She squeezed her eyes shut, and nodded once.
The kitchen plunged into an absolute, suffocating silence, punctuated only by the low, mechanical drone of my aging refrigerator. I stared across the table at my identical twin—the woman who had mirrored my own face since the moment of our birth—and something fundamentally shifted deep within my chest. A cold, surgical, and extraordinarily dangerous architecture settled into place.
I stood up, the chair scraping loudly against the linoleum. “Come upstairs. You need to sleep.”
She didn’t argue. She just let me lead her into the dark, entirely unaware of the catastrophic gears turning in my mind.
Chapter 2: The Borrowed Skin
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