The FBI office in New York always smelled the same: cheap coffee, cardboard folders, jammed printers. It was an atmosphere of routine, of clear rules, of days that seemed to repeat themselves like a loop.
Noah Reyes leaned over his desk, going over a report with narrowed eyes. His dark, unruly hair, as usual, fell over his forehead. He was twenty-three, young-faced but marked by a seriousness uncommon in someone his age. His body, lean yet firm, was more the result of discipline than genetics.
—"Oi, Reyes," Danny Mercer's voice broke in, dragging a chair noisily—"Did you know you can die of boredom overload? Because I think you're trying."
Danny, two years older, was the opposite of Noah. Extroverted, a joker, capable of laughing even in the middle of a corpse retrieval. His light-coloured hair was a mess, and his smile seemed permanent.
Noah lifted his gaze, raising an eyebrow.—"Work, Mercer. Not such a difficult concept."
—"Work, work…" Danny opened the folder he carried and closed it with a theatrical smack—"I say we close this case in ten days. What do you reckon?"
Noah sighed, though a flicker of amusement crossed his eyes.—"I reckon if you gambled less and read more, maybe…"
—"Ha!" Danny raised a finger—"That's a 'yes, I bet I'm right but don't want to admit it.'"
Before Noah could reply, a firm voice cut in:—"Danny, stop bothering him."
Sofía Reyes, field agent aged twenty-six, approached with determined steps. Her surname was mere coincidence, though newcomers sometimes assumed they were siblings. Sofía had chestnut hair tied in a high ponytail, a serious gaze and a protective air that contrasted with Danny's light energy.
She placed a couple of folders on Noah's desk.—"And you, Noah, should learn to let go a little." She leaned over the table—"You always look like you're carrying the weight of the world."
—"I'm just doing my job," he replied curtly.
Sofía crossed her arms.—"Then explain why you're checking reports at three in the morning."
Danny grinned, delighted with the show.—"There you go, mate. Detected and exposed. Sofía never misses."
Noah shut the folder with a smack.—"Are you two going to leave me alone, or shall I ask for another desk?"
The three of them laughed. A small, everyday moment, but for Noah it meant more than he admitted. Danny and Sofía were the closest thing to family he had.
The office of Supervisor Frank Duran was the exact reflection of its owner: apathetic, bureaucratic, tired of everything. The coffee mug he held looked as old as he was, and his suit was more wrinkled than the papers on his desk.
—"Sit down, Reyes," he muttered without lifting his eyes.
Noah obeyed, still wearing his severe expression.—"What's going on?"
Duran sighed, stirring his coffee slowly.—"You've got a visitor." Finally, he looked at him, his eyes radiating zero enthusiasm—"And don't ask."
The door opened.
A woman entered, her dark red hair tied in a strict bun. Impeccable suit, measured steps, cold expression. Her hazel eyes seemed to observe everything and register every detail.
—"Agent Reyes." Her voice was so firm Noah almost straightened up by reflex.
—"Do I know you?"
—"Cora Vex." She didn't offer her hand. Didn't smile. Just looked at him as if she already knew his answers.
Noah frowned.—"And what do you want from me?"
—"A test."
The lift descended until Noah's stomach tightened. When the doors opened, a white, sterile corridor greeted him. The air smelled of disinfectant, and the white lighting nearly blinded him.
The room she led him to seemed a mix between a military gym and a laboratory. There was a metal table with a folder, an obstacle course, and a life-sized dummy on the floor.
—"What the hell is this?" Noah asked, incredulous.
—"An assessment," Cora replied with glacial calm—"Mental and physical. Fail, and you stay in New York. You'll never hear from me again."
Noah huffed.—"Brilliant, my whole life waiting to become a lab rat."
She didn't react. She opened the folder, leafed through a couple of pages and, without lifting her gaze, began:—"First question. If your partner falls injured during a critical mission, do you risk the objective to save them, or abandon them to complete it?"
Noah stared at her.—"Is that the sort of work you do? Choosing who lives and who dies like numbers on a chart?"
—"Answer."
He clenched his jaw.—"I never abandon. But I don't plan on dying without a fight."
Cora noted it down without emotion.—"Proceed to the course."
Noah sighed and advanced. The first obstacle was a wall nearly three metres high. No ropes. Inspecting it, he noticed a loose pipe in one corner. He wrenched it free with a metallic crack, jammed it into a crevice, and used it as leverage to push himself up. With effort, he climbed and dropped on the other side.
The next challenge was the eighty-kilo dummy. Noah tried lifting it, but his knees almost buckled. Thinking quickly, he pulled off his jacket, looped it under the dummy's arms and used the sleeves as rope to drag it along the floor. He moved forward, panting, until he reached the finish line.
Cora watched silently, taking notes.
At last, Noah returned to her, sweaty and with scraped hands.—"Happy now?"
Cora shut the folder with a sharp snap.—"You've been selected."
Noah arched his eyebrows.—"Selected for what? What is this organisation? Who are you?"
—"New identity. Move to Florida. No friends. No past. You've got twenty-four hours to decide."
Noah stepped closer, raising his voice.—"Excuse me? You drag me here, make me run like I'm in boot camp and the only thing you give me is a riddle? What exactly do you expect me to do?"
Cora held his gaze, firm.—"Blind trust. It's the only way to survive here."
—"That's not an answer."
—"No. It's a decision." She tucked the folder under her arm—"Twenty-four hours, Agent Reyes. Tell Mr Duran tomorrow. If you accept, you'll know everything. If not… forget my face."
Noah swallowed, heart hammering in his chest.—"And if I can't forget?"
Cora was already at the door.—"Then accept." She left, slamming it shut.
After the tests with Cora, Noah returned to the office in silence. Her words echoed in his head: "Twenty-four hours. Decide."
Duran looked up as he entered, raised an eyebrow and muttered:—"Not asking."
Noah didn't respond. He switched on his computer, but couldn't concentrate. The screen was just an empty glow.
By dusk he switched it off early and left.
The bar was half-empty. Warm lighting, smell of spilt beer. Danny was already waiting, leg bouncing with impatience; Sofía beside him, arms crossed.
—"At last!" Danny exclaimed—"I thought you'd been abducted."
Noah sat down, but his expression was different. More serious, heavier. Danny noticed straightaway.—"What's wrong, mate?"
Noah hesitated. He couldn't tell them anything.—"I'm leaving," he said at last, quietly.
Danny blinked.—"What do you mean, leaving?"
—"I can't give details. Just… I won't be here for a while."
Sofía stared at him, as though trying to read between the lines.—"For how long?"
—"I don't know." He lowered his gaze to his glass, unable to meet theirs—"I just wanted to see you first."
The silence grew heavy. Danny tried to smile, but the joke died on his lips. Sofía took Noah's hand.—"Take care, Noah."
He nodded. He couldn't say more. When they parted ways, he knew deep down he might never see them again.
He walked alone through the streets of New York, neon lights reflecting in puddles on the pavement. The usual city noise—horns, chatter, distant music—sounded muffled in his ears, as if he were hearing everything from the other side of glass.
Back at his flat, he dropped onto the sofa without turning on the lights. The gloom wrapped around him as his eyes fixed on the photo of his parents on the shelf: him as a child, smiling between them. He lifted the photo, stroked the frame with his fingers, and remained like that for minutes, battling the sensation of about to disappear along with that memory.
He didn't sleep much that night. He kept waking as if the silence itself pursued him. At dawn, the city was still damp from a night drizzle. Noah put on his jacket, drew a deep breath, and stepped outside. He had already made his choice.
The next morning, Noah presented himself in Duran's office. The supervisor peered over his glasses with his usual weary look.—"Decided?"
—"I accept."
Duran snorted, as if he'd known all along. He opened a drawer and pulled out an envelope.—"Cora Vex left this. Said if you accepted, I should give it to you." He handed him the envelope. Inside was a plane ticket to Florida, in Noah Reyes' name—"It's no longer my business."
Noah gripped the ticket tightly.—"Aren't you going to ask what this is all about?"
Duran sipped his coffee.—"No, Reyes. Because in this job, the less you know, the longer you live."
Silence was the only farewell.
The plane landed in Florida at midday, wheels striking the tarmac with a jolt that shook the passengers. Noah clutched his rucksack strap tightly, gazing out the window. The sky was clearer than in New York, and the humid heat wrapped him as soon as he disembarked, clinging to his skin like a reminder that he was no longer home.
On the tarmac two suited men awaited, dark glasses, comms earpieces. Their expressions were unreadable, like living statues. Noah stared at them a moment, searching for some sign of humanity, but found none. They said not a word; just nodded and escorted him to a black armoured van.
The interior was spacious, with facing seats, the air conditioning far too cold. Opposite him, impeccable, was Cora Vex, watching him as if still assessing every move.
Noah tried to hold her gaze, but ended up turning it towards the window. The scenery shifted gradually: crowded motorways, then lonely roads, and finally swampy stretches where vegetation seemed to swallow the path. With every mile, he felt further away from everything he knew.
The engine rumbled, and the silence became unbearable. Noah thought of Danny and Sofía, of the last look they'd shared. It was as if they belonged to another world now.
At last the van stopped in front of an isolated complex. From the outside it looked like an abandoned warehouse, but once inside they descended narrow ramps into concrete tunnels, until natural light vanished completely.
She observed him silently, then spoke in a flat tone:—"From this moment, you forget who you were. In here, Noah Reyes does not exist."
He swallowed hard. The rest of the journey he stayed quiet, as the van drove deeper into the underground complex.
Valerie Chen greeted him in the corridor. A young woman, perhaps in her late twenties. Her straight black hair fell neatly to her shoulders; she wore a simple light grey suit, perfectly pressed. There was something calming about her: her slight smile seemed genuine, though her dark eyes missed no detail. Serene movements, soft voice. The sort of person who could make a welcome to an underground base feel like the most natural thing in the world.
—"Welcome to the NOD," she said calmly—"I'm Valerie Chen, the Director's secretary."
Noah extended his hand.—"Noah Reyes."
—"I already know who you are." She said it without arrogance, as if stating an inevitable fact.
She turned towards Cora:—"Agent Vex, your flight to Houston is confirmed. It departs in two hours."
—"Perfect." Cora nodded without even glancing at Noah—"Take good care of him, Valerie."
And she left, her steps echoing down the corridor until they faded.
Valerie led Noah to a set of double doors.—"The Director is expecting you," she announced, leaving him to enter.
The office was austere, metal walls contrasting with the large dark wooden desk in the centre.
Robert "Red" Sterling stood behind the desk. Past fifty, grey hair slicked back, his face marked with firm features. His dark grey suit looked tailored, immaculate. His voice was serene, almost paternal, but his blue eyes revealed something colder: a man who weighed every word, every gesture, as though everything were part of a calculation.
—"Noah Reyes…" he murmured, testing the weight of the name—"That man no longer exists."
He slid a file across the desk.—"From now on, you are Ethan Kael Moritz."
Noah leafed through the document, raising an eyebrow.—"Incredible. Now I'm someone else." He smiled wryly, as if trying to laugh at the situation.
Sterling glanced at him sideways, serious, without replying.
The silence hung heavy for a few seconds, until Noah cleared his throat.—"Sir, may I ask you something?"
—"What do you need to know?"
—"What is the NOD? What does this organisation mean?"
Sterling sat, fingers interlaced on the desk.—"National Order Doppelgänger."
Noah repeated softly, incredulous:—"Doppelgänger?"
—"Imitators." Sterling began pacing slowly around the desk—"Failed experiments from Area 51. Nine of them escaped. They can copy anyone: their voice, their gestures, their face. But to maintain that copy, they must destroy the original."
Noah's heart lurched.—"Are you saying there are nine of those things out there, replacing people?"
—"Exactly." Sterling returned to his seat—"And our task here is to contain them, prevent the world from finding out. Because if people realised they couldn't even trust their own reflection… chaos would be immediate."
Noah swallowed hard, struggling to process.
Sterling looked at him calmly.—"You won't be alone. You'll have a partner."
The door opened.
In the doorway stood Marcus Raines. His presence was imposing: short greying hair, a few days' beard, broad shoulders and arms marked with visible scars. His blue eyes were so cold they seemed to pierce through anyone, as if searching for hidden masks. He wore dark tactical gear, making no effort to appear civilian.
He remained silent, staring at him.
The air grew dense, charged with tension.