The rain-slicked streets of Chicago gleamed under the sodium lamps as I hunched in the doorway of the abandoned warehouse, my breath fogging the cold air. My name is Daniel Harper—or at least, that’s what my driver’s license said, the one I’d found crumpled in the glove compartment of the wrecked car. Three months ago, I’d woken up in a hospital bed with no memory of how I’d gotten there. The doctors called it traumatic amnesia from a head injury. But as I watched the man across the street enter the brownstone that used to be my home, I knew something far worse had happened.

He looked exactly like me. Same six-foot frame, same broad shoulders, same sharp jawline shadowed with stubble. He even wore the wool overcoat I’d bought last winter in New York. My wife, Laura, opened the door for him, her smile warm and genuine—the kind she hadn’t given me since I’d stumbled back into her life a week ago, battered and confused.

“Daniel?” she’d said then, her voice trembling as she clutched the doorframe. “You’re… you’re dead. The police told me. There was a crash. They identified your body.”

I’d shown her the hospital bracelet, the discharge papers with my name on them. I’d recited the pet names we used, the secret we’d shared on our honeymoon in Santorini—the way she’d traced the scar on my ribs from childhood appendectomy. Reluctantly, she’d let me in, but her eyes held suspicion, darting to her phone as if ready to call for help. That night, she’d slept in the guest room.

Now, this impostor was inside, living my life. I crossed the street, heart hammering, and peered through the rain-streaked window. There he was, embracing Laura in the living room, their laughter filtering through the glass like a knife twist. Rage boiled in me. Who was he? A twin I never knew? A plastic surgeon’s masterpiece? Or something more sinister?

I waited until the lights dimmed. Slipping around back, I jimmied the kitchen window—the same way I’d done as a teen sneaking smokes. Inside, the house smelled different: less of my aftershave, more of some citrus cologne. Photos on the mantel showed ‘me’ at events I didn’t remember: a company gala, a vacation in Maui. Laura looked happy in them, her arm around his waist.

Upstairs, in what used to be my office, I rifled through drawers. Bank statements in my name, but transactions I didn’t recognize. An email printout from my boss: ‘Great work on the Peterson project, Dan. Promotion’s yours.’ Peterson project? I’d been on the Ellis account.

A floorboard creaked. I froze. Footsteps. The door opened, and there he stood—the impostor—in pajama bottoms, silhouetted by hallway light.

“Who the hell are you?” he growled, voice a perfect match for mine.

“I’m Daniel Harper,” I said, stepping forward. “You’re in my house.”

He laughed, low and menacing. “Buddy, get out before I call the cops. I’ve had enough of you lunatics. First that woman last month, now you.”

“Woman?”

“Some crazy claiming to be my sister. Get lost.”

I lunged, tackling him to the carpet. We grappled, fists flying, mirrors shattering. He was strong, trained—maybe boxing? I pinned him, knife from the kitchen drawer at his throat.

“Tell me who you are!” I snarled.

Gasping, he whispered, “I’m you, idiot. Daniel Harper. Architect. Married to Laura five years.”

“Liar! I don’t remember half this!”

He smirked. “Amnesia, huh? Crash messed you up. But I’m the real one. You’re the fake.”

Laura’s scream echoed. Lights blazed. She burst in with a baseball bat. “Stop! Both of you!”

Police came. They took me away, the impostor spinning tales of a home invasion. At the station, Officer Reyes—the same from before—eyed me wearily. “Harper, we pulled your prints. No match in the system for the crash victim. The real Daniel’s prints are on file. Yours aren’t.”

Released on Laura’s bail, I holed up in a motel, paranoia gnawing. Who was I? Fragments of memory surfaced: the screech of tires, blinding headlights, a bottle of whiskey rolling across the dash. Not mine. Or were they?

I dug deeper. Hired a PI with my dwindling savings. He found nothing on me pre-crash. But the impostor? Clean record, my record.

Nights blurred into obsessions. I’d shadow him at work—my firm, Harper Designs. Colleagues nodded at him, blanked me. “Sorry, do I know you?”

One evening, tailing him to a bar, I overheard: “Yeah, Laura’s great. Still can’t believe I pulled it off after the switch.” Switch? To whom?

I followed him home again, this time waiting in the basement. When he descended for laundry, I ambushed, chloroform rag over his mouth. Dragged him to the trunk of my beat-up Chevy, drove to the warehouse.

Tied to a chair in the dim light, he came to, spitting curses. “You’re insane. Let me go.”

“Tell the truth,” I demanded, pacing. “How’d you steal my life? Surgery? Hypnosis?”

He stared, then sighed. “You’re not gonna believe this, but you’re the thief.”

“Bullshit.”

“Listen. Three months ago, highway pileup. I was Daniel Harper, driving home from a client meeting. A car—your car—swerved into me, drunk driver. Totaled us both. I blacked out, woke in hospital as you stumbled in, covered in blood, wearing my jacket, wallet in pocket.”

“Lies!”

“Check the scar,” he said, nodding to his arm. “From the Ellis project demo, when the model collapsed. You claimed no scar there.”

I rolled up my sleeve. Smooth skin. His? Jagged line. Memory flickered: I’d told Laura it was from Ellis. Did I?

“You took my ID, my clothes. Hospital mixed us up in chaos. You walked out as me.”

Doubt crept in. Why no family for me? Why did Laura hesitate?

“Prove it.” I showed him a photo from my wallet—a faded snapshot of Laura and me at the altar. “Remember this?”

He nodded. “Vegas chapel, Elvis officiant. You said ‘I do’ too loud, scared the couple ahead.”

I hadn’t remembered that detail. Had I?

Hours passed, his stories chipping my certainty. I left him bound, drove to the house. Laura alone, packing.

“He’s real, isn’t he?” she said, tears streaming. “The hospital called after you left. Your prints—no, his prints match. Yours match Thomas Reed, petty thief, DUI history.”

Thomas Reed. The name echoed. Whiskey bottle. Swerving car.

“I killed you? Him?”

She nodded. “Accident. You panicked, switched clothes at the scene, hid in the wreckage. Woke up, assumed his life. Guilt buried it all.”

Flashback hit like lightning: the crash. Me—Thomas—drunk, veering into Daniel’s lane. Impact. Blood. His wallet, tempting escape. I stripped him, dragged him aside, took his life.

Horror choked me. All my ‘memories’—pieced from his phone, wallet notes, Laura’s stories I’d eavesdropped post-crash. I’d insinuated back, fooling her with research.

“Why didn’t you say?”

“You seemed so real. Therapy, maybe. But then the stalking…”

I fled to the warehouse. He was gone—escaped.

Sirens wailed. End of the line.

In cuffs, truth settled: I’d stolen more than identity. I’d stolen a life, piece by shattered piece. As the real Daniel watched from the squad car, our eyes met—his forgiving, mine broken. The mirror of self cracked forever.