I didn’t tell anyone about it for a long time because there isn’t a way to explain it without sounding either guilty or insane. And I was a little of both.
The night it happened, I was broke in a way that felt personal. Not just empty-wallet broke, but you’ve been avoiding consequences too long broke. The kind where every bad decision suddenly adds interest.
My name’s Aaron. I was twenty-four, living in a city that smelled like diesel and old snow, working nights at a bar where the lights were always dim enough to pretend you weren’t watching yourself rot. I’d promised myself I’d do better a hundred times. I kept finding reasons not to.
That night, I needed cash. Not for rent. Not for groceries.
For something worse.
The ATM sat alone at the corner of a strip mall, its fluorescent light flickering like it was tired of pretending to work. The parking lot was empty except for a half-buried sedan and the hiss of wind dragging trash across the ice.
I remember thinking—If something happens to me, no one will see it.
That thought didn’t scare me enough to turn around.
I withdrew sixty dollars. It came out in crisp bills that felt undeserved. I tucked them into my jacket pocket and turned—
—and walked straight into myself.
Not a reflection. Not a trick of the glass.
A man standing inches away from me, same height, same build, same crooked nose I’d broken when I was sixteen. Same scar near the eyebrow I’d earned from a bar fight I never admitted was my fault.
He was wearing my old gray hoodie. The one I’d donated last winter.
“Hey,” he said.
His voice sounded exactly like mine does in recordings—flat, slightly wrong.
I froze.
He didn’t.
His fist came out of nowhere.
I wish I could say I fought back. That instinct kicked in. That I landed a punch of my own.
I didn’t.
I slipped on the ice and went down hard, air exploding from my lungs. He was on me instantly, knees pinning my arms, fists hammering my ribs with practiced precision. Not rage. Efficiency.
“Stop!” I shouted.
He didn’t answer.
He reached into my jacket, pulled out the cash, and held it up between us.
“You still think this is free?” he asked.
Then he hit me again.
I don’t know how long it lasted. Long enough for my face to swell. Long enough for my knuckles to ache even though I never threw a punch.
When he finally stood, he wiped his hands on his jeans like I used to do after fights. He looked down at me, breathing hard, and smiled.
That smile.
I’d seen it before.
In mirrors. In photos. In the moment right before I’d done something I’d regret later.
“You’re welcome,” he said.
Then he walked into the darkness behind the building and disappeared.
I woke up in the emergency room.
Concussion. Two cracked ribs. Missing cash.
The cop who took my statement tried to be polite about it.
“So you’re saying the guy who jumped you looked exactly like you.”
“Yes.
“And wore your clothes.”
Yes.
“And talked like you.”
Yes.
He stared at his notepad for a long moment. “Did you recognize him?”
I thought about lying.
“I did,” I said. “Eventually.”
He closed the notebook. “We’ll keep an eye out.”
I knew they wouldn’t find anything.
Because I didn’t think it was over.
The second time happened a month later.
I’d started slipping again—small things at first. Skimming tips. Pocketing loose cash when no one was looking. Convincing myself it didn’t matter.
I saw him before he touched me.
Standing at the end of an alley, hands in pockets, watching.
I turned and ran.
He caught me easily.
This time, he broke my nose.
“This is how you learn,” he said as I lay bleeding in the snow. “You only understand pain.”
I didn’t go to the hospital.
I didn’t tell anyone.
I quit the bar the next day.
After that, he showed up less often.
But always when I crossed lines.
Every time I convinced myself I deserved something I hadn’t earned. Every time I thought no one was watching.
He never stole more than I’d taken.
He never hurt me more than I’d hurt someone else.
I started changing.
Not because I wanted to be better.
Because I was afraid.
Years passed.
I moved. Got a steady job. Paid my debts. Apologized where I could. Learned to live smaller, quieter.
I almost believed it was over.
Then, last winter, I walked past an ATM on my way home from work.
I didn’t need money.
But I stopped anyway.
The reflection in the glass lagged behind me by half a second.
I felt it then.
The cold certainty.
He stepped out of the shadows, older now. Thinner. Eyes tired.
My eyes.
He didn’t attack me.
He just looked disappointed.
“That’s it?” he asked. “This is all you are now?”
I didn’t answer.
He sighed. “I guess that means it’s my turn.”
“My turn for what?”
He smiled.
“To take over.”
The world tilted.
I woke up in my apartment with bruised knuckles and someone else’s blood on my sleeves.
On the table was a wallet.
My wallet.
Empty.
In the mirror, my smile didn’t feel practiced anymore.
It felt natural.
And somewhere deep in my head, I felt relief.
Because now, when I go out at night, I don’t worry about running into him anymore.
I am him.
And someone out there—someone who thinks they can get away with it—is about to learn why they shouldn’t.
