HE'S NOT REAL, BUT HE'S MINE
He turned back to the mirror, pressing his palms flat against the cool surface, leaning in close enough to fog the glass with his breath.
There was something wrong with his eyes. They looked too wide, too dark, like they'd seen something they couldn't unsee.
Marcus stepped back. His gaze dropped to the nightstand. A glass of water sat beside a folded towel, and beneath that, the corner of something leather peeked out from under the fabric.
His wallet.
Relief punched through him, immediate and visceral. He grabbed it, flipped it open. His driver's license stared back: Marcus Webb, 28, San Francisco address. Credit cards still tucked into their slots. Sixty dollars in cash, and a photograph.
Bab Populer