Chapter 2 — The Doppelganger in Red

Clara

The hum of the office was as rhythmic as a heartbeat, the soft clatter of keyboards punctuated by the low murmur of voices. Clara’s heels clicked sharply against the polished concrete floor as she made her way to her desk, each step measured and deliberate. Everything about the architecture firm was designed to convey precision—clean lines, open spaces, and an air of subdued sophistication. It was her sanctuary, a place where control reigned, where chaos had no foothold. But today, something felt… wrong.

She stopped mid-step, her eyes locking on her desk. Draped over the back of her ergonomic chair was a vivid red coat.

Her breath caught, her chest tightening as though the air had thickened. The coat was striking, impossible to ignore. Its glossy fabric gleamed under the fluorescent lights, the bold scarlet hue a jarring anomaly against the muted palette of the office. For a moment, Clara felt frozen, her body locked in place as if the coat itself held some unseen power. A faint chill trickled down her spine, and the sensation of being watched prickled at the edges of her awareness.

She forced herself to move, each step toward the chair deliberate and slow, her fingers tightening around the tablet she carried. Standing over the coat, she hesitated. The thought of touching it made her skin crawl, but curiosity gnawed at her, insistent. Her hand hovered over the fabric before brushing against it. It was warm—too warm, as though someone had just worn it.

"Nice coat," Mark’s voice broke the silence behind her, casual and unassuming.

Clara flinched, her heart lurching as she spun around. Mark stood a few feet away, his crooked smile firmly in place, hands shoved into the pockets of his too-casual-for-the-office slacks.

"It’s not mine," she said sharply, her voice clipped.

Mark raised an eyebrow, his smile faltering. “Bold colors? Not really your style, huh?”

She ignored the comment, brushing past him to hang the coat on the nearby rack. There it stood out like a splash of rebellion in the sterile office, defying the muted tones and clean lines. Clara shoved the thought aside and sank into her chair, pulling out her tablet to review the plans for the Whitmore project. The red coat loomed in her peripheral vision, its presence like a silent accusation.

---

By lunchtime, the coat was still there, an unyielding thorn in her side. Clara had tried to focus, tried to lose herself in the clean, symmetrical lines of her blueprints, but her concentration fractured, her thoughts looping back to the coat. It radiated boldness, defiance—everything she worked so hard to suppress. The sight of it made her feel... exposed.

Her thumb absently traced the smooth face of her Precision Watch, the rhythmic tick grounding her. She decided to step away, to clear her head. The rooftop garden was her usual refuge, a meticulously curated space of greenery and stone that offered a momentary reprieve from the relentless pace of the city.

When the elevator doors opened, the crisp air of the garden greeted her, carrying the faint scent of lavender. Clara let out a slow breath, her steps echoing against the stone pathways as she wandered toward her usual bench. She checked her watch out of habit, the steady tick a small comfort. But the faint hum of unease lingered, like static in the background of her mind.

Then she saw her.

The woman stood at the edge of the garden, her back to Clara, the city skyline sprawling before her. She was wearing the red coat.

Clara’s pulse spiked, a flush of heat flooding her chest. Her first instinct was to retreat, to slip back into the elevator and pretend she hadn’t seen her. But something about the woman’s posture—relaxed, confident, utterly at ease—held her in place.

“Who are you?” Clara called out, her voice sharper than she intended.

The woman turned slowly, her movement deliberate, calculated. And when Clara saw her face, the breath left her lungs in a rush.

It was like staring into a mirror—except the reflection didn’t match. The woman’s features were identical to Clara’s, down to the faint scar on her left brow. But her hair was loose, cascading in soft waves around her shoulders. Her makeup was bold, the red lipstick a perfect match for the coat. And her expression…

A smirk.

The doppelganger tilted her head slightly, as though appraising Clara. Her piercing gray eyes gleamed with mischief, a sharp edge of amusement that sent a shiver down Clara’s spine.

“What—” Clara began, but the words faltered. Her throat felt tight, her thoughts racing too fast to form coherent sentences.

The doppelganger raised a hand, a single finger pressed to her lips in a silent shush. Then, in a voice as familiar as her own but edged with something darker, the woman said, “Not yet.”

Clara froze, the words reverberating in her mind like a distant echo. Before she could react, the doppelganger turned on her heel and began to walk away, the red coat flaring behind her like a flame.

“Wait!” Clara surged forward, her voice rising.

The woman slipped around a corner, disappearing into the far side of the garden. Clara quickened her pace, her heels clacking against the stone, but when she rounded the corner, there was no one there.

Her eyes darted frantically across the empty space, her breath coming in sharp bursts. The faint hum of the city below drifted up, indifferent to her unraveling. Clara clutched her Precision Watch, her thumb pressing hard against its smooth face, but the steady tick she relied on felt faint, as though the mechanism were struggling.

---

Back at her desk, Clara felt the weight of the coat like a presence at her back. She couldn’t shake the image of the woman—her twin, her ghost, her tormentor—standing there with that infuriating smirk.

Mark appeared again, a stack of papers in hand. “Hey, about the Whitmore changes—are we good to go with the revisions you approved yesterday?”

Clara blinked, her focus snapping to him. “I didn’t approve any revisions.”

Mark frowned, tilting his head. “Uh, yeah, you did. You signed off on them during the meeting.”

“There was no meeting,” she snapped, the words coming out harsher than she intended.

Mark hesitated, his expression shifting from confusion to something closer to concern. “Clara, you were there. You even made a few suggestions—good ones, actually.”

Her stomach dropped. She searched his face for any hint of a joke, a misunderstanding, but found none.

“Send me the details,” she said finally, her voice tight. “I’ll look it over.”

Mark hesitated again but nodded, retreating to his desk. Clara stared at her screen, her mind buzzing with static.

She didn’t remember approving anything. She didn’t remember a meeting. But the certainty in Mark’s tone, the lack of guile in his expression—it didn’t make sense.

Her gaze flicked to the coat.

Her chest constricted, as though the room itself had closed in around her.

“It’s my turn.”

The words from the note echoed in her mind, a taunt, a promise. Clara pressed her hands flat against the desk, willing the tremor in her fingers to still.

The coat remained where she’d left it, vivid and unyielding.