Sunlight hit my face.
I blinked.
What the fuck? Whose room is this? The words didn't come out loud—they screamed in my head.
The morning light spilled through some window I didn't know. It landed on pillows that felt wrong, sheets smelling like a detergent I never used. Every single sense was on high alert, like my body was screaming, this is not yours.
I looked down at my arm. It was too long. My hand moved—thin fingers, not like mine at all. I usually have stubby fingers.
I sat up too fast and got hit by a wave of dizziness. Next to me, a head of blonde hair rested on the pillow. A woman was asleep. I didn't know her, and my gut twisted with fear.
Who am I? Where the hell am I?
Last thing I remembered was my apartment. My real apartment. My real life. Working some boring data job. My cat, Felony, curling up on the couch.
The woman woke up. She gave me a sleepy smile and moved closer—like she was about to kiss me.
My body reacted on its own, muscle memory or something. I pushed her. Not hard, but hard enough to send her off the bed.
Thud.
"What was that, Joe?" she said, voice sharp. She sat up on the floor, looking pissed. "Say something."
I just stared.
She got louder. "Joe? Hello? Say something!"
The name—Joe. That was me? That wasn't me. I had no words. Just silence.
"You look at me like I'm a ghost," she said, face red with anger. "You're acting so weird."
She stood up, grabbed her purse. "Screw you. I don't need this."
She stomped out, slamming the door.
I was alone. In a room that felt both strange and terrifyingly familiar.
I got out of bed. My legs felt wrong—long and clumsy. Like they didn't belong to me.
I started exploring the apartment. Small, but filled with books. Kitchen counters clean like no one ever cooks here. Living room with an old couch and a tiny TV. Everything was too neat, like someone was trying too hard to look normal.
On the side table, a laptop was open. I hesitated before sitting down.
I need to know what the fuck is going on.
In the search bar, a name was typed: Peach Salinger.
My skin crawled.
I remembered the show—Joe's story. The bookstore, the glass cage.
The name Joe hit me like a punch. The stalking. The bodies buried. The overdose. Benji. Dead because of him.
The memories weren't mine but flooding my mind anyway. Joe's life, his thoughts, his darkness—all crashing down like a nightmare I couldn't wake up from.
I wasn't just in a strange body. I was in the body of a killer. Joe Goldberg.
I had to get out of this room. I walked to the door, hand reaching for the knob.
Then a voice echoed in my head. Cold. Calm. Not mine.
That's what love is. A commitment to finding the perfect truth—even if it's buried under a pile of lies.
And Beck is my truth.