Chapter 5: The Name on the Card

(Mani's POV)

A stabbing pain in my chest dragged me out of the darkness.

I sucked in a breath and immediately regretted it. My lungs burned. My fingers dug into the cold concrete beneath me as I struggled to breathe, my entire body trembling.

For a few seconds, I couldn't remember where I was.

Then everything came back; the gunshot, the boy, his face— my face.

I pressed a hand against my chest. There was no wound, no blood. Nothing. I really didn't get shot.

Yet the pain was still there, deep beneath my ribs, as if the bullet had passed through me instead of him.

I forced myself upright.

The parking lot was strangely quiet now. I crawled toward the edge of the building and cautiously looked around the corner.

The men in dark suits were still there. They were carrying the boy. His body hung between them, completely limp.

I watched as they loaded him into a black van.

My stomach twisted.

They weren't treating him like a person, they were handling him like a sack of mazes.

I should have been terrified.

I was. But beneath the fear was something else; grief. It didn't make sense. I hadn't known him, I didn't even know his name. And yet seeing his body disappear into that van made something inside me ache.

Maybe because he had my face. Maybe because, for one strange second, I'd felt his pain.

Or maybe because I couldn't stop thinking about the fact that someone had just died in place of me.

The van pulled away.

I stayed where I was until it disappeared around the corner.

Only then did I move.

The boy's bag was lying several feet away. I walked toward it, every step making my chest throb.

I picked it up.

It was heavier than it looked.

I opened it.

There's a bunch of makeup, his phone, his wallet, his passport, and several things I didn't recognize.

Then I found an identification card.

I stared at it.

The photograph made my stomach drop.

It was him— no, it was me. Same eyes, same nose, same lips, even the little crease beneath one eye was the same.

I turned the card over, then looked at the photograph again.

“Eliot Hargrove.”

I mouthed the name silently.

Eliot.

It felt strange on my tongue. I had never had a face like this staring back at me before.

Well… not until today.

I looked at my own hands, then back at the photograph.

I wondered what it would feel like to introduce myself as Eliot.

The thought came and went so quickly that I barely noticed it. Names had never meant much to me anyway, I'd had several. Some belonged to people I used to be, others belonged to people I had pretended to be.

I had a bunch of fake IDs. I use them when necessary, and discard them when they become dangerous.

Still, Eliot Hargrove felt different. It belonged to a person who had existed, a person who looked exactly like me, a person who was now dead.

I slipped the ID into the bag.

I didn't know what I was supposed to do with it.

I didn't have time to figure it out.

A car suddenly screeched to a stop beside me.

I stumbled backward, my heart lurched. Then the passenger window rolled down.

Carl.

His eyes widened when he saw me. “Mani!” He threw open the passenger door. “Get in.”

I didn't ask where he'd been, I didn't ask how he'd found me, I didn't even ask why he was here.

I just got in.

When one door closed, I always found another.

When one person disappeared, I learned the next person's habits.

When circumstances changed, I changed with them.

It was easier than trying to understand why everything kept happening.

Carl drove away without saying much.

Neither did I.

I stared through the window, clutching Eliot's bag against my chest.

His name wouldn't leave my head.

Eliot Hargrove.

Eventually, the pain in my chest faded into a dull ache.

The guilt didn't.

I kept thinking about his blood, his face, his eyes…

For someone who'd spent most of his life running from death, I found it strange how guilty I felt for surviving.

Carl glanced at me once. “You okay?”

I looked at him. “No.”

He didn't say anything after that.

Neither did I.

By the time we reached his house, I was too exhausted to care where we were going.

Carl parked, got out, and opened my door.

I followed him inside.

The moment I stepped through the doorway, I stopped.

This wasn't a normal house.

The ceiling seemed impossibly high. Marble stretched beneath my feet, polished enough to reflect the lights overhead. Gold accents lined the walls, and expensive paintings hung in places where I'd normally expect cheap decorations.

I slowly looked around.

This was definitely not the home of a regular tattoo artist.

I turned toward Carl. “Who are you?” My voice came out hoarse.

He glanced over his shoulder, then he smirked. “I'm right there on your thigh, baby.”

I immediately felt the need to cross my legs.

I regretted that tattoo, I regretted meeting him, I regretted a lot of things. But right then, I was too tired to argue.

Carl walked farther inside. “Come on.”

I followed.

He led me upstairs and opened a bedroom door.

“Clean yourself up. There's a shirt on the bed. Wear it if you want.” His eyes travelled over me. “Though I'd prefer you naked.”

I gave him a flat stare.

He raised both hands. “Fine. Fine.”

He walked away. “I'll get you some clothes and food.”

He paused at the end of the hallway.

“Don't touch anything strange. And lock the door if you want.”

Then he smiled.

It almost looked sincere. Almost.

The door closed.

I stood there for a moment. Then I looked around the room, everything was already there… towels, soap, water, a clean shirt.

It was almost unsettling how easily I slipped into it.

I'd spent enough time surviving on streets and in places that weren't mine. A bed didn't need to be mine for me to sleep in it. A shirt didn't need to belong to me for me to wear it.

I've always used what I had, survived where I could, questions could come later.

I walked toward the dresser.

My reflection stared back at me.

I looked terrible. My face was pale, my eyes were swollen, there was dried blood on my sleeve; I couldn't tell whether it was mine. Or Eliot's.

I looked away.

The shower was hot enough to hurt.

I scrubbed my skin until it turned red, watching the water carry traces of blood toward the drain.

But no matter how long I stood there, I couldn't wash away the feeling.

Eliot's face kept appearing in my mind.

Eventually, I gave up.

I dried myself and pulled on Carl's oversized white shirt.

It smelled like him. Strangely, the scent calmed me.

I hated that.

I hated that my body could find comfort in something my mind didn't trust.

Still, I didn't take it off.

When I went downstairs, the smell of food greeted me.

Carl was in the kitchen.

There were several containers of takeout spread across the counter.

He looked up when I entered, his eyes lingering on me. “You look better.”

I ignored him and sat down.

He joined me.

We ate mostly in silence.

Every now and then, I caught him watching me.

I pretended not to notice.

When we finished, I gathered the dishes.

Carl raised an eyebrow. “You don't have to do that.”

“I know.”

I carried them to the sink anyway.

Habit.

Wherever I'd stayed before, you cleaned up after yourself. It was easier than waiting for someone to remind you that you were taking up space.

I turned on the tap.

A few seconds later, I felt Carl behind me.

His arms slipped around my waist, his chest pressed against my back, his breath brushing my ear.

“My shirt is more dangerous than I thought.”

Goosebumps rose along my skin. “Leave me alone, Carl.”

He chuckled. “Sure. For now.”

His arms disappeared.

“Get changed. Your clothes are on the couch.” He started walking away. “I'm heading out.”

I turned slightly. “You're leaving?”

“For a while. I'll get you a phone on my way back.”

Then he walked out.

The front door closed, and silence filled the house.

I stood there for several seconds before finally releasing the breath I'd been holding.

I changed into the clothes he'd left for me and curled up on the couch.

The fabric was soft, the room was warm, there was food in my stomach, and for the first time in days, I wasn't running.

My body relaxed almost immediately.

My mind didn't.

I pulled Eliot's bag closer and stared at the identification card.

Eliot Hargrove.

I traced the edge of the card with my thumb.

Somewhere in this world, there had been a boy who looked exactly like me.

He had a name, a family, a life… and now he was dead.

I didn't know why that frightened me more than being hunted.