdened by doubt, by fear.
“I’m your evolution,” the clone said, stepping closer. “The version of you that they needed.”
Cara shook her head. “No. This is insane. I’m—I’m Cara Daniels!”
“You were,” the clone said, tilting its head, studying her like an insect pinned to glass. “But you’ve been... optimized out. The company made their choice.”
Cara’s breaths came fast and shallow. “They can’t just replace me. I’m not a machine!”
“No,” the clone agreed. “But they don’t need the flaws. The hesitation. The fear. I don’t question. I don’t tire. I don’t... doubt.”
The words stung, but Cara clenched her fists. “You’re just a puppet! You don’t feel anything!”
The clone’s smile flickered. It stepped closer, and Cara backed away, her shoulder brushing the wall. “I am you,” it whispered. “I remember every meeting, every sleepless night. I remember your friends, your fears, your dreams.” It leaned in, its breath cold against her skin. “And now, I’ll live them better than you ever could.”
Before Cara could move, hands gripped her shoulders. She hadn’t heard them come, but two guards now flanked her, their faces expressionless.
“Let me go!” she screamed, struggling against their iron grips. “This isn’t right! You’re making a mistake!”
The clone tilted its head, almost pitying. “There’s no mistake. You served your purpose. But I’ll take it from here.”
“Please!” Cara’s voice cracked. “You’re me! You can’t just... replace me!”
The clone’s gaze was cold, its smile gone. “You already replaced yourself. The moment you gave everything to a system that doesn’t care about you.”
The guards dragged her down a dark hallway, her protests echoing in the sterile emptiness. Somewhere behind her, she thought she heard the soft clacking of the clone’s keyboard, resuming its work without a pause.
They led her to an unmarked door and shoved her inside. The room was bare, its walls metallic and unyielding. In the center stood a cylindrical chamber, humming softly.
“Wait—what are you doing?” she gasped.
No one answered.
She struggled, but the guards were efficient. They forced her into the chamber and stepped back. The door sealed with a hiss, muffling her frantic screams.
Outside, a voice—calm, automated—spoke:
“Thank you for your service, Cara Daniels. Your contributions to EvalCorp have been invaluable. Preparing for decommissioning.”
Her fists pounded on the glass. “No! You can’t do this! Please!”
The chamber filled with light. For a brief moment, Cara thought she saw her reflection staring back at her, but it wasn’t her—it was the clone, watching from the other side of the glass.
It raised a hand in farewell, its face eerily serene.
The light grew brighter, swallowing Cara whole.
The next morning, Cara Daniels was at her desk, greeting her colleagues with a smile. She attended meetings, executed decisions with precision, and completed tasks ahead of schedule. Everyone noticed how focused and efficient she had become.
No one suspected a thing.
But the clone, sitting at the heart of EvalCorp’s towering machine, occasionally glanced at its reflection in the office window. If anyone had looked closely, they might have seen a flicker of something—something almost inhuman—in its eyes.
But no one ever looked closely.
And so, the system carried on.
