“Stop!!!” he yelled, pushing me off him as he sprang from the bed.

“Was this your reason for requesting me to stay? Have you no shame? Your husband’s memorial ceremony was just concluded barely two hours ago, and the next thing on your mind is to seduce me. I can't believe how despicable you are.” he added angrily walking out of the room.

Ooh well, that didn't go as planned. Such a shame, he would have had the opportunity of having the most memorable night of his life… But his cowardly self, won't let him.

Slipping off the bed, I picked up a cigarette from the side drawer and walked to the balcony, enjoying the cool breeze on my skin.

Flashes of the night Mark died came rushing back in my brain, his cry for help, as I trailed the knife through his skin as he struggled against the chair I had him tied to. He thought it was all a joke at first, until his body parts started missing one offer the other.

“Hmmmm,” it was so thrilling. His every cry for help sent waves and waves of pleasure down my spine, I almost thought I’d be squirting on my panties.

Unfortunately, it wasn't as thrilling as when I killed Carlos in Mexico, he was just screaming and yelling in Spanish. And I couldn't fucken understand a shit of what he was talking about. But the sound of Spanish, the way he fucken yelled just made my legs quiver.

Inhaling deeply I walked back into my room, and Mark's pre wedding picture that sat just above our king size bed, stared right at me.

The sight of him smiling at me infuriated me, that chiseled cheekbone and piercing gray eyes with the charming mischievous smile I fell for.

Walking up to the giant frame, I pulled it from the wall. Without a second thought, I threw it to the ground.

The glass shattered, dispersing its pieces everywhere, leaving just the large picture made of paper. One of the glass pieces flew and gave me a cut on my wrist.

I watched as the blood trailed down my palm, bringing it to my mouth, and I licked it off.

I stared at the picture, still dragging on my cigarette. Looking at that smug smile on his face, I dropped the cigarette butt on the paper, right on his face.

I watched as it burned, wiping the smile off his face. “Hahaha,” the satisfaction.

I watched the picture burn to its last piece, with nothing left but ashes. I'm not sure how long I watched, but soon I fell asleep.

**********************

The morning sun shone brightly through the window, waking me up from my sleep.

During the course of the past few weeks, I have arranged everything necessary for my departure. Out of sight is out of mind.

I wouldn't want someone putting their nose where they aren't meant to be, for that reason, I'm moving to Seattle. Start a new life with the money I got from Mark, and probably marry a new husband, or preferably, a lover.

My flight was scheduled for the next day, so I still got time. I swept the mansion clean. Everything valuable, from jewelry to trophies… Everything was wiped out.

By the end of the day, I had sold them and was watching the huge stack of money sitting in front of me.

I left San Francisco twenty four hours later with nothing but my passport, a box containing my most valuable properties, another for clothes and enough cash to live out the rest of my days in peace.

Seattle was quiet, Colder. But I didn’t mind the gloom , it matched something inside me. Every morning I woke up to misted windows and the sound of rain licking the glass, and I felt… safe. Hidden. Like the city had wrapped its damp arms around me and promised to keep all my secrets.

Three months passed. I dyed my hair two shades darker, bought new clothes, and ditched my old phone. No trail of Mark existed in my life.

Every morning, I went for a walk before the city could fully wake up. That’s how I found the place, a cozy little café wedged between a bookstore and a flower shop. It smelled like roasted beans, cinnamon, and warmth.

Mira’s, the board outside said, scrawled in blue chalk and hearts. It quickly became my favorite spot.

Not because of the coffee.

But because of her.

The bartender. Mira.

She was maybe eighteen, nineteen tops. Short hair, bleach blonde with the tips dyed pink. Eyes like melted caramel and a lip ring that tugged upward every time she smiled.

She moved like music, all bounce and sway and sharp turns behind the counter.

This morning, like every other, I walked in just as the rain slowed to a drizzle. She looked up, her smile cautious.

“Your usual?” she asked, already reaching for a cup.

“You read minds too?” I smirked.

She nodded cautiously as she passed me the coffee.

Cute. Way too cute.

I leaned slightly on the counter as she slid the coffee toward me. My fingers lingered just a bit too long over hers, just enough to feel the heat of her skin. I traced the back of her hand with the lightest touch, watching her reaction.

She jerked her hand back, eyeing me wearily. Her cheeks turned red, eyes wide, as if I’d just whispered something dirty in her ear.

I smiled to myself. God, she was adorable when she got shy. The kind of shy that made you want to break her open just to see what else was underneath.

I bit my lip and gave her a look. Nothing too much, just one she’d remember the entire day.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said, sliding the coffee off the counter.

But then I turned around.

And crashed straight into someone. Hard.

My coffee went flying, lid popping off, liquid splashing down my front like a slap.

The heat bit into my skin, staining my shirt brown. I staggered back, muttering under my breath as I brushed at the mess, furious.

“What the hell? Watch where you’re going. You’ve got eyes. USE THEM.” I yelled.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” came the voice. Male. Calm. Too calm, for someone who had just nearly roasted my skin.

He bent down and picked up the cup, his hand reaching into his coat pocket as he pulled out a folded handkerchief.

“You can use this. Or maybe head to the restroom to clean up.”

I looked at the handkerchief like it insulted me.

“Just… fuck off. I wouldn’t be needing it if you had paid attention to where you were going,” I snapped, not even looking up yet.

My fingers brushed against my shirt, trying to wipe away the wet spots. Ruined.

Hissing, I looked up, intending to eye him to his grave. He’s just so lucky this was a public place. No one walks over me. Never.

I finally looked up at him.

And I froze.

My throat closed up. My heart stopped, then pounded back to life so hard it made my ears ring. My knees felt weak. My hands stopped moving.

If I hadn’t buried this man…

If I hadn’t watched life leave his eyes with my own damn hands…

I would have screamed. Or even passed out.

My head screamed for me to run.

But my legs remained rooted to the ground.

Am I being haunted?

Am I dreaming?

I blinked my eyes continuously to clear any imagination whatsoever.

But by the time I opened them back, he was still standing right in front of me.

How?

How is this possible?

How does he look exactly like him?

Exactly like Mark.

How?

My lips parted before I could stop them. One word slipped out, barely a whisper.

“Mark?”

“Mark?”

The word slipped out before I could stop it, a ghost of a breath barely audible over the blood roaring in my ears.

He tilted his head, brows furrowed, those familiar gray eyes narrowing in confusion.

“I’m sorry?” he said, with a very polite smile.

The smile that ones made me tickle.

I stared. Beads of sweat were trailing down the side of my face. My hand still holding the crumpled handkerchief trembled.

How?

His face… Oh God, it's him. Same eyes, same jawline, the way his hair curled slightly at the ends when it was damp. The way he arched his brow when he's deep in thought.

“You okay?” he asked, frowning now, stepping closer like I might pass out.

I took a step back. Shaken to the core.

“I thought you said… Mark?” he added, with a half-smile. “Sorry. I’m not Mark. I’m Alex.”

He said it like it was a joke. Like maybe I was confusing him with an ex or some long-lost lover.

“I’m sorry about your dress,” he added, gesturing to my chest. Giving me a tight, apologetic nod, he turned on his heel, and walked off, just like that.

Gone. Like a ghost.

I didn’t even move. Couldn’t.

My coffee-soaked shirt clung to my chest, cold now. My hands were shaking.

I would have assumed it was all a dream, but my soaked dress is evidence that it all happened, and that I wasn't dreaming.

But how is it possible?

It's just not possible.

I buried Mark. I fucking buried him, poured the sand over his grave, shovel by shovel as the rain drenched me.

I slammed the door behind me the moment I got home, my heart still hammering. It was a miracle I was able to walk all the way to my house without passing out.

Yanking open the drawer in my hallway table, I dug through old receipts, expired makeup, and a tangle of charger cords, until I found it.

The photo album.

I hadn’t touched it in months. Not since before the memorial. But now, I flipped through page after page, hands moving faster, until I found it.

Mark. Smiling. Standing beside me. One hand around my waist, the other holding a champagne glass. His gray eyes gleamed under the party lights.

Exactly the same.

The same feature. Same dimple. Same bone structure. Even the tilt of his smile.

No. No, no, no.

I tossed the album onto the floor like it had burned me and staggered back, staring at it.

Like maybe the picture would shift and tell me I was wrong.

I wasn’t.

He looked too much like him, there's no such thing as coincidence in this case.

My panic swelled. I couldn’t breathe.

He was dead.

I’d watched him choke on his own blood. Watched his body go limp. I’d wrapped him in plastic myself, dragged him to the damn forest, and dumped him six feet under with my bare hands.

The grave was real.

I remember the cold. The stench of death was clinging to my clothes. I even remembered the song I hummed to myself as I filled the dirt over him, something I had heard on the radio earlier that day as the rain drenched me.

You don’t forget something like that.

So what the hell is this?

A doppelgänger? A brother I never knew about? Or was I losing my fucking mind?

I didn’t sleep that night.

How could I?

The next morning, I walked into Mira’s like nothing had happened. Same time. Same seat. Same coffee order.

I needed to see him again.

He wasn’t there.

I waited. Sipped slowly. Tapped my nails on the wood. Watched the door as every single person got in and got out, until Mira finally noticed.

“Everything okay?” she asked, wiping her hands on a towel.

I gave her my most harmless smile. “Hey, that guy from yesterday… the one I bumped into?”

She blinked, surprised. “Alex?”

My pulse kicked. “Yeah. Alex. He comes here often?”

She shrugged. “Past couple weeks, yeah. He’s new around here.”

“New?”

“Moved here maybe a month ago. Leaves somewhere near Capitol Hill, I think. Rents a little apartment. He’s… quiet. Don't talk much.”

Of course, he doesn’t.

I gave her a warm smile, not the flirtatious ones I usually give her. “Thanks.”

She turned back to the counter. And I continued to sip my coffee.

At least I know he was real, and I wasn't the only one who had seen him.

After leaving Mira's, I didn’t go home.

I followed the direction Mira had mentioned, walking actually along the sidewalks like I was taking a stroll, until I found him.

Mark… or Alex as he claimed.

He was walking into a little corner store.

Same gait. Same posture. Same hands, tucked into the pockets of his coat.

I waited outside until he came back out, groceries in hand. Then I tailed him.

He didn’t notice.

He walked a few blocks up, then turned left onto a quieter street lined with old trees and uneven sidewalks. A small brick building sat just ahead, four stories tall. He stepped inside.

I watched him walk past the entrance, heart hammering, as I stood across the street.

The building looked like it hadn’t been updated in decades. No doorman. No cameras. Easy enough to slip into, if I wanted.

Not tonight, though.

I waited until the lights flicked on in a second-floor window. His silhouette appeared behind the blinds, tall, lean, he paced to and fro, probably arranging the stuff he had purchased.

I took out my phone and snapped a picture of him.

Then another.

Zooming in to get a closer look. It was Mark.

It had to be him.

*********************

I spent the next day digging.

Social media? Nothing.

LinkedIn? No job history.

No Facebook. No Instagram. Barely a digital footprint at all.

Even his rental record was thin, just a first name and a prepaid bank card.

No family connections. No school info. No employment trail.

It was like he’d just… appeared.

People didn’t live like that.

Not unless they had something to hide.

Not unless they were hiding from something.

And I knew Mark. Knew the way he planned, how careful he was. How he always talked about the perfect crime, the kind no one would ever suspect, if you just disappeared well enough.

So maybe that’s what he did.

Maybe he faked his own death… before I could finish it.

Or maybe…

Maybe he survived.

And now he’s come back for me, he probably already has a plan cooking up.

I just didn't know what to think at this point.

I stared at the photo on my phone one more time. His profile in the window, backlit by the yellow glow of a lamp.

The resemblance wasn’t just eerie.

It was unmistakable.

I zoomed in on his eyes.

Still gray.

Still him.

This time, I wasn’t imagining it.

This time, I’d make damn sure I knew who, or what he really was.

And if he was lying, or if he was here to get his revenge on me…

Well…

I buried him once.

I could do it again.