I first saw him on a screen in my dimly lit apartment, the glow of the TV flickering across my face like a confession. He was a bellhop in a cheap film, but his eyes—my eyes—locked onto the camera with a familiarity that made my chest tighten. I rewound it. Played it again. Same scar above the lip. Same way of tilting his head when he listened. I didn’t know his name then, but I knew he was me.

Days passed in a haze of research. Anthony Claire. Actor. Lived in Mississauga. Married. I called his apartment. His wife answered. I heard her breath catch—she thought I was him. I told her I wasn’t. She was afraid. I hung up.

Then he called me. We met in a hotel. No words could capture the horror and wonder of seeing myself stand across the room, alive, breathing, smirking. He touched his scar. I touched mine. Same place. Same depth.

Now I’m wearing his clothes. His key burns in my pocket—the one to the underground club. I shout to Helen that I’m leaving. No answer.

I walk into the bedroom.

She’s not there.

In the corner, crouched against the wall, is a tarantula the size of a man. Its legs tremble. Its many eyes reflect the streetlight.

I don’t move.

I don’t scream.

I just… look.