Chapter 2

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?

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