The first thing he saw was the ceiling.

Not a familiar ceiling—no glow-in-the-dark stars he’d stuck up as a kid, no faint water stain in the corner shaped like Florida. Just gray. Cracked. The kind of anonymous ceiling you only see in cheap motels, haunted basements… or nightmares.

A zip-tie bit into his wrists.

“Ah—” Artie’s voice ripped out of him in a raw, animal sound. “Please help! Let me go!”

His own echo answered him.

Panic kicked in like a second heartbeat. He jerked upright and almost toppled off the metal cot. The room spun: bare walls, a bolted-down table, a single door with no handle on the inside. No window. No phone. No clock. No clue.

“What?” he gasped, chest heaving. “Where am I? Where’s my phone?”

His jeans pocket was empty. His jacket—gone. His backpack—gone. The world tilted.

He staggered to the door and pounded on it with both fists. “Hello? Hey! Somebody, please!”

From somewhere beyond, muffled but close, a man’s voice floated back like a bad dream.

“It’s time,” the voice said, almost cheerful. “Time to get what’s rightfully mine.”

Artie froze.

He knew that voice.

He’d heard it once before in the worst night of his life—muffled by smoke and sirens, the night his dorm fire alarm had gone off “by accident.” A voice laughing in the distance while everyone poured out of Smithson University’s North Hall into the freezing New England night.

“Sorry, bro,” the voice added. “Business is business.”

The door stayed closed.

Artie pressed his forehead against the cold metal, listening to footsteps fade away, and realized, with a slow, sinking certainty, that whoever that voice belonged to was walking out into his life.

And he was stuck here.

“Sweetie, you scared me!” his mom exclaimed, her hand flying to her chest.

The front door of the Bishop family’s suburban home in Lakeview, USA, stood open to the late-afternoon sun. The American flag over the porch fluttered lazily in a warm breeze. Somewhere down the block, a lawn mower droned.

Artie—only it wasn’t Artie—stood on the threshold, wearing the faded hoodie their real son had left in his closet before going back to Smithson University three months ago. The boy in the doorway had the same green eyes, the same crooked smile, the same half-curl to his dark blond hair.

It was almost perfect.

“Artie!” his mom beamed, throwing her arms around him. “We didn’t know you were coming home. How are your classes? How’s the new dorm?”

He hugged her back easily, like he’d been doing it his whole life. “I was feeling homesick,” he said. “Decided to come home. I’ll just commute now. If that’s okay.”

His dad appeared behind her, wiping grease off his hands with a shop rag. “Of course it’s okay,” he said, eyes softening. “Come here, kiddo.”

They hugged too.

If either of them noticed that their son smelled faintly of cheap motel soap instead of his usual campus detergent, they didn’t say anything.

He took it all in greedily: the family photos on the wall, the framed flag from his dad’s short stint in the Army Reserve, the graduation picture of Artie in his high school cap and gown standing between them—smiling, alive, clueless that somewhere, in a file cabinet in some county office, there was a red-stamped word next to his birth record.

Twin.

“You! You’re Brett Harris.”

The real Artie stared at the police officer in front of him, the fluorescent lights of the Avalon County sheriff’s station buzzing in his ears. His wrists were cuffed now, metal biting into skin that still burned from zip-ties.

“No, I’m Artie,” he said. “Arthur Bishop. I need help. I’ve been—”

“Brett Harris,” the older officer repeated, expression flat and satisfied, like he’d just checked a name off a list. “You’re under arrest.”

“For what?” Artie choked out.

“For arson. Vandalism. Drug trafficking. And resisting arrest,” the man recited. “All federal and state charges with outstanding warrants.”

“Drug traff—what?” Artie’s stomach dropped. “I don’t even drink coffee after six. You’ve got the wrong guy. I don’t know who Brett is. Please, just listen—”

“You have the right to remain silent,” the officer cut in, like he’d done this a thousand times. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in court.”

Another cop—younger, dark hair, name tag reading ALVAREZ—watched from the doorway, frowning slightly.

Artie turned to him like he was a lifeline. “Look me up,” he begged. “Artie Bishop. I go to Smithson University. I live in Lakeview. I swear, somebody’s framing me. He took my life.”

The older officer snapped the folder shut. “I recommend you use your right to remain silent, young man,” he said. “Take him back.”

The cell door clanged shut behind Artie.

He slid down the wall until he sat on the concrete, breathing like he’d just run across the entire state.

It was impossible. It had to be a mistake. But he kept seeing his own face in his mind’s eye, standing in his parents’ doorway, smiling his smile.

Somewhere beyond the concrete and steel of the county jail, a stranger wearing his face was probably sitting at his kitchen table.

Calling his mother “Mom.”

Calling his father “Dad.”

And nobody noticed.

“Babe, where are you?” Madison hissed into her phone, balancing her chemistry textbook on one knee and her laptop on the other. The Smithson University library was mostly empty, just rows of shelves and the occasional stressed-out undergrad. Through the tall windows, she could see the quad and the American flag on the main lawn swaying in the autumn wind.

“I’ve been waiting for half an hour,” she said. “Are you okay?”

The call went straight to voicemail again.

She chewed her lip.

Madison lived in a world of schedules and GPA requirements and financial aid deadlines. Her scholarship to Smithson was the only thing standing between her and a lifetime working the register at the grocery store back in her hometown. Missing tutoring sessions wasn’t her style.

Neither was getting ghosted.

“You really need to pass this class,” Professor Franz had told her earlier that week, his glasses perched low on his nose. “If your average drops, your scholarship is at risk.”

“I know,” she’d said. “I won’t let that happen.”

Her phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

“Hello?” she answered, hopeful.

“Hey, are you Madison?” a bright voice asked. “My name’s Gohar. Professor Franz said you needed help with chemistry. I make tutoring videos on YouTube; I’m on campus anyway. Can I join you?”

Madison blinked. “You’re that study YouTuber?” she blurted. “I watch your organic chemistry hacks.”

Gohar laughed. “That’s me. Don’t worry; this one’s on the house. Let’s get you through this exam.”

They spread her notes out across the table. “So you’re learning about alkaloids,” Gohar said, pointing to a structural diagram. “This one here? Strychnine. Super poisonous. But we know it’s an alkaloid because it’s organic and contains nitrogen.”

“Poisonous,” Madison repeated, making a note. “Okay. That actually… makes sense when you say it.”

“See? You’ve got this,” Gohar said. “We’ll have you acing this test in no time.”

Madison smiled for the first time all day.

Then her gaze drifted to the bracelet on her wrist—the simple braided band Artie had given her last year on their one-year anniversary.

“It’s our special bracelet,” he’d said, sliding the matching one onto his own wrist. “Promise me you’ll never take it off.”

Her smile faded.

Where was he?

“You get one phone call,” Officer Smith said, handing over a battered office phone, cord tangled.

Artie swallowed. “My mom,” he said. “She always answers. Please.”

Smith rolled his eyes. “Make it quick.”

The line rang and rang.

Then clicked.

“Hello?” his mom’s voice said. Warm. Familiar. Safe.

“Mom,” Artie gasped, already halfway to tears. “It’s me. It’s Artie. Thank God. I—”

“This is some kind of joke, right?” she cut in, sharp. “Who is this?”

“It’s me,” he insisted. “I’m in the Avalon County jail. There’s been a mistake; they think I’m some guy named Brett Harris—”

On the other end, she scoffed softly. “My son is standing right in front of me,” she said. “Don’t call here again.”

The line went dead.

Artie stared at the receiver like it had bitten him.

“What did she say?” Officer Smith asked.

“She said her real son is standing in front of her,” Artie whispered. “She thinks it’s a prank.”

Smith sighed. “Hang up,” he said. “You’re done.”

He took the phone back.

In the Bishop kitchen in Lakeview, Mrs. Bishop turned to the young man at the table, pouring himself a glass of milk from the fridge like he owned the place.

“They said you were in jail,” she said, laughing shakily. “Some officer from Avalon County.”

“What?” the boy said, eyes widening—just the right amount. “That must be my college buddies. They think prank calls are hilarious.”

She shook her head. “Kids these days,” she muttered, turning back to the stove.

He sipped his milk and smiled into the glass.

Officer Alvarez stared at the copy machine as it spit out yet another page from an old file.

“Arthur Bishop,” he read under his breath. “Adopted at birth. Lakeview, USA.”

In the merged records from their old agency, he’d finally found the name Artie had begged him to look up. Plenty of kids insisted they weren’t who the system said they were. Not many could give addresses, college names, majors.

Next page.

“Unknown twin male,” the file read. “Never adopted. Placed in foster care. Documented behavioral issues. Aggression. Fire-setting. One instance of setting a foster home on fire. Terminated placement. Placement unknown.”

Alvarez leaned back in his chair.

A twin.

Identical DNA.

One grew up in a tidy American suburb with a flag on the porch, soccer practices, and a room full of participation trophies. The other bounced from group home to group home, watching from the outside as the world gave his brother everything.

He closed the file and rubbed his eyes.

This wasn’t some kid faking insanity.

This was a mistake.

And mistakes, in their line of work, could get people hurt.

“Artie!” Madison said, relief flooding her as she stood on the Bishops’ front porch.

The door had opened to reveal him—or someone who looked like him, at least. Same hoodie. Same hair, slightly different style. Same green eyes. But his smile didn’t quite reach them.

“Uh… hey,” he said awkwardly.

“You stood me up at the library,” she said, half angry, half worried. “We always go together. And you haven’t answered any of my texts. What’s going on? And where’s your bracelet?”

She pointed to his bare wrist.

He glanced down, feigning surprise. “I must have lost it,” he said. “Sorry. I lost my phone too.”

“You lost both?” she said. “Since when are you this careless? Since when do you go shopping?” she added, spotting the expensive bags piled behind him in the hall. “You hate shopping.”

“I just… needed a few new things,” he said. “Nothing’s going on, okay?”

Madison narrowed her eyes. “Seriously, Artie, you’re not acting like yourself.”

He shrugged. “Maybe my parents are right,” he said. “Maybe you and I need some space.”

It felt like someone punched her.

“Since when do you agree with your parents about anything?” she whispered. “Artie, I love you. We can talk about whatever’s—”

“Madison,” Mrs. Bishop cut in, appearing in the doorway with a tight smile. “What did we tell you? You’re not welcome here. You’re… not the right fit for our son. I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to ask you to leave.”

Madison stared from one face to the other. “Artie,” she said. “Call me. Please.”

The door closed.

Behind it, the boy let out a small, satisfied laugh.

“It’s all mine,” he murmured. “Finally.”

The decision to send Artie to Butler Psychiatric Hospital came down from above.

“Where’s the inmate?” Alvarez asked when he reached the holding cell and found it empty.

“Transferred,” Smith said, shuffling paperwork. “Butler took him an hour ago.”

“Psych?” Alvarez blinked. “Why?”

“Meltdown,” Smith said. “Kept screaming about being kidnapped, having a twin, wrong man, blah blah. Look, you said yourself he was panicking. Let the doctors deal with him.”

“I never said he was crazy,” Alvarez muttered. “I said his story didn’t add up.”

“Well, it’s not our problem now,” Smith said. “Besides, we got the guy. What criminal would walk right up to us and turn himself in?”

The kind who didn’t know he was a criminal, Alvarez thought.

He grabbed his jacket.

If no one else was going to fix this, he would.

Artie stared at the pale green walls of Butler Hospital, his mind working desperate circles.

He’d watched enough American crime shows to know what happened to people who were labeled “unreliable witnesses.” Their stories turned into jokes. Their danger signals became background noise.

“I’m not crazy,” he told the orderly who delivered his food. “I’m not Brett Harris. I’m Arthur Bishop. I have a student ID in my wallet back at the jail—”

“No phone calls,” the orderly said, not unkindly. “Doctor’s orders. Try to rest.”

Artie pressed his palms into his eyes.

“Madison,” he whispered. “Please still pick up.”

Madison was pacing her dorm room, clutching her phone, when an unknown number flashed on the screen again.

“Hello?” she answered, heart already braced for another telemarketer.

“Maddy, it’s me,” Artie’s voice said. But not the cold, distant one from the Bishop doorstep; this one was ragged, terrified, and somehow more like him than anything she’d heard all week.

She sat down hard on the bed. “Artie?” she breathed. “What has been going on with you? What happened today at your house—”

“That wasn’t me,” he said. “I’ve been arrested. They think I’m some guy named Brett Harris. I’m at Butler Hospital. They won’t listen. Nobody will. I think someone’s framing me—someone who looks exactly like me. Maddy, I’m not even in town.”

Her brain scrambled to catch up. “Wait,” she said slowly. “That… that wasn’t you I saw outside the store? You broke up with me and told me you lost your bracelet, and—”

“No,” he said. “I would never. I’m in a hospital room with bars on the window. They say my name is Brett. Please believe me. You’re the only one who might.”

She thought of the strange distance in his eyes at the house. The missing bracelet. The expensive shopping bags. The way he’d suddenly cared what his parents thought.

She thought of strychnine. Poisonous, Gohar had said.

“Okay,” she whispered. “I believe you. I’m going to fix this.”

The line clicked off.

Madison grabbed her jacket.

“You again?” Mr. Bishop said, gripping the door handle. His expression was more exhausted than hostile this time. “Madison, this is bordering on harassment.”

“I know,” she said. “I’m sorry. I—look, I left my laptop charger in Artie’s room. It’s my only one. I have to study. Please, just five minutes to grab it. Then you’ll never see me again.”

He hesitated.

“Five minutes,” he said. “And I’m timing you.”

She darted past him, heart pounding. The photos on the hallway walls blurred. She knew the way; she’d spent enough weekends here in high school, eating pizza in the living room, watching football with Mr. Bishop and pretending she understood the rules.

Artie’s door was ajar.

Inside, the room looked familiar on the surface—same posters, same bedspread, same row of trophies on the shelf. But there were changes: designer clothes tossed over the chair, a half-unpacked bag of new sneakers on the floor.

Her charger lay on the desk.

She snatched it—then froze.

On the same desk, pushed halfway under a notebook, sat a small, amber-tinted bottle. The pharmacy label was half-torn. Her eyes skipped to the smaller text underneath.

Strychnine nitrate.

Her stomach turned to ice.

Super poisonous, she heard Gohar say in her head.

She unscrewed the cap with trembling fingers and sniffed, then nearly gagged. This wasn’t some random allergy med. This was serious.

She remembered Artie’s panicked voice: I think someone’s framing me… someone who looks exactly like me.

She remembered his adopted status. The way Mrs. Bishop had said, “my son is standing right in front of me.”

She remembered the file Gohar had shown her earlier on her laptop after tutoring, an email forwarded from Professor Franz with the subject line: FYI for Officer Alvarez.

Apparently, Arthur Bishop has a twin, the message had read. Unadopted. Violent history.

Madison’s breath caught.

“He’s trying to kill them,” she whispered. “He’s going to poison them and inherit everything.”

“Madison!” Mr. Bishop shouted from the hall. “Time’s up!”

She shoved the bottle into her pocket, grabbed her charger, and bolted.

“Hi,” Madison gasped at the Butler Hospital front desk, hair damp from the sprint from the parking lot. “I need to see a patient. It’s an emergency.”

The receptionist glanced at the clock. “Visiting hours are over, honey,” she said. “You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”

Madison planted both hands on the desk. “I don’t have tomorrow,” she said. “Someone’s going to die. I need to talk to Brett Harris. Please.”

The woman’s fingers paused over the keyboard.

“Who are you?” a familiar voice asked behind her.

She turned.

Officer Alvarez stood in the hallway, badge clipped to his belt, file under his arm.

“I’m Artie’s girlfriend,” Madison said. “He called me. He says he’s here under the name Brett Harris. And I think… I think he’s telling the truth.”

Alvarez’s eyes sharpened. “Me too,” he said quietly. “Come with me.”

They strode down the corridor together. Alvarez flashed his badge at a nurse. “I need Brett Harris released into my custody,” he said. “We’re taking him back to the station for further questioning. Doctor’s cleared it.”

“Since when?” the nurse demanded.

“Since five minutes ago,” Alvarez said smoothly, holding out a form with the doctor’s signature.

Inside the small room, Artie looked up from the bed, eyes hollow.

“Am I hallucinating?” he whispered. “Maddy?”

She flew to him, wrapping her arms around him as best she could with the restraints. “You’re not crazy,” she said. “You have a twin.”

He choked out a laugh that sounded like a sob. “That would explain a lot.”

“We don’t have much time,” Alvarez said, unfastening the straps. “Tell me everything your parents’ house looks like. Fast.”

In Lakeview, the Bishop dining room looked like a magazine spread: polished wood table, white plates, a bouquet in the center. Outside, the sun slipped behind the hills. Porch lights winked on up and down the quiet American street.

“I made your favorite,” the boy who called himself Artie said, setting steaming bowls of stew in front of Mr. and Mrs. Bishop. “You guys deserve a treat.”

“This looks delicious,” Mrs. Bishop said. “Where’s yours?”

“Oh, I ate earlier,” he said. “Cook’s privilege.”

Mr. Bishop frowned. “You sure?” he asked. “You always say you’re starving.”

“Watch the game,” the boy said lightly. “It’ll get cold.”

He turned his back to fetch salt and pepper from the kitchen.

He didn’t see the squad car pull up outside.

He didn’t hear the second car screech to a stop behind it, or see Madison spill out beside Officer Alvarez, sprinting up the front walkway.

He did hear the front door slam open.

“Brett Harris!” Alvarez shouted, gun drawn, voice booming through the house with all the authority of American law enforcement. “Hands where I can see them!”

Mr. Bishop’s spoon clattered into his bowl.

“Don’t eat!” Madison gasped, bursting into the dining room. “Put the spoons down!”

“What?” Mrs. Bishop demanded. “What is going on?”

The boy turned slowly, eyes narrowing.

“This isn’t fair,” he snarled. “I’m the real Artie. He’s the fake. I’m the one who deserves this life, not him.”

“Check his pockets,” Madison said, breathless. “He had this in his room.”

She slapped the amber bottle onto the table.

Strychnine nitrate.

“Oh my God,” Mrs. Bishop whispered, pressing a shaking hand to her mouth.

Alvarez kept his gun trained on the boy as another officer cuffed him. “We also have your accomplice outside,” he said. “Rudy, right? The guy waiting in the car around the corner? He sang like a canary when we told him the charges.”

Brett—because that’s who he was, no matter what name he’d stolen—struggled against the cuffs. “I grew up with nothing,” he spat. “Rotten foster homes, locked doors, empty fridges. You handed him everything on a silver platter. Why shouldn’t I take what should have been mine?”

Mr. Bishop stared at him, horror and something colder warring in his eyes. “We didn’t know,” he said hoarsely. “We didn’t know there was another baby.”

“Well, now you do,” Brett said. “Too late.”

They led him out.

For a long moment, the house was silent except for the chirp of the TV and Mrs. Bishop’s quiet sobs.

Then someone stepped hesitantly into the doorway.

Artie.

The real one.

A bruise darkened his jaw. His wrists were red where the cuffs had been. He looked smaller somehow, like the walls of the house might push him right out.

“Mom,” he said softly. “Dad.”

Mrs. Bishop crossed the room in three strides and pulled him into her arms so tightly he wheezed.

“I am so sorry,” she cried. “I am so, so sorry. I didn’t believe you. I hung up on you.”

“I don’t blame you,” he said into her shoulder. “I didn’t believe me at first either.”

Mr. Bishop wrapped his arms around them both. “Son,” he said, his voice breaking. “We left you. In there. We let them… we let him…”

“You didn’t know,” Artie said. “But maybe next time a cop calls saying your kid is in jail, you could… check.”

Madison stood a little apart, suddenly shy.

“And you,” Mrs. Bishop said, pulling back and reaching for her. “We owe you everything. You saved our lives.”

“I just paid attention in chem,” Madison said weakly. “And believed your son when he sounded insane.”

“We were wrong about you,” Mr. Bishop said, wiping his face with his sleeve. “You are always welcome here. Always.”

Artie caught Madison’s eye.

“Thank you,” he said. Two words, carrying all the fear of concrete walls and green ceilings and poison bottles he’d been holding in.

She stepped into his arms.

“Of course,” she said. “I mean… I’m just relieved you still want to keep seeing me. You did break up with me, you know.”

“That wasn’t me,” he said. “And for the record, I’m never taking this off again.”

He lifted his wrist.

His bracelet glinted in the dining room light.

It had been in an evidence bag at Butler, returned to him when Alvarez signed him out. The twin marks on their wrists matched perfectly, threads frayed but strong.

Outside, the blue-and-red lights of the police cruisers painted the quiet American street like a warning and a promise.

Inside, around a table that no longer held poison, a family sat together, shaken but intact.

For the first time since waking under that unfamiliar ceiling, Artie felt anchored.

He’d lost twenty-four hours of his life in a concrete blur. He’d gained something he didn’t know he could have again: trust. In himself. In Madison. Even, slowly, in the system that had nearly labeled him a criminal.

“You know,” Madison said, nudging him. “When you tell this story later? People are going to think you’re making it up. Evil twin. Poison. County jail. Psych hospital. You sound like one of those American true-crime podcasts.”

Artie laughed, the sound shaky but real.

“Yeah,” he said. “But I was there.”

He looked at the family photos on the wall, the space where a second baby should have been, the future where both boys could have been loved.

He couldn’t fix that.

But he could make sure nobody ever took his life from him again.

“You better believe,” he said quietly, “that I’m still me.”

And this time, nobody argued.