The bus was cold, it was at a normal speed, fast but safe. Not just because of the AC, but because of the silence. Brown sat near the back, his hoodie cap pulled over his head, sunglasses on despite the cloudy sky outside. People around him stared at their phones, some at him, while others drifted in and out of sleep. No one noticed the man sitting still as a stone, staring at the seat in front of him like it had answers.
Seventeen hours from Miami to New York City.
He refused to fly. He didn't want his name on a manifest. Didn't want cameras catching his face. Not yet. The name on his ID now said Julian Blackwood; you don't want to know how much he hates that identity, and that's what the world would soon know him as. He had studied Julian over the past few days; his real house was New York City, "and how the fuck did his body end up here?", Brown thought to himself. It was still a mystery to him how he ended up in Miami; well, he knew mostly enough by now. Knew the way he walked, how he smiled. How he kissed. How he ached and his whole lifestyle. Brown smirked to himself. He went through Julian's phone all the time, and he found out that Julian Blackwood had the intention of changing his identity.
'You wanted a straight life, Julian. You should've stayed dead.' Brown said to himself. He arrived in the city just after midnight. The streets glowed under wet pavement and neon haze. The city felt colder than he remembered. Or maybe it was just this skin. Julian's skin.
He walked through Midtown unnoticed, just another ghost in a hoodie. But inside, he was planning. Watching. Waiting. And ready to strike. He found Julian's apartment easily, in the old building near 2nd Main Street, which was a bit close to his real house; he stayed on the fourth floor of the old building, with no elevator. The hallway smelled like dust and microwave dinners. He unlocked the door using the spare key he'd found under the rusted flowerpot days ago. Inside, the air was still. Dim. The atmosphere felt warm, and all the windows were shut. He turned on the lights from the switch on the wall. Everything was as Julian had left it. Photos of smiling friends. Dried flowers in a vase. A rainbow key chain. A framed picture of Julian with a man he didn't recognise.
Maybe Nathaniel. Maybe worse. Brown walked into the bedroom and dropped his bag, feeling irritated at first sight.
Then he turned and stared at the mirror.
Julian's face stared back. Still softer. Still weaker. But there was something else now. Fire behind the eyes.
"I'm home," Brown said, his voice low and even. The next morning, he made his way and showed up at Amira De Fernandez's HQ. New clothes. Clean-shaven. A fresh, fabricated résumé in hand. He went by Julian Blackwood, freelance copywriter, digital consultant, and former intern. No one questioned him/ They should have. His CV looked too good to be true. He walked inside the building, and he felt the cold AC that welcomed him; he hadn't received such in a while. He waited in the lobby for over an hour until someone finally noticed him.
And it was Jasmine. He watched as he walked so beautifully towards him, but he couldn't say anything; he was a new person. She wore cream heels, a blazer too perfect, and the kind of frown that suggested she didn't have time for anyone new. She barely looked at him until he said, "I used to work here. Before… things fell apart. I was hoping there was something open. Anything." She paused, blinking and looked sharply at him for a while. He didn't look professional; he had his nails painted black. The name. The face. The softness in his voice. She tilted her head slightly. "You're Julian Blackwood, right?" He hated the sound of that name, but he said, "Yes, Ma", "The name sounds familiar." She didn't know where. Or why her chest felt tight looking at him. But something pulled her in. Brown (in Julian) just stared uncomfortably at her. Howdoes jasmine seem to know this gay guy? He just gave her the résumé. Smiled gently. Timidly and just perfectly. And Jasmine, out of guilt, or curiosity, or something else entirely, said: "We could use someone in media strategy. Come in tomorrow. Trial week." Brown nodded. "Thank you, ma'am." "Call me Jasmine, please."
"Of course," he said. "Jasmine."
That night, Brown sat in the shadows of Julian's old apartment, scrolling through Joshua's Instagram. They followed each other on every social media platform, but no test messages were sent to the other. He stopped on a photo, a candid from last summer.
Joshua on a rooftop, smiling, drink in hand, with a caption that read: "Some things never change." Brown's fingers hovered over the screen. He didn't like the warmth in his chest. Or the ache in his gut. "Some things never change…"
"But some things can be stolen." He lamented and closed the app. He was really angry and furious. Tomorrow, he'd walk through the doors of Amira De Fernandez.
Not as a CEO. Not as a man of power. But as a shadow in a borrowed face. And no one, not even Jasmine. Not Joshua. Not Julian himself would see him coming. He's not just coming for Julian Blackwood, but for Amira De Fernandez, for what they did to him on Tuesday.