Fatal Reflection The Price Of Emulation

The moment Kai started mimicking me was the moment I realized he knew exactly how much my father deposited into my account every month—seventy thousand dollars, no strings attached.

First, it was the hair. I’d spent three hundred dollars at a boutique salon for a textured, silver-ash crop; the next week, Kai’s shaggy black hair was gone, replaced by the exact same cut and color. Then the ink. I have a custom geometric sleeve on my left forearm; Kai spent three days wandering through twenty different tattoo parlors with a photo of my arm until he found someone unethical enough to copy it.