The stranger wore a beard, which darkened his features, but beneath it was a face identical to his own; the harsh look in those amber eyes confirmed it.
Adam was facing some kind of doppelg?nger—an evil twin, a post-apocalyptic version of himself.
But before he could catch his breath, the stranger turned and disappeared behind the stall door.
Adam pulled himself together and went after him, but as he stepped out, he bumped into someone. No, it wasn’t the person he was looking for—it was just the next guy waiting to use the stall.
He looked away and saw his look-alike escaping through the crowd in the restroom. The guys at the urinals blocked his path, but he brushed past them and ran toward the exit.
He crossed the threshold into the VIP area’s dim shadows. People filled his field of vision. He scanned the figures moving through the clouds of vapor and flashing colored lights, but he didn’t see his double.
Who was he? Why had he run? Why show his face only to flee?
Adam’s eyes darted from side to side. Nothing.
If only he’d paid attention to what the guy was wearing—it would’ve made searching for him easier. But the lighting was too dim, and his face… damn it! Adam wished he could freeze time and turn on the lights.
It must’ve just been someone with a striking resemblance, he tried to convince himself.
No. This wasn’t a case of ‘Sorry, I thought you were someone else.’ He knew what he’d seen. Ignoring it would’ve been an easy way to ease the frustration of not having… what? Cornered his doppelg?nger? Bombarded him with questions? Taken a closer look?
He thought he spotted the guy among those descending the stairs to the dance floor. He called out to him with a shout, but his voice was swallowed by the noise, so he took off after him.
He reached the last few steps. He’d lost him again—maybe for good this time. If it had been hard to spot him upstairs, down here it would be almost impossible; the club was massive, much more crowded than the VIP area.
‘Swear I just let you in a few minutes ago,’ Little John, the bouncer, had said at the entrance. ‘Must’ve been that fake beard you were wearing or something. Really threw me off.’ Of course! John must’ve let in Adam’s doppelg?nger, thinking it was him.
“Who’d you lose, handsome?” a voice whispered in his ear, and a shiver ran down his spine.
He spun on his heel and came face-to-face with someone just inches away. It was a woman, flashing him the most wicked smile anyone had ever given him, sending ice through his veins. It was the kind of smile a praying mantis might wear right before devouring its prey. She had full, darkly painted lips that stood out against her ghostly pale skin, a pallor that revealed thin veins under the dim light. Her eyes, lined in black, gleamed with a hypnotic violet hue, giving her an almost magnetic gaze. It took Adam a moment to notice she had no eyebrows and, higher up, no hair at all.
The woman was completely bald, save for a pair of long, iridescent crystal earrings that grazed her neck. She looked to be in her fifties, maybe sixties—some lines around her eyes gave her away—but physically, she had nothing to envy from the younger women around her.
She wore a short lavender cape, fastened with a choker adorned with gems and diamonds that must’ve been worth a fortune, and a long black dress that hugged her hips—hips that might have intimidated the devil himself. The dress had a slit revealing a leg that could make anyone who’d taken a vow of chastity tremble. Sandals, bangles, and rings completed the look.
Classy, sure, but… who on earth dressed like that to go to a nightclub?
Adam forced a polite smile, a look that said, ‘Thanks for the compliment, but no thanks,’ and when he tried to move away, he found his muscles refused to respond.
Until a crackle of lights snapped him out of it, bringing the image of his doppelg?nger back to his thoughts and breaking the strange spell so he could continue his search.
The woman grabbed his arm, trying to hold him back, and as he pulled away, her nails scratched him.
“What the hell…?”
He whipped around, ready to unleash a storm of profanity and…
She was gone.
He checked his arm to make sure she hadn’t left a mark, though it was hard to see much in the dim light.
Damn lunatic! She’d… Bah, to hell with her!
Rubbing his arm, he continued his search for his double, spending the next ten minutes checking the restrooms, the bars, and the dark booths where couples were cozying up.
Nothing. Not a trace of the stranger.
Adam’s reason told him he wasn’t going to find him—not because the place was packed, but because the guy didn’t want to be seen. If he had, he wouldn’t have bolted in the first place. Chasing him down in a club this big was a waste of time.
Then, suddenly, something warm and wet ran between his nose and mouth. He wiped it with his fingertip. Something dark. Was that…?
He went to the nearest restroom, squeezed in among the guys there, and looked in the mirror.
Blood. Blood was trickling from one side of his nose.
He cleaned up with some water, grabbed a tissue, and pressed it against the small bleed. Then he saw it in the mirror—two large red spots staining his prized white shirt, and on his arm, the scratches left by the woman’s nails.
Adam’s image was ruined. No. Not just his image—the night itself was ruined.
The tense exchange with Trevor, the awkward sobbing from Lisandro’s cousin, the scare from that guy who looked like him—because that’s all it had to be—a lunatic woman, and now this.
Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
His blood-stained shirt and the scratch on his arm, both warning him: call it a night and get out of here before something worse happens.
Mint, Strawberry, hope you’re making the most of the opportunity I gave you. Good luck, he thought, glancing at the VIP platform from afar, and without saying goodbye to anyone, he left.
Before crossing the threshold to the exit, he gave himself one last chance to spot his double and looked back. No luck.
Approaching Little John, who was guarding the main entrance, Adam tried to cover the bloodstains on his shirt with his hand.
“Hey, John, did you… uh, did you see me leave?” he asked, knowing how ridiculous it sounded. “I mean, in the last few minutes, did you see me walk out?”
The bouncer smirked. “You’re not gonna forget that one, huh, Adam?”
Little John had misunderstood him.
Adam gave a friendly nod, hiding his real curiosity, and, patting John on the back as a farewell, he left the nightclub and headed to the parking structure.
What the hell are you doing? he questioned himself. You find someone who looks just like you, and you leave because your shirt got stained? Why don’t you just wait by the door until he comes out? He has to leave sometime before dawn, right? The mouse will peek its head out, and you’ll be the cat to catch it.
The doubt slowed his steps. He stopped, one foot on the street, the other on the curb. He looked back at the entrance to B-Crush as if expecting his double to come out, but reason chimed in again, Scenario 1: Your unknown twin shows up while you’re taking a leak, then bolts. Scenario 2: A guy who looks kind of like you opens the door, realizes the stall’s occupied, and leaves. Which sounds more believable?
Of course, the second option made more sense.
But it didn’t match what he’d seen, and apparently, not what Little John had seen either.
Well, they say everyone has a double roaming around out there, his doubts argued. That guy you think is your long-lost twin could just be one of those doubles. You were in a narrow space, between two stalls, with dim lighting—anyone could get confused in that situation. And another thing, the guy had a beard. How many times have you grown a beard to know what you’d look like with one? Never. Beards change how men look; you know that better than anyone—it’s the first lesson a model learns before their first photo shoot.
Adam nodded. Alright, alright. He had to admit, those were good points. But… was it possible that the voice of reason was actually the voice of defeat? Because it was easier to chalk it up to a mix-up than to consider the idea of having a twin brother out there, a blood relative who seemed to know him, yet had chosen not to speak with him.
Once in the parking lot, he got in his car and drove off. The small logo of the Tor automobile company—a Rottweiler mid-bark—shone on the hood of the compact blue car.
As he maneuvered, two Loud cards he’d bought as gifts for Mint and Strawberry slid across the dashboard and, with the movement, activated, displaying their covers. Adam stared at his own picture on them, imagining how he’d look with a beard, and the result was a face almost identical to the stranger’s. He deactivated the cards and tossed them into the glove compartment, as if wanting to avoid any image of himself for the moment.
His arm burned where the woman had dug her nails into him. He remembered her smile, and a chill ran through him. Then he passed a finger under his nose to make sure it wasn’t still bleeding. What could have caused the bleeding? He hadn’t injured his nose, and as far as he knew, he didn’t have any health issues. Or was he supposed to take the strange dizziness he’d felt earlier, at the restaurant, as a warning?
Leaving behind the colorful, noisy Ciccone neighborhood, he exited the Magenta District via one of the elevated avenues. The street’s holographic signposts indicated that he was passing through the edge of the White District and entering Yellow. Friday night was still young. Maybe he could change clothes and go back to B-Crush. He needed to get rid of the bad taste the last few minutes had left in his mouth. His reflection in the rearview mirror showed no traces of blood under his nose.
You’re terrible at making excuses, he thought. You’re not going back to have a good time, idiot. You’re going back to look for your ghost twin.
Adam let out another grunt, this time to silence his own conscience.
Though not far from the bustling heart of the metropolis, Urie—the neighborhood in the Yellow District where Adam lived—was peaceful, lined with residential towers, front yards, wide sidewalks, and trees whose thick, reddish canopies arched over the narrow streets.
His loft was on the twelfth floor of the Carter Building, a structure with large windows that looked like a tall, old factory converted into apartments, just before the intersection of Whedon Street—where he was coming from—and Thirty-Seventh.
Planning to head out again soon, Adam left the car parked out front, in front of the tower, instead of using the private garage. He spotted Rubén, the doorman, leaning against one of the entrance pillars, and pulled one of the two holographic Loud cards from the glove compartment.
Rubén was finishing a cigarette. When he saw Adam approaching, he took a final drag, tossed the butt into the trash, and moved to open the glass doors for him.
Rubén was a man in his sixties, with a lean face, hair that was way too dark to be natural, and a belly always eager for more beer. He and Adam shared an unusual trait.
“Blue,” Adam called him. “Oh, Blue K41!”
“White O22, got a problem with my last name?” Rubén replied.
“Nah. It’s just… no one forgot I’m an orphan today, and I needed to remind myself I’m not alone in that.”
“You and thousands of others, princess,” Rubén said. “In this city, even the guy with the fanciest last name is on his own. And the same goes for your 909—it’ll have to deal with the tow truck when it comes around. You parked in a private spot. If they find it there…”
“Relax, old man. The parking bots don’t patrol this street.”
“The bots, no. But the human inspectors do.”
“Oh, come on! I’ll be gone before you know it,” Adam assured him. “Just came in to change and head back out.”
“To change, huh?” Rubén pointed at the red stains on Adam’s shirt. “Red wine, you drunk! You spilled wine on yourself, and now you’re here to change so no one knows you’re a bad drinker.”
Adam snapped his fingers as if to say, you got me! He wasn’t in the mood to explain what had really happened, so he activated the holo-magazine and handed it to Rubén.
“Here, have fun reading about me. There’s even a piece on how to weave a jockstrap in section fifty—thought you might be into macrame.”
“Oh, get outta here, princess, and change so your boyfriends don’t get tired of waiting.”
They flipped each other off, and Adam crossed the lobby with a smirk. That was what he needed to turn the night around: a few happy moments.
He called the elevator, and when the metal doors opened, he was greeted by a pleasant surprise inside. A beautiful woman leaned against the mirrored wall, arms crossed, eyes down. If Adam believed in gods, he’d have sworn the goddess of beauty herself had sent something nice to lift his mood.
She was sexy, with well-defined muscles—an athlete, maybe? She looked strong yet feminine, with a natural elegance. She seemed about his age, maybe a couple of years younger. Her blue eyes popped against her naturally tan skin, and her black hair cascaded over her shoulders. In her ears, large gold hoop earrings.
He hadn’t seen her around before—new tenant, maybe?
She wore a black long-sleeved T-shirt, snug, slightly worn jeans, and knee-high black boots—shiny and sleek, with high heels. Oddly, her jeans and boots had traces of dried mud. She had probably come from a farm. A landowner, maybe? If so, an interesting choice of footwear for working the land.
Adam stepped aside to let her out and discreetly covered the bloodstains on his shirt with his hand. But she didn’t move, so he entered the elevator.
“To the garage?” he asked. She didn’t respond or indicate her destination. Well, that gave him the perfect excuse to strike up a conversation. “Which floor?” he offered to select it for her. Still, no response.
Adam tapped the button for the twelfth floor on the elevator’s panel. The doors slid shut, and the lift began its ascent.
Haven’t figured it out yet, champ? chimed in the all-too-often treacherous voice of his own ego. She’s playing hard to get. Otherwise, she would’ve left already.
“Are you new here?” he asked, but she only shot him a strange, almost intimidating look.
Finally, the number twelve lit up on the panel, and the doors slid open. Their ride had come to an end—along with his chance to get a single word out of her. Just as he stepped out, he felt her hands on his back, giving him a gentle push.
“After you, dear,” the girl said, her voice carrying a strange, almost musical accent.
Adam glanced over his shoulder with a triumphant smirk—only to catch a glimpse of someone waiting at the entrance to the twelfth floor.
“He’s come alone. You may proceed,” she added, addressing the figure ahead. She had never been flirting with him—she was handing him over to whoever was waiting there.
His doppelg?nger.