Chapter 2

The police station was cold and smelled of stale coffee and disinfectant. They put him in a small, gray room and left him there.

Hours passed. The adrenaline faded, replaced by a deep, chilling dread.

Finally, a different officer came in and unlocked his cuffs.

"We can't hold you," the officer said, his voice flat. "The real Mr. Miller was contacted, and he doesn't want to press charges. Says he feels sorry for a clearly disturbed fan."

The words hit Ethan like a punch to the gut.

"Disturbed fan?"

"He's being generous. Take it and go. And don't go back to that restaurant. You'll be arrested for trespassing."

They pushed his wallet and phone across the table and showed him the door.

He stumbled out into the night. His apartment key was on his key ring. Would that even work? Was the imposter living there, too? Sleeping in his bed?

He couldn't face that. Not yet.

There was only one place to go. The restaurant.

He walked the twenty blocks back, his mind a storm of confusion and rage. This had to end now. He would get inside. He would confront this man. Someone in that kitchen, his team, would recognize him. They had to.

He reached the back alley behind The Alchemist's Table. The party was over. The street was quiet. He saw the familiar steel door to the kitchen, the one he used every single day.

He tried the handle. Locked. Of course.

He banged on the door with his fist.

"Marco! It's me, Ethan! Open the door!"

He slammed his fist against the metal again and again.

"Let me in! It's Chef! Open this damn door!"

He heard movement inside. The small, grated peephole slid open. He saw an eye he didn't recognize-one of the new dishwashers.

"Go away! We're closed!"

"Get Marco!" Ethan yelled, his voice hoarse. "Tell him Chef Miller is here!"

The peephole slammed shut.

Desperation clawed at him. He scanned the alley. A stack of empty milk crates sat against the wall. He grabbed one, his mind screaming. He was about to break into his own restaurant.

He lifted the crate over his head and charged at the door, slamming it against the metal with a deafening crash.

The door shuddered but held.

He did it again. And again. He was acting like a madman, but he didn't care.

Suddenly, the door swung open.

Two of his line cooks, people he had trained, stood there. Behind them was the head of his security team, a man named Carl. They weren't looking at him with recognition. They were looking at him with fear and anger.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Carl demanded, stepping forward.

"Carl, thank God," Ethan gasped, dropping the crate. "It's me. You have to listen to me. There's an imposter-"

"I know who you are," Carl said, his voice low and dangerous. "You're the psycho from last night. I warned you to stay away."

Carl took another step, and the cooks fanned out behind him, blocking the entrance.

The back of the alley was cast in deep shadow, but a single, harsh security light hummed above them, making everything look stark and ugly. The air suddenly felt heavy, thick with menace.

"Get out of here," Carl whispered, the sound sharp in the quiet alley. "This is your only warning. If I see you again, I won't call the cops. I'll handle you myself. Do you understand?"

The threat was not subtle. It hung in the air between them, a promise of violence.

Ethan stared at their faces, searching for a flicker of doubt, a sign of the men he knew. He saw nothing. Only cold hostility.

His shoulders slumped. His own team, his kitchen brigade, was threatening him. The humiliation was a physical thing, a burning heat in his chest. A renowned chef, celebrated just yesterday, was now being treated like a piece of garbage in the alley behind his own kitchen. It was absurd. It was a nightmare.

"Marco," he said, his voice breaking. "Just let me talk to Marco. Or sous chef Maria. Please."

He was begging. He hated the sound of his own voice.

"They don't want to talk to you," Carl said.

A voice from inside cut through the tension.

"It's alright, Carl. Let me handle this."

The cooks parted, and the imposter stepped into the doorway.

He was wearing one of Ethan's custom-made chef's jackets, the name "Ethan Miller" embroidered in black over the heart. He looked rested, confident. He looked like he belonged there.

He stepped out of the light of the kitchen and into the dim alley, a calm smile on his face. The contrast between the two of them was brutal. Ethan was disheveled, desperate, standing in the filth of the alley. The imposter was clean, composed, and in control.

He was a perfect, polished copy. And he was standing in Ethan's place.