Chapter 1: The Wrong Reflection

The mirror above the bathroom sink showed a face that wasn't mine.

I stared at the reflection—sharp jawline, messy brown hair, eyes the color of storm clouds—and felt the familiar wave of disconnection wash over me. This body, this face, these hands that moved when I willed them to move... none of it belonged to me. Yet here I was, trapped inside skin that felt like an ill-fitting costume, playing a role I'd never auditioned for.

"Liam? Breakfast is ready!"

The voice drifted up from downstairs—warm, maternal, completely trusting. Mrs. Henderson. The woman who believed I was her son.

I gripped the edge of the sink, watching my knuckles turn white. The reflection wavered for just a moment, like heat distortion over hot asphalt, and I quickly looked away. I couldn't afford these lapses. Not when they were watching.

Always watching.

I splashed cold water on my face, the shock helping to ground me in this borrowed flesh. The water felt real enough, anyway. Everything else was just... performance.

Downstairs, the Henderson kitchen buzzed with the kind of domestic energy that belonged in a sitcom. Mrs. Henderson stood at the stove, her auburn hair pulled back in a practical ponytail, humming something cheerful as she flipped pancakes. The morning light streaming through the bay windows caught the gold in her wedding ring as she moved—a perfect picture of suburban bliss.

"There's my sleepyhead," she said without turning around, somehow sensing my presence. "You were tossing and turning all night. Bad dreams again?"

I paused at the threshold, my bare feet cold against the tile floor. Dreams. Right. If only she knew that the thing wearing her son's face didn't dream at all—just drifted through an endless gray void until morning dragged me back to consciousness.

"Something like that," I managed, my voice still rough with sleep. At least that part sounded authentic.

She turned then, and the genuine concern in her brown eyes hit me like a physical blow. This woman loved Liam Henderson with every fiber of her being. She would die for him without hesitation. The weight of that love, directed at an imposter, made my chest tight with something that might have been guilt if I'd been human enough to feel it properly.

"Sit," she commanded gently, already moving to pile golden pancakes onto a plate. "I made your favorite—blueberry with just a hint of lemon zest."

Favorite. The word hung in the air like an accusation. I sat at the breakfast bar and accepted the plate, inhaling the sweet, tangy aroma that should have triggered some kind of recognition, some cellular memory. Instead, there was nothing. Just the hollow ache of trying to remember a life I'd never lived.

"Thanks, Mom." The word felt foreign on my tongue, like speaking in a language I'd only learned from textbooks.

She beamed at me, and I forced myself to take a bite. The pancakes were light, fluffy, probably delicious to someone with actual taste buds. To me, they were just texture and temperature—necessary fuel for maintaining this charade.

"So," she said, settling across from me with her own plate and a steaming cup of coffee, "your father mentioned you might want to come to dinner on Sunday. Chloe's bringing that boy she's been seeing."

Chloe. Liam's younger sister. My supposed sister. I'd met her exactly twice since... since I'd become Alex-wearing-Liam's-skin. Both times, she'd stared at me with an intensity that made my borrowed flesh crawl. Like she was looking for something she couldn't quite identify.

"Yeah, maybe," I said, cutting another piece of pancake with mechanical precision. "Depends on how the week goes."

"You know she worries about you." Mrs. Henderson's voice carried that particular maternal tone that suggested I was being gently scolded. "We all do. Ever since the accident—"

The accident. The convenient explanation for why Liam Henderson had been acting strange lately, why he seemed different, distant. Why he'd lost chunks of memory and struggled with recognizing people he should have known his entire life. If only they knew that there had been no accident—just death, and something else sliding into the empty space left behind.

My phone buzzed against the granite countertop, the vibration obscenely loud in the quiet kitchen. The number was unknown, but that wasn't unusual. What made my blood run cold was the single line of text displayed on the screen:

"You're sitting in his chair, wearing his face, eating his favorite breakfast. But you're not him, are you?"

The fork slipped from suddenly nerveless fingers, clattering against the plate. Mrs. Henderson looked up, concern creasing her features.

"Everything okay, honey?"

I stared at the phone, my vision tunneling. The edges of my reflection in the black screen seemed to shimmer, and I could feel something primal stirring in my chest—a kind of animal panic that threatened to tear through my carefully constructed human facade.

"Alex?"

The name cut through my spiral like a blade. Mrs. Henderson was using a different name. Alex. But she'd called me Liam just moments ago, hadn't she? The confusion must have shown on my face because she tilted her head, studying me with growing alarm.

No. Wait. She'd said "Liam" again. My mind was playing tricks on me, the stress fracturing my ability to process simple information.

"Just... work stuff," I lied, forcing my hand steady as I flipped the phone face-down. "You know how it is."

She nodded, but I could see her cataloging my reaction, filing it away with all the other little inconsistencies she'd noticed over the past few weeks. The moments when I didn't laugh at family jokes I should have remembered. The way I hesitated before calling her "Mom." The fact that I'd stopped talking about childhood memories entirely.

How long before those inconsistencies added up to something she couldn't explain away?

"Well," she said finally, "try not to let it ruin your breakfast. And remember—Sunday dinner. Seven o'clock sharp. Your father's grilling steaks."

I nodded and took another mechanical bite, but the pancakes might as well have been cardboard. All I could think about was that text message, those words that cut straight through every lie I'd built my existence around.

You're not him, are you?

Someone knew. Someone had seen through the mask, past the borrowed memories and stolen mannerisms to the thing underneath. And they were watching me. Right now. Maybe they were outside, maybe they had cameras, maybe they were closer than I could imagine.

My reflection wavered in the surface of my orange juice, and for a split second, I caught a glimpse of something else looking back—something with shadows where eyes should be and a mouth that stretched too wide.

I pushed the glass away and stood abruptly.

"I should get ready for work," I said, already backing toward the stairs.

"But you barely touched your—"

"I'll grab something on the way. Thanks for breakfast, Mom."

The endearment felt like ash in my mouth, but it made her smile, and that smile followed me all the way upstairs. In my room—Liam's room—I closed the door and leaned against it, my heart hammering against my ribs.

The space around me was a shrine to a life I'd never lived. High school trophies lined one bookshelf. A framed diploma from the local college hung on the wall next to photos of friends whose names I didn't know, whose faces triggered no recognition whatsoever. The bed was unmade, sheets twisted from my restless nights, but even the pillows smelled like someone else.

Everything in this room belonged to a dead man, and I was just the parasite that had crawled inside his corpse.

My phone buzzed again. Same unknown number.

"Stop pretending to sleep. I know you're awake. I know what you are."

Then another message, seconds later:

"Meet me tonight. Pier 47, midnight. Come alone, or I'll tell the Hendersons exactly what happened to their precious son."

The phone slipped from my suddenly numb fingers, clattering to the hardwood floor. In the silence that followed, I could hear Mrs. Henderson humming downstairs, the sound drifting through the house like a lullaby meant for someone else's child.

Someone knew the truth. Someone had answers I desperately needed. But more terrifying than that—someone had leverage.

I walked to the window and pulled back the curtain just enough to peer outside. The suburban street looked peaceful in the morning light. Identical houses with perfect lawns, SUVs in driveways, the occasional jogger or dog walker maintaining the illusion of normalcy.

But somewhere out there, hidden among all that mundane perfection, someone was hunting me.

And I had no idea whether they wanted to expose me, destroy me, or something far worse.

The reflection in the window glass stared back at me, and for just a moment, I could swear it was smiling.