Three years after Jace’s death, I bought a man off the black market who looked exactly like him. I kept him as a substitute, molding and conditioning him day and night to mimic my lost lover's every habit.
But in the dead of night, the illusion shattered. I woke up with his hands wrapped tightly around my throat. Gritting his teeth, he hissed, "You liar. He’s only been dead for three years, and you’re already replacing him?"
I smiled. Because from the very first glance, I knew. He wasn’t a doppelgänger—this "dead" bastard was Jace himself.
If he wanted to fake amnesia, I was more than happy to play along. It was all a game to break his silence and force him to admit the truth: "I'm alive. I only staged my death because I was terrified of putting you in danger."
