The night my brother, Logan, went to his fiancée’s house to finalize their wedding date, I invited him out for hotpot to help him destress. Once we sat down, I teased him casually. “Wow, Logan, since when do you have such a big appetite? You’re actually eating cilantro. Didn’t you use to hate it?” He smiled faintly, his voice flat and emotionless. “Tastes change. It’s good to try new things once in a while.” As he spoke, he scooped a massive spoonful of peanut butter, slathered it over a slice of beef, and swallowed it whole. My heart instantly seized. No one knew better than I did— Logan had a severe, life-threatening peanut allergy. Even a trace amount would send him into anaphylactic shock. He hadn’t touched a single peanut product his entire life. Suppressing the rising panic in my chest, I forced a smile and raised my glass. “Come on, let’s toast to your upcoming wedding. Cheers!” As I spoke, I discreetly double-tapped the bottom of my glass. This was a secret signal Logan and I had shared since we were kids. But the man sitting across from me didn’t notice at all. He simply clinked his glass against mine, tilted his head, and downed his drink. I stared at his flawless, calm expression. Cold sweat broke out across my back. The man in front of me was not Logan. If he wasn’t my brother… where on earth was the real Logan? 0
The spicy red broth bubbled violently in the pot, the rising white steam blurring my vision of the man sitting opposite me. This local hotpot joint was our absolute favorite. Ever since Logan went to his fiancée Clara’s house a week ago to discuss the wedding, we hadn’t seen each other for days. The moment he got back today, I dragged him here. “Leo, what are you daydreaming about? The beef is getting overcooked.” The man opposite me urged. He smoothly used his tongs to scoop up a piece of beef and dropped it into his dipping bowl. I stared at his bowl, my brain completely freezing. The blood in my veins turned to ice. His bowl was covered in a thick layer of cilantro, topped with a heavy scoop of rich peanut butter. He picked up the beef, dripping with peanut butter and cilantro, stuffed it into his mouth without a second thought, and chewed happily. “Man, this place is still as good as always,” he mumbled around his food. Under the table, my hands began to shake uncontrollably. Since we were kids, Logan had detested cilantro. He said it smelled like stinkbugs. But more importantly, he was lethally allergic to peanuts! When we were little, he once accidentally ate a cookie with peanut butter. Within five minutes, his entire body broke out in hives, his throat swelled up, and he nearly stopped breathing. He spent the entire night in the ICU. The doctors barely pulled him back from the edge of death. Since then, “peanuts” became an absolute taboo in our house. Yet now, this “Logan” sitting in front of me was not only eating cilantro, but he was also swallowing massive amounts of peanut butter! And he had absolutely no reaction. No hives, no wheezing, no pale face. He looked perfectly healthy, laughing and talking. “Logan…” My voice sounded dry, like sandpaper. “I thought… you couldn’t eat peanuts?” His hand paused for a fraction of a second. A tiny, almost imperceptible flash of panic crossed his eyes, but it was quickly replaced by a natural smile. “Oh, did you forget? I went to see an alternative medicine specialist a while ago. He put me on some herbal immunotherapy. A few days ago at Clara’s place, her mom didn’t know about my allergy and made peanut pastries. I took a bite and felt completely fine. Looks like I’ve been desensitized.” He explained smoothly while grabbing another slice of lamb. “And about cilantro, I used to hate it, but now I suddenly find it pretty good. Tastes change as you grow up, you know?” Desensitized? A lethal, genetic allergy cured by some random herbs? That was statistically impossible. I forced down the urge to slam my hands on the table. Taking a deep breath, I picked up my beer glass. “Oh, really? That’s great. We can eat so much more stuff together now. Come on, bro, cheers.” I held my glass out. He smiled, raised his glass, and clinked it against mine. *Clink.* I stared intently at his fingers. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Logan and I had a secret habit from our childhood. We grew up in foster care together. Back then, whenever we got a can of soda or a bowl of hot soup to share, we would double-tap the bottom of the container with our fingers when clinking them together. It was our way of saying, *we’re in this together.* We kept this habit even after we grew up. Whenever it was just the two of us drinking, whether it was water or beer, we always double-tapped the bottom of the glass. It was our secret code. Our adoptive parents didn’t know, and Clara didn’t know either. But just now, he had simply clinked my glass normally and taken a big gulp. I gripped my cold glass so hard my knuckles turned white. My heart was pounding so hard it felt like it would burst through my ribs. The exact same face, the exact same voice, even the same clothing style and speech patterns. But he was not Logan. Absolutely not! Then where was the real Logan? And who was this monster wearing my brother’s skin? 0
I couldn’t taste a single thing for the rest of the dinner. I did my best to hide my suspicion, pretending to chat with him normally. I couldn’t show my hand yet. If he wasn’t Logan, then the real Logan was in extreme danger, or maybe even… I didn’t dare to finish that thought. By the time we got home, it was already 9:00 PM. I pushed the front door open. The living room was lit with a warm, cozy light. My adoptive father, Arthur, was sitting on the couch watching the news, while my adoptive mother, Helen, was in the kitchen slicing fruit. Twenty years ago, they adopted Logan and me from foster care. They didn’t have biological children of their own, and over the years, they treated us like their flesh and blood. They put us through college, bought us clothes, and gave us a real home. In my heart, they were my real parents. “Hey, Dad. Mom. We’re home,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady as I kicked off my shoes. “You’re back! Was the hotpot good? You smell like smoke, go take a shower,” Helen said, walking out of the kitchen with a fruit platter, her smile warm and gentle. The fake “Logan” walked over naturally and wrapped his arm around Helen’s shoulders. “Mom, I’m stuffed. Leo kept ordering so much meat.” “Oh, you. You’re about to fit into your wedding suit, you need to watch what you eat,” Helen laughed, patting his arm. Arthur also put down the remote control, smiling warmly at us. It was such a peaceful, ordinary family scene. But it made my skin crawl. I took a deep breath and sat down on the armchair. “Hey Mom, something weird happened today,” I said, trying to sound casual. “Logan ate peanut butter at the restaurant, and he was completely fine. Not a single hive.” The air in the living room seemed to freeze instantly. Only the muffled voice of the TV news anchor echoed in the silence. I stared at my parents’ faces, watching for any tiny reaction. Helen’s hand slipped, and her knife clicked sharply against the glass platter. The smile on Arthur’s face stiffened for a brief second. But Helen recovered quickly. She popped a piece of apple into the fake Logan’s mouth and turned to smile at me. “Oh, that? I thought it was something serious. Didn’t Logan tell you? I took him to an amazing herbalist a few months ago. He swore he could cure allergies, and look at that, it actually worked!” Arthur nodded in agreement. “Yeah, Leo, you worry too much. Your brother is getting married soon. It’s a blessing that his health is getting better.” My heart sank into a dark, bottomless abyss. They were lying. Logan had never been to any herbalist! His allergy was a severe genetic defect. It was medically impossible to cure. The specialists at the hospital had told us that years ago, and my parents were right there in the room! Why were they helping this imposter cover up his lie? Could it be… A terrifying thought exploded in my brain, making my scalp go numb. Did my parents already know he wasn’t Logan? Or worse… were they in on it together?! Suddenly, the home I had lived in for twenty years felt completely foreign and terrifying. The air around me felt thick and suffocating, like breathing in wet cement. “Maybe I’m just overthinking. I’m going to go take a shower,” I muttered. I stood up abruptly, keeping my head down as I rushed to my bedroom. I shut the door and locked it immediately. Leaning against the door, my legs gave out, and I slid down to the floor. Cold sweat drenched my shirt. I was completely alone. In this house, everyone except me was a monster. Where was Logan? Was he already…? No! Logan was smart. If he realized he was in danger, he would have left me a clue! I had to calm down. I couldn’t panic. Logan was waiting for me to save him. 0
I dragged myself up from the floor. I didn’t dare turn on the light. Using only the moonlight filtering through the window, I began searching my room frantically. Although Logan and I had separate rooms, we shared a lot of things. If he wanted to leave me a message, where would he put it? His phone? No, the imposter definitely had his phone. A diary? Too obvious. My eyes fell on an old metal tin on the bottom shelf of my bookcase. It was our old sketchbook from high school. I worked as a freelance illustrator. Logan wasn’t into art, but he used to love doodling rough design ideas in my sketchbooks. We had made a pact back then: if either of us ever got into trouble we couldn’t talk about, we would draw a distress signal on the very last page of the sketchbook. With trembling hands, I pulled out the tin and opened it. The yellowed sketchbook lay quietly inside. I flipped to the very last page. Under the faint moonlight, I saw a rough sketch drawn with a black charcoal pencil. It was drawn in a hurry; the lines were messy and chaotic. It was a giant Ferris wheel. And beneath the wheel, there was a crude, crooked cross. The Ferris wheel… My mind raced. There was only one place in this city with a Ferris wheel—the abandoned amusement park on the outskirts of town! And right next to that park was the “Sunny Days Orphanage,” the place where we were adopted! The orphanage had been demolished years ago, and now it was just a desolate, overgrown wasteland. No one ever went there. And a cross… did it mean death, or did it mean something was buried there? Logan wanted me to go there! He had left a clue—or maybe himself—at that place! I checked the time on my phone. 11:30 PM. It was too dangerous to go out now. If I woke up the three people downstairs, I might not even make it out of the house alive. I needed help. I opened Snapchat and tapped on Clara’s profile. Clara was Logan’s fiancée. They had been together since college, and they loved each other deeply. If there was anyone else in this world who cared about Logan as much as I did, it was her. But I didn’t dare write too much on Snapchat. What if her phone was being monitored too? I carefully drafted a message: *Hey Clara, Logan ate peanut butter at dinner tonight and had zero reaction. He’s been acting really strange lately. Please keep an eye on him.* After sending it, I put my phone on silent, lay down on my bed fully clothed, and stared at the ceiling. I didn’t sleep a wink all night. The next morning, I heard the front door close downstairs. Arthur and Helen had gone to the morning market, and the fake Logan said he was going to get his wedding suit fitted. This was my chance! I jumped out of bed, threw on a jacket, grabbed my backpack, and bolted out of the house. In the taxi, I finally received Clara’s reply. It was short, but it made my eyes sting with tears. *I thought he was acting weird too. Where are you?* I immediately pinned the location of the abandoned amusement park and sent it to her with a warning: *Don’t tell anyone. Come alone.* The taxi dropped me off at the edge of the overgrown wasteland. The once-vibrant amusement park was now nothing but a graveyard of rusted metal. The massive Ferris wheel loomed in the distance like a dead iron beast, surrounded by knee-high weeds. I took a deep breath, wading through the dry grass toward the wheel. The silence was deafening, broken only by the rustling of the wind through the weeds. I reached the base of the Ferris wheel and started searching for any sign of a “cross.” After searching for about fifteen minutes, I noticed a patch of freshly disturbed dirt at the base of a thick, rusted iron pillar. On top of the dirt, two dry branches were crossed over each other, forming a crude crucifix. This was it! I dropped to my knees, ignored the dirt under my fingernails, and started digging frantically with my bare hands. The soil was loose, clearly buried very recently. About six inches down, my fingers hit something hard. It was a plastic Ziploc bag. I yanked it out and wiped the dirt off the plastic. Inside was a USB drive and an old, faded black-and-white photograph. With shaking fingers, I pulled the photo out. It was a young couple holding a baby boy, about a year old. Even though it was taken decades ago, I recognized them instantly. The couple was a young Arthur and Helen! But the baby boy’s eyes and nose… looked exactly like Logan. Or rather, exactly like the imposter! On the back of the photo, written in faded blue ink, were the words: *Luke’s 1st Birthday.* Luke? Luke Miller? (Our family name). My head spun, and a realization hit me like a lightning bolt, shattering the fog. Arthur and Helen had a biological son! And their biological son looked exactly like Logan! No, that wasn’t right. Logan looked like *him*! Twenty years ago, when they went to the orphanage to adopt, it wasn’t out of the goodness of their hearts. They chose Logan because he looked exactly like their lost biological son! Which meant the imposter in our house right now… was their real son, Luke! He was back! And he had replaced Logan! Just as the shock washed over me, I heard a faint rustling sound behind me. *Rustle… rustle…* The sound of dry grass snapping echoed loudly in the dead quiet of the wasteland. I spun around. Arthur was standing less than fifteen feet away, holding a rusted shovel. His eyes were cold, staring at me as if I were already a corpse.
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