Adam White wanted to think about nothing, yet his mind was racing with everything.

  He wanted to be drunk, empty. He wanted to forget whatever was happening to him, to believe it was all just a dream—a nightmare that would dissolve with a magical awakening.

  He wanted to numb himself with the strongest brews nature could offer, crossing the borders of consciousness like the shamans of old—or like the people he sometimes saw in the clubs he frequented.

  Staring into the mirror, he couldn’t believe the nightmare he was living. But there it was: the gaping hole in the ceiling and his burnt pants, undeniable evidence that madness had invaded his reality.

  His dark circles didn’t lie, nor did the pallor of his face, the empty blister packs of anxiety meds in the trash, or the unanswered messages from a couple of close female friends who had called, worried after hearing about his trip to the hospital.

  If only they knew that was nothing compared to what he was dealing with now.

  His memory had turned into a jigsaw puzzle with a thousand jumbled pieces. It started with little things, like forgetting whether he had shaved, and escalated to wondering if he was truly Adam—or if he was actually Juzo, believing he was Adam.

  ‘Now you and I are one entity,’ his brother had said, using Adam’s own mouth to speak.

  Adam concluded he had somehow become Juzo—or vice versa. At this point, it hardly mattered who was who. It must have happened while he was trapped in that impossible coma Kara had mentioned—somewhere between the showdown with the android and the mercenaries in the park, and his awakening in the hospital.

  He examined the small scar next to his heart—a mark that, as the days passed, looked less like a needle prick and more like a burn from a tiny, red-hot iron. Had Juzo’s Binary Proteins entered through there? It was the only explanation for the excruciating headaches he now suffered.

  ‘My proteins are type R and act like a reactor, while yours are type C,’ Juzo had said that Friday. ‘Mine act like some kind of catalyst or something?’ Adam had asked.

  The excess static energy that had already forced him to replace the loft’s fuses twice and use wooden rods to flip the switches—was this the endgame of the project? Proof that he was now a catalyst for his brother’s proteins?

  Giving him the ability to conjure miniature white dwarfs and walk on air—was that the goal of those deranged scientists? It’d be fun to pay them a visit and smash one of those white fireballs in their smug faces.

  Then again, before that, he’d have some questions: How much longer did he have to live? Would he eventually burn out into fire and ash, like the other twins in the early stages of the experiment?

  For now, his Fotias—those tiny white suns—appeared only when he willed them to. Though one of them could easily spin out of control and consume him, he’d already confirmed that the flames didn’t harm him—not directly, at least. The real danger lay in accidentally releasing one of those firebombs onto his parquet floors—or worse, his bed.

  Did his spheres work like real Fotias, then? Were they explosive grenades, or would they spread like wildfire? To survive—and to keep his home intact—it was better not to tempt fate. Best not to use his energy at all.

  One afternoon, overwhelmed by questions without answers, he grabbed his car keys, planning to take a drive to clear his head.

  But an image popped into his mind: himself behind the wheel, electric flames escaping his hands, filling the car cabin with fire.

  Nope. He dropped the keys and left on foot.

  Walking was his favorite way to exorcise his demons, and now more than ever, he needed it. He just had to stay far away from anything electrical, just in case. Elevators were off-limits; the stairs were the safest bet.

  After walking several blocks, he found himself standing before a familiar sign made of moving electronic parts spelling out the same phrase over and over:

  ‘Homam Enterprises: Generations of market leadership, bringing you the best in technology.’

  His feet, apparently on autopilot, had brought him to the doors of the building where he worked.

  In truth, he’d wanted to go to a park or the neighborhood nature reserve. But his subconscious knew better. He needed to keep himself busy despite his condition, and maybe getting back to his duties could help clear his mind.

  He lifted his gaze to the top of the building, where the setting sun painted the mirrored windows a warm orange. Taking a deep breath, he looked straight ahead and pushed open the glass doors.

  Inside the nearly empty lobby—most employees had gone home by now—a few late workers and the security guard noticed him walk in. There was no trace of his usual ‘make way for the governor of the world’ attitude. What walked in was a pale shadow of the man he’d been just days ago.

  “Good evening, Mr. White.”

  That damned synthesized voice.

  Goosebumps crawled over his skin as terror sank into his chest. He turned to see a red eye glowing beside him. How had the android gotten so close without him noticing? Was his mind so far away that he’d missed it?

  “It is good to see you back in good health,” said the Cyclops. “I wish you a swift recovery.”

  It’s not the A60. This is a D02, just look at that damn little round eye of its, he reminded himself. To be sure, he checked the blue jumpsuit the android wore and the metal plate on his chest identifying him as 9772.Tim. One of the company’s worker bots—he’d personally purchased and named him a year ago.

  Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

  “Thanks, Tim,” Adam replied, trying to stay calm as he moved away.

  To avoid accidentally turning Tim into a firework display, Adam made a snap decision and ducked into an elevator. As the doors closed, he realized what he’d just done and held his breath. He was now trapped in a box operated by electronic systems. One stray spark could…

  If I stay calm, stay still, nothing will happen, he told himself.

  “Good day, Mr. White,” the elevator’s onboard computer greeted him via facial recognition.

  “Floor seventy,” he announced, careful not to touch any buttons.

  The elevator climbed to the second floor, then the third, fourth… But Adam’s anxiety spiked as he imagined the fuse box exploding. His heartbeat quickened.

  “Computer,” he said, “stop at the next floor.”

  “Floor five. End of the ride,” the machine replied, opening the doors. “Have a good evening, Mr. White.”

  Adam jumped out of the elevator and took the remaining sixty-five floors to his office by the stairs. The climb took him nearly half an hour—something that, in better shape, he could’ve done in minutes.

  In his office, Adam sat down at his desk and remained motionless. Minutes passed, his heartbeat settled, and the ache in his legs from the stairs eased.

  Silence surrounded him, and in an instant, the emptiness that had been consuming his mind took over again.

  A delightful aroma of coffee reached his nose. He looked down and found a half-finished cup of coffee on his desk, and someone said, “…And the cargo ship finally docked this morning with the spare parts. Everything’s in order.”

  He looked up, and there was Rita, dressed in a bright green jumpsuit and matching beret, adorned with sparkling jewelry. When had Rita come in? When had she left the coffee there? Had he been drinking it? Apparently, yes; his mouth tasted like coffee.

  “I already told you,” said a guy with glasses. “It’s still too early for you to be back.”

  With exhaustion etched on his face and a slight tremble in his legs—still suffering from the exertion of the stairs, perhaps—Adam looked at his always impeccably dressed friend, Trevor Homam, standing at the office door. When had Trevor told him it was too soon to return? Had they spoken on the phone?

  Wait, when had Rita left? He searched for the coffee. It was gone.

  Trevor raised his eyebrows over the thin frames of his glasses.

  “Is something wrong, besides you being off in another galaxy? Please, just go home.”

  “No, it’s just that…” Adam had to make an effort to string a response together. “It’s just… I haven’t been here in almost two weeks… and the work is piling up.”

  “Two weeks?” Trevor looked puzzled. “What are you talking about? You were here yesterday, don’t you remember?”

  Adam looked at him, unsure.

  “Adam, we talked about Morris & Co., and you told me about an A60 that flies with an antigravity system,” Trevor said, and when he noticed Adam didn’t remember, he added, “You asked me for the list of companies that were military contractors over the last thirty years.” Adam’s expression was still blank. “Hey, do you really not remember?”

  Adam let out a nervous chuckle; he didn’t know whether to lie and say yes, or be honest and say no, or ask about the company records they supposedly discussed. Had he already seen them but just couldn’t recall?

  “We spent the whole afternoon looking at company records, one by one, and the names of the scientific and military projects we’ve been involved in,” Trevor added. That confirmed it. “We finished, and you said it was a waste of your time. You didn’t apologize for wasting mine, by the way. Then you walked home.”

  Adam’s face remained a blank slate.

  “Adam, why don’t you talk to Kara? It’s clear you’re not well.”

  “No, I don’t wanna bother her.”

  “Adam, please, go home and rest.”

  Giving in, Adam shut down his computer manually—not even realizing he had done so without the precaution of using the small wooden stick he kept in his pocket—and left.

  A couple of hours remained before evening set in, and the sun was still out, stretching its long rays between the skyscrapers, scratching at Adam’s eyes. A bad time to have forgotten his sunglasses.

  He walked along the avenue, staying in the buildings’ shade. He bumped shoulders with someone, ignored the angry response, and nearly stepped into the street before the pedestrian signal gave him the right of way. A honking horn snapped him out of it. He muttered an apology to no one and kept going.

  His phone chimed. Was it Rita calling to tell him he’d forgotten something, maybe his car keys? No, he hadn’t driven; he’d walked. And Rita? Had he seen her today?

  He answered the call with a grunt.

  “Adam, Adam!” came the voice on the other end—he recognized it instantly.

  “Lisandro, hey…” he greeted him with a deep sigh.

  “Adam, I’ll see you tonight at B-Crush, all right?” invited—or rather decreed—Lisandro Carinae.

  “Lisandro, I… um… I don’t think so, because…”

  “Well, then tomorrow it is! Cassandra and Rebecca are unveiling their new lingerie line, and after the show, we’re throwing a party to celebrate your return to the land of the living. Cassandra must’ve told me twenty times not to forget to include Adorable Adam on the guest list, y’know? Come on, it’ll be fun!”

  “Oh, I’m sure it will be, especially if your cousins are there. See you tomorrow, then,” Adam agreed, though he didn’t even try to mask his sarcasm or his lie. He didn’t want to deal with anyone, least of all that demanding guy, his spoiled cousins, or their entourage of sycophants. He made an excuse and ended the call.

  As he walked, memories slowly came back of him sitting in front of a monitor with Trevor beside him, sifting through endless records of contracts and financial operations, along with photos of artifacts and facilities built over that period.

  Damn it! So, that had really happened!

  He sighed, once more unsure of what to feel—disappointed at finding nothing to clarify his situation or terrified that he could no longer trust his own memory.

  Rubén, the building’s doorman, was smoking at the entrance when he spotted Adam approaching.

  “Hey, princess, you’re just getting over your hospital visit,” the old man said. “Why don’t you take a cab next time, instead of pushing your body like that? You look strange, walking so stiffly—you’re like one of those cursed androids.”

  But Adam didn’t respond; he didn’t even seem to notice he’d been spoken to. He passed by, gave an almost automatic nod, entered the building, and walked across the lobby to the elevators. No, he didn’t take the elevators; he went for the stairs, the damn stairs.

  “Finding and losing your brother in the same night…” the doorman muttered, taking a drag of his cigarette. “Poor kid.”

  Adam thought he heard Rubén say something. Wait! Was it Rubén? Or the other doorman, the grumpy heavyset one? Which one was on duty that day? Well, it didn’t matter; he was already on the stairs and heading for the second floor. He wasn’t about to go back to check if someone had spoken or if he’d imagined it.

  Using one hand on the railing for support, he rubbed his face with the other. The rough stubble from days without shaving was still there. Hadn’t he shaved that morning? Or did his beard grow at an alarming rate?

  He finally reached the twelfth floor, his legs stiffening worryingly. His choices were to leave his apartment as little as possible or give in and use the elevators and hope nothing went wrong. No legs could withstand this for long.

  Using the small wooden stick, he entered the code into the electronic lock and stepped into his loft.

  In the living area, next to the large photograph of himself by the sea, stood the full-length mirror. His gaze brushed over his reflection and…

  The burgundy leather jacket, the light shirt and the blue pants—the same clothes he’d worn yesterday… and the day before. How long had it been since he last changed? How long since he’d showered? He sniffed under his arm. Nothing too bad, but it was enough to tell him a couple of days had passed.

  Determined to take a bath, he shrugged off the jacket and tossed it onto a chair. But as he unbuttoned the first few buttons of his shirt…

  A soft knock. Someone was at the door. Who the hell…? His neighbor, Mr. Quintana, maybe? In all the years he’d lived there, Mr. Quintana had only knocked once, and that was to ask him to turn down the music.

  He looked through the peephole, and the shock of the unexpected sent him staggering backward.