Thursday Night
London, United Kingdom

When Carole returned to the hotel room, she found it trashed. The mirrors in the bathrooms were cracked and splattered with a reddish fluid that she initially mistook for blood but realized, upon closer examination, was red dye. The lamps lay shattered on the floor with their shades askew. The pillows and sheets were strewn all about, the mattress shredded on the floor. The grimy windows were wide open, and there was a faint smell of smoke drifting through the air.

Outside of one window, sitting on the balcony, was Katja. Her face was a mess of tears mixed with eyeliner, and in spite of the air being quite warm, she wore her motorcycle jacket zipped all the way up. She had chopped off most of her hair and dyed what was left of it a violent shade of maroon.

"Katja…" Carole raised her hand to brush her partner's cheek. Katja smacked it away. Carole's stomach dropped. "Katja, love, what's wrong? Why are you crying? What happened to you?"

Katja was trembling uncontrollably. "Tomorrow, we pack and go back to Germany. We can't stay here."

"Katja, what on Earth happened?"

Katja's hands shook as she unzipped her jacket, revealing a t-shirt splattered with blood. Carole let out a scream. "This blood…" Katja's voice, too, was shaking. "It's mine…"

Carole searched her partner's body, but she saw a wound nowhere. "What do you mean?"

"While I was on the street, a girl ran into me…she was running from something, but she crashed right into me…and just as she was regaining her balance, she suddenly got shot, out of nowhere. A single bullet straight through the heart. The blood's from her. She died right in front of me." Pause. "She looked exactly like me. Identical. It was like watching myself die…"

Carole's eyes widened. For a moment, she was unsure of what to say. "Identical? But, Katja, that's impossible…maybe she looked a bit like you, but…this is just your mind exaggerating things…there's no way…"

Katja reached into her bag in mute and pulled out a blood-splattered wallet. Frowning, Carole opened it—and her jaw dropped.

Staring back at her from a University of Oxford ID card was Katja's face. Except it wasn't hers—there was a scar at the corner of her mouth that Carole knew couldn't be Katja's. The name on the card read, "Konstantina Iovanasis".

Carole's hands shook as she attempted to close the wallet again. It was slippery with blood—Carole couldn't keep her grip on it. It slipped through her hands and tumbled to the floor. "What is this?" she choked out after a moment of shocked silence.

"I don't know." Katja wiped the tears from her eyes. "And then I came back here and the room was trashed…I don't know who it was that shot Konstantina Iovanasis, but we need to get out of here…I think they meant to kill me."

Downstairs, at the check-in, the receptionist was greeted by a familiar face. "Ms. Obigner…" His voice was cheerful, but there was an edge of confusion to it. "I didn't even see you leave!"

The woman favored him with a broad grin. "Oh, I come and go…I can blend into a crowd. I have that kind of face, I'm told, ja?" Before he could answer, she dropped a valet ticket on the desk. "I'd like you to hold on to this for me, please…make sure it's given to me next time I leave, ja? I'll change my hair, but you'll know me. No questions, and make sure nobody else—other than myself or my partner—sees."

He opened his mouth, ready to question her. But as he took the ticket, he felt something wadded up underneath it—several crisp twenty-pound notes. Immediately, all traces of protest melted off of his face. "As you wish, Ms. Obinger," he grinned. "I hope you enjoy your stay here."

She nodded with a smile and pulled out several more bills. "And I'm afraid the room is a bit of a mess…but this should cover the damages. Good evening to you." And with that, she walked off down the hall.

If the receptionist had followed her—as some part of him told him to—he would have seen her duck into a stairwell, don a blond wig and sunglasses, and make her way to a door marked "EMPLOYEES ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT". He would have seen her pull keys nicked from a maid's cart from her pocket, open the door, and slip through silently before dropping the keys in a laundry basket and navigating the housekeeping area until she reached a door marked "EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY – ALARM WILL SOUND". Then, she, knowing somehow that the alarm had been broken and management still hadn't gotten around to fixing it, would push through the door and make her way into the side-alley it opened into. If he had continued to follow her, he would have seen the man—a tall, dark-haired youth—who waited for her at the corner, heard him ask her a question in Spanish, seen her smile and nod. He may have even realized that the woman he'd spoken to was not, in fact, Katja Obinger at all—but someone who shared her face, her voice, a variation of Katja in an identical skin.

But he wasn't a curious man—he was a man who had just been given a tip far above any police reward he might get. So rather than follow her, he settled back in his chair and folded his hands over his chest, thinking of the things he could buy with this wonderful bonus.