Midnight.

Erich jolted awake. His heart hammered against his sternum like a trapped bird. His throat was parched, feeling like it was coated in sand.

He pushed the heavy blanket off his sweating body and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He needed water.

He opened his bedroom door. The second-floor hallway was pitch black. The only source of light was a faint, yellow glow bleeding from beneath the kitchen door downstairs.

Erich walked toward the stairs. His bare foot pressed down on the top wooden step. It let out a sharp creak.

He froze instantly, holding his breath.

From the kitchen, the muffled sound of Brenda crying drifted up the stairwell. She was speaking in a hushed, frantic whisper into the wall-mounted telephone.

Erich pressed his back against the wall, sliding down into the shadows to listen.

"I know, I know," Brenda sobbed, her voice thick with exhaustion. "But the insurance company denied the claim. They said self-inflicted injuries aren't covered. The bank sent another foreclosure notice today."

Erich's brow furrowed. In his past life with Erik, money was an abstract concept. He had never considered the brutal reality of medical bills and mortgage payments crushing a family.

The person on the other end of the line said something sharp.

Brenda's voice spiked with sudden, fierce anger. "I am not putting him in a state facility! He is my son! I will sell this house before I abandon him!"

She paused, taking a ragged breath. "It wasn't his fault. You know he didn't plagiarize that painting. Those kids at the academy ruined his life. The internet tore him apart. That's why he took those pills."

Plagiarism. Cyberbullying. Expulsion.

The three words locked together in Erich's brain like puzzle pieces.

A sudden, violent pressure bloomed in his chest. It wasn't his own emotion. It was the residual, suffocating despair of the body's original owner. The absolute injustice of being framed and destroyed.

Brenda hung up the phone. The sound of her crying grew louder, accompanied by the frantic squeaking of a sponge scrubbing the kitchen counter. She was cleaning to stop herself from screaming.

Erich stood up in the dark. The frozen, dead space in his chest-the part of him that Erik Patton had systematically destroyed-cracked open just a fraction.

He didn't go down to the kitchen. Instead, he turned around and walked to the end of the hallway.

He stopped in front of a closed door. He wrapped his hand around the cold brass doorknob and twisted. The hinges groaned as he pushed it open.

It was the art studio.

Moonlight spilled through the uncurtained window, illuminating the chaos. The floor was littered with crumpled sketch paper. The air was thick with the bitter, chemical stench of turpentine and dried oil paint.

In the center of the room stood an easel, draped in a heavy canvas drop cloth. It looked like a corpse waiting for burial.

Erich walked over to it. He grabbed the edge of the cloth and ripped it away. Dust exploded into the air, making him cough.

The unfinished oil painting underneath was chaotic, the subject matter a storm of dark, violent emotion. It was the kind of raw, desperate art Erik would have despised. And yet, beneath the rage, he could see it-the familiar, precise way the shadows were layered, a subconscious fingerprint he couldn't erase. It was his own technique, twisted by another soul's agony.

Erich reached out. He traced his fingertips over the rough, raised texture of the dried paint.

He felt it. The exact moment the original Erich's spirit had broken.

A massive wave of empathy crashed over him. They were the same. Both of them were artists pushed to the absolute edge of a cliff by people who wanted to control them.

Erich turned his head, looking at the walls covered in rejected sketches. His jaw set into a hard line.

If Erich Colon was dead, then he would live as Erich Morrison. He would take this broken life, and he would use it to fight back. For the kid who died, and for himself.

He picked up a rusted palette knife resting on the wooden table. He gripped the wooden handle so tightly his knuckles popped.

Without a second thought, he dragged the sharp metal edge across the bottom corner of the canvas, carving a harsh, aggressive signature into the thick paint.

It was a declaration of war.

He dropped the knife. The metallic clatter echoed in the quiet room.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs. Brenda was coming up.

Erich quickly threw the drop cloth back over the easel and stepped out into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind him.

He bumped right into Brenda at the top of the stairs. She gasped, quickly wiping her wet cheeks with the back of her hand, forcing a terrible, wobbly smile.

"Erich. What are you doing out of bed?"

Erich looked down at her red, swollen eyes. For the first time since waking up in this body, he reached out voluntarily. He placed his hand on her trembling shoulder.

"Go to sleep," he said, his voice steady and deeper than usual. "Everything is going to be fine."

Brenda froze. She stared up at him, her mouth slightly open. The fragile, broken boy she had been taking care of was gone. The man standing in front of her felt like a wall of solid steel.

Erich dropped his hand and walked back to his bedroom. He had work to do.

Erich lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. His body was exhausted, but his brain was firing on all cylinders. Eventually, the exhaustion dragged him under.

The dream hit him instantly.

He was standing in the massive living room of the Malibu beach house. The floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the dark, churning ocean. The air conditioning was freezing, biting into his skin.

Erik Patton stood by the glass, his broad shoulders blocking out the moonlight. He was wearing a perfectly tailored suit. In his large hands, he casually twirled Erich's favorite sable-hair paintbrush.

"You think you're an artist?" Erik's voice was smooth, dripping with condescension. It echoed off the glass walls. "Your work is garbage, Erich. You're only here because you look pretty standing next to me."

Erich opened his mouth to scream at him, but his throat was paralyzed. No sound came out.

Erik turned around. His eyes were dead and cold. He gripped both ends of the paintbrush and snapped it in half.

The sharp crack of the wood breaking echoed like a gunshot.

Erik threw the broken pieces at Erich's feet. "Know your place."

Erich gasped and shot up in bed.

His eyes flew open. He was drenched in cold sweat. His hands were clawing at the fabric of his t-shirt, right over his violently racing heart. The phantom chill of the Malibu house still clung to his skin.

He threw his legs over the side of the bed. His bare feet hit the cold hardwood floor. He needed to physically ground himself.

He walked to the window and ripped the curtains open.

The bright, blinding morning sun flooded the room. He squinted against the glare, looking out at the cracked pavement and the neighbor's overgrown lawn.

There were no security cameras. No bodyguards parked at the end of the driveway. He was free.

Erich turned away from the window and marched over to the small wooden desk in the corner. He yanked the drawer open. Inside lay a chaotic mess of sketchpads and pencils.

He grabbed a standard graphite pencil.

The second the wood touched his fingers, his hand began to shake violently. The PTSD from Erik's constant criticism paralyzed his motor skills.

Erich gritted his teeth. His jaw locked so hard it ached. He forced his fingers to wrap around the pencil, squeezing until his knuckles turned white.

He slammed the graphite tip onto a blank piece of paper.

He dragged the pencil across the page. The line was jagged, ugly, and completely lacked the smooth, refined technique he was famous for.

It was perfect.

He began to draw frantically. He sketched the outline of Erik's arrogant face, and then he violently scribbled over it, pressing the pencil down with all his body weight. He slashed heavy, black lines across the paper, destroying the image.

Snap.

The pencil lead broke under the pressure. The sharp wooden edge tore a massive gash through the paper.

Erich stopped. He stared at the ruined drawing. His chest heaved as he sucked in oxygen.

A low, raspy chuckle vibrated in his throat. The chuckle grew louder, turning into a dark, manic laugh that filled the small bedroom. It was the sound of a man who had survived a firing squad.

A loud knock hit his bedroom door.

"Are you having a psychotic break in there?" Keyla yelled through the wood.

Erich stopped laughing. He picked up the torn paper, crushed it into a tight ball, and threw it perfectly into the trash can.

He walked to the door and yanked it open.

Keyla stumbled forward, almost losing her balance. She had been leaning against the door to listen. She looked up at him, her eyes wide with apprehension.

Erich stared down at her. His eyes were completely clear, sharp as broken glass.

"Tell Mom I'm going to New York," he said, his voice dead calm. "I'm entering the youth art competition."

Keyla's jaw dropped. She blinked rapidly, trying to process the information. "Are you out of your mind?"

Erich didn't answer. He stepped around her and walked straight down the hall to the bathroom.

He turned on the faucet, letting the freezing water run over his hands. He cupped the water and splashed it directly into his face.

The shock of the cold water washed away the last lingering traces of the nightmare. He grabbed a towel and scrubbed his face dry.

He looked at himself in the mirror. The heavy curtain of hair still hid his features, but the eyes staring back at him were different. They were predatory.

He mouthed the words to his reflection, making a vow to the stranger in the glass. Never again.

Down the hall, Keyla started screaming for Brenda. The sound of a plate shattering echoed from the kitchen. The gears of his new life were finally turning.

Erich walked down the stairs, using the towel to dry the back of his neck. The smell of burnt toast and cheap, acidic coffee filled the hallway.

He stepped into the kitchen.

Brenda was leaning over the small dining table, both hands planted flat on the surface. She was staring at a crumpled, brightly colored flyer for the New York Youth Art Grand Prix. Her entire body was vibrating with nervous energy.

When Erich entered, she snapped her head up.

"Is it true?" she asked, her voice breathless. "Keyla said you want to go to New York."

Erich pulled out a wobbly wooden chair and sat down. He reached across the table, grabbed a piece of blackened toast, and took a bite. The dry, burnt taste grounded him.

He nodded once.

Brenda let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. She pressed her hands to her face. "Thank God. Oh, thank God. You're finally coming back to us."

Keyla was leaning against the kitchen counter, her arms crossed defensively. She let out a loud, mocking snort.

"Yeah, great miracle," Keyla sneered. "But how are we paying for this? Bus tickets to New York, a hotel room, food? We don't have a dime, Mom."

Brenda's joyful expression shattered. The harsh reality of their poverty crashed down on her. She nervously wiped her hands on her apron.

"I... I can ask the bank for an overdraft," Brenda stammered, her eyes darting around the room. "Or I can take my grandmother's necklace to the pawnshop downtown."

Erich stopped chewing. He swallowed the dry toast. A surge of disgust hit him-not at Brenda, but at the situation. He refused to let this woman sell her dignity for him.

He reached across the table and tapped his finger sharply against the flyer. "The grand prize is fifty thousand dollars," Erich said, his voice cutting through her panic. "That would stop the foreclosure and cover your medical bills. It's an investment, not a vacation."

He looked at Keyla. Beneath her sarcastic armor, he saw the subtle way her eyes kept darting to the New York flyer. She wanted to go.

Erich set his toast down. He looked directly at Keyla.

"You're coming with me," he said flatly.

Keyla jumped, her elbow knocking into the toaster. "What? Why me?"

"I haven't left the house in six months," Erich lied smoothly, weaponizing the original host's social anxiety. "I can't handle crowds. I need someone to manage the logistics and keep people away from me."

It was the perfect excuse. It was bulletproof.

Brenda's eyes lit up. She spun toward Keyla, grabbing her daughter's arm. "Keyla, please. It's a great opportunity for you to see the city. And I'd feel so much better knowing you're watching him."

Keyla groaned loudly, dragging her hands down her face. "Mom, I have shifts at the diner! I have midterms! I can't babysit a grown man!"

Erich reached into the pocket of his sweatpants. He pulled out two crumpled twenty-dollar bills-the last of the original Erich's money. He smoothed out and slid them across the table toward Keyla.

"Advance payment for the tour guide," Erich said, his voice dropping into a low, authoritative register. "I'll make the rest of the money when I sell my painting."

Keyla stared at the money, then looked up at Erich. The sheer, unshakeable confidence radiating from him made her skin prickle. This wasn't the brother who used to cry in his closet.

She reached out and pushed the money back toward him.

"Keep your garbage money," she muttered, her cheeks flushing slightly. "But I get the bed by the window in the hotel."

Erich's lips twitched into a microscopic smirk. He had her.

Brenda clapped her hands together. "Okay! I'll figure out the bus tickets. Keyla, start looking up cheap motels in Brooklyn."

Keyla rolled her eyes, but she immediately pulled her phone out of her pocket and started typing rapidly.

Erich watched her thumbs fly across the screen. A strange sense of warmth spread through his chest. It was the feeling of a team. A family. Erik Patton had isolated him from everyone, convincing him he was worthless. Here, he was the center of gravity.

He stood up and carried his plate to the sink.

"Make sure you book my haircut for three o'clock," he said over his shoulder.

The rapid tapping on Keyla's phone stopped instantly. The kitchen went dead silent.

"You're actually going through with it?" Keyla asked, her voice laced with genuine shock.

Erich turned on the faucet to wash his hands. "I can't go to New York looking like a homeless drug addict."

Keyla didn't argue. She tapped her screen a few more times. "Three o'clock. Old Joe's Barbershop on Main Street."

Erich dried his hands and walked out of the kitchen. He could feel their eyes burning into his back. The first piece of his armor was about to be stripped away.