Their sitting posture is impeccable, like children raised in a family of nobles.
But Edmund knows the real Thomas is a mischievous child, always unable to sit still.
The real Emily is only two years old, it’s impossible for her to maintain such a posture.
"Dad, what did you do in the lab today?"
"Thomas’" question set off alarm bells in Edmund’s mind.
How could a five-year-old child possibly care about their father’s work?
"Just... some ordinary research."
"Oh." The child nods and continues dining elegantly.
Throughout the process, not a single piece of food falls onto the table, no improper behavior.
......
Late at night, Edmund lies in bed again, observing the "wife" beside him.
He notices the skin temperature of "Lillian" always remains at the perfect 37.2 degrees.
No fluctuations, no transformations.
Like a meticulously calibrated thermostat.
More terrifying is her heartbeat.
Edmund listens carefully and finds the rhythm is too regular.
Exactly 72 times per minute, with no variations due to mood or physical condition.
At this point, "Lillian" suddenly opens her eyes.
"What’s the matter, dear?" Her voice emerges in the dark: "You seem unable to sleep."
Edmund’s heart almost leaps out of his chest.
He hasn’t uttered a sound, hasn’t made any obvious movements.
How did "she" detect he was awake?
"Just... thinking about some work stuff."
"Do you want to talk about it?" She turns, gazing at Edmund in the dark: "I can help you analyze it."
But in Edmund’s fearful memory, the real Lillian never voluntarily discussed his work.
She always said: "I don’t understand those complicated theories, as long as you’re happy, that’s fine."
"No need, I’ll fall asleep soon."
"Alright." She nods and lies down again: "Goodnight, dear."
But Edmund can feel her "eyes" still watching him.
Even in apparent sleep, the observation never ceases.
......
In the following days, Edmund’s spirit deteriorates sharply.
Fear, anger, and despair intertwine, making it nearly impossible for him to think straight.
He begins having hallucinations, constantly feeling those "imposters" reveal their true faces when he’s not paying attention.
Sometimes, he sees "Lillian’s" face become completely expressionless.
Sometimes, he hears the children conversing in adult tones.
But every time he wants to observe carefully, everything returns to normal.
The blurred line between reality and hallucination starts to unravel his sanity.
He starts doubting his memory, doubting his perception.
Perhaps, the real Lillian has always been this way?
Perhaps, the lively wife in his memory is just his imagination?
Perhaps he’s the one with the problem?
......
The final breakdown comes surprisingly fast.
It is an ordinary Sunday morning, Edmund sits at the dining table watching his "family" dine.
"Lillian" gracefully slices bread, each cut flawless.
"Thomas" sits upright, drinking milk without spilling a drop.
"Emily" quietly eats fruit, without the usual mess of an infant.
This perfection is like a sharp knife, severing Edmund’s last shred of reason completely.
"Enough!"
He suddenly stands up, shouting loudly:
"You are not real! You are all monsters!"
All three "family members" simultaneously stop their actions, turning their heads to him at exactly the same angle.
Their expressions identical—confusion, concern, and some sort of... observational look.
"Dear, what’s wrong with you?"
"Lillian’s" voice remains gentle, but to Edmund now it sounds like the demon’s whisper from hell.
"You killed my family!"
Edmund rushes to the kitchen, grabbing a sharp knife:
"You killed the real Lillian! Killed my children!"
"Dad, what are you talking about?"
"Thomas’" voice carries standard fear, but that fear is so formulaic, so devoid of authenticity.
"I am not your dad!"
Edmund waves the knife, madness filling his eyes:
"Your dad is already dead! Your mom is dead too! You are all fake!"
Driven by extreme fear and anger, Edmund makes the final decision.
He raises the knife, charging at these "imposters."
The blade slides across "Lillian’s" throat, blood gushes like a fountain.
The blade pierces "Thomas’" heart, liquid stains the small body red.
The blade severs "Emily’s" lifeline, the child’s cries abruptly cease.
Blood, real blood, is everywhere.
The crimson liquid proves the authenticity of these bodies.
Organs, bones, muscles, all indistinguishable from real humans.
Edmund watches his "family" lying in the pool of blood, suddenly comprehending a horrifying possibility:
Perhaps... perhaps they truly are his family?
Perhaps it’s his spirit that’s troubled?
Perhaps all the experiment notes were just his fantasy?
Perhaps Victor never created any "imposters?"
Perhaps the ones he just killed, are the real Lillian, Thomas, and Emily?
Despair floods over Edmund like a mountain torrent.
He kneels in the pool of blood, letting out a beastly howl.
If they are real, then he is the demon who killed his own family.
If they are fake, then the real family is long gone, and he will never find them again.