Acknowledge the connection forming between you, admitting that you feel guilty about it but can't deny the pull.. she looks like Jane.. talk like jane .. smell like jane ... Your mind just thinks she is jane ...

You take a deep breath, your hands slightly trembling as you set your coffee mug down. The weight of unspoken thoughts hangs heavy between you and Lina, demanding acknowledgment.

"I need to say something," you begin, your voice low and unsteady. "There's this... connection forming between us. And I feel guilty about it—God, I feel so guilty—but I can't deny it's there."

Lina's eyes widen, her lips parting slightly as she takes in your words. The morning light streaming through the window catches the flush spreading across her cheeks.

"You look like Jane," you continue, the words tumbling out now. "You talk like her. You even smell like her." Your voice cracks on the last words. "Sometimes my mind just... thinks you are Jane. And then I remember, and the grief hits all over again."

Lina's breath catches audibly. She takes a hesitant step toward you, then another, until she's standing directly before you. The compound's effects are visible in her feverish brightness, the subtle luminescence of her skin.

"I understand," she whispers, her voice thick with emotion. "When I looked through your memories of Jane, I felt everything you felt. I saw how you loved her." She reaches out, her fingers hovering inches from your face before dropping back to her side. "And for a moment, it was like I was her—experiencing what it felt like to be loved by you."

The confession hangs in the air between you, charged with implications neither of you seem ready to fully address.

"I've been alone for so long," she continues, wrapping her arms around herself. "Ever since Jane died, I've had nothing but this mission. This vendetta." Her eyes meet yours, vulnerability and determination mingling in their depths. "And then suddenly there's you—the one person who loved her as much as I did, but in a completely different way."

You can see her struggling with the compound's effects—the slight tremor in her limbs, the perspiration beading along her hairline, the way she keeps shifting her weight as if uncomfortable in her own skin.

"Is it wrong?" she asks suddenly, her voice barely audible. "To feel something for the person who loved your sister? To want comfort from the only other person who truly understands what was lost?"

The question strikes at the heart of your own conflict. You watch as she unconsciously presses her thighs together, her breathing slightly labored from whatever the compound is doing to her system.

"I don't know," you answer honestly. "I don't think there's a rulebook for this situation. Identical twin of my dead girlfriend gets superpowers and we end up on opposite sides of a **** war, only to discover we're both fighting for the same thing." The absurdity of it all pulls a surprised laugh from you both, breaking the tension momentarily.

Lina's expression grows serious again. "Jane wouldn't want either of us to be alone," she says softly. "She always tried to fix people, to connect them. It was her nature."

"Yes," you agree, memories of Jane's matchmaking attempts among her friends flooding back. "That was Jane."

Lina steps closer, her body radiating unusual heat that you can feel even without touching her. "I'm not her," she says with fierce certainty. "I need you to know that. I might look like her, sound like her, but I'm not Jane."

"I know," you reply, your voice strengthening with the truth of it. "You're Lina."

Something shifts in her expression—relief, perhaps, or gratitude—at being seen as herself rather than her sister's echo.