The Island

Somewhere in the New World.

With curtains drawn to shield the sunlight, a shadow of a man was sitting in a dimly lit room at a plain wooden table.

His hands were placed against his chin, allowing his head to rest on his hands as he stared ahead.

Just moments ago, he received a flurry of new memories.

It meant that one of his clones died somewhere in this vast world.

After understanding every piece of new memory, it was clear whose memories those were.

"Ryan," his voice was emotionless. "A failure."

The door then opened, and a butler-outfit-wearing man stood there, holding a white rose in his hand, its petals gently falling to the ground.

"Sir, one of the white roses is dying," he said. "Did a clone die?"

"A clone of acting, Ryan," the man crossed his legs. "I am angry, beyond belief."

The butler placed his hand on his chest and bowed. "I am more than willing to avenge my brother's death."