Chapter 4

The imposter brushed an imaginary piece of dust from the sleeve of his jacket, a small, deliberate gesture of ownership.

"Look at this jacket," he said, his voice casual. "Custom tailored. Egyptian cotton. Sophia picked out the fabric."

He tapped the black embroidery over his heart. "Ethan Miller."

Every word was designed to torment, to strip away another layer of Ethan's identity.

"You are not him!" Ethan yelled, his voice raw. The sound echoed in the narrow alley, sounding desperate and weak even to his own ears. "You're a fraud! A thief!"

The imposter simply smiled. "A thief of what? A name? A face? You think that's all there is to a man?"

He gestured vaguely back toward the closed kitchen door. "They're in there right now. Marco, Maria, the whole team. They're prepping for service. My service."

The names of his most trusted staff, spoken so easily by this monster, felt like a violation.

"Marco would never work for you if he knew," Ethan said, trying to find some solid ground. "He's been with me since the beginning. We built this place together."

He looked toward the door, as if he could will Marco to come out and see the truth.

"Marco!" he shouted. "Maria! It's me!"

The door remained shut. The only answer was the hum of the security light.

"You see?" the imposter said softly. "They can't hear you. Or maybe they just don't want to."

He stepped closer again, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

"I know all about you, Ethan. I know about the scar on your left palm from that oyster knife when you were an apprentice. I know you hate cilantro. I know you whisper to Sophia in French when you think she's asleep."

Ethan's heart hammered against his ribs. How could he know these things? These weren't public knowledge. These were the small, intimate details that made up his life.

"How...?"

"That's the real question, isn't it?" the imposter said, a flicker of something dark and triumphant in his eyes. "Not who I am, but how I am. How am I more Ethan Miller than you are?"

The cold reality of his situation sunk in deeper. This wasn't just a simple case of identity theft. This was something else, something far more sinister and complete. The man hadn't just stolen his name and his restaurant. He had stolen his memories, his secrets. He had hollowed out Ethan's life and was now wearing it like a suit.

Ethan stared at the man with his face, a man who knew his deepest secrets, and felt a terror that went beyond fear. It was a fundamental dread, the feeling of being erased.

"What do you want?" Ethan asked, his voice barely a whisper.

"I already have it," the imposter said, smiling. "I have my beautiful fiancée, my three-star restaurant, a brilliant career. I have my life."

He looked at Ethan with that same terrible pity.

"The real question is... what are you going to do now? With nothing?"