The alley behind the theater reeked of fried food and damp brick, posters of long-forgotten shows peeling from the walls. The laughter from inside still echoed faintly, a ghost of warmth spilling into the cold Queens night. Ethan was wiping greasepaint from his face with the corner of a ragged towel when a shadow cut across him, breaking the rhythm of the evening.
"Excuse me," came a voice—prim, clipped, and utterly out of place in this part of Queens.
Ethan turned, one eyebrow raised, his trademark grin already in place. He had performed long enough to know how to handle hecklers and nosy strangers. "Depends. Are you a cop or a bill collector?"
The man stepped fully into the weak light of the alley. Everything about him screamed out of place: the pressed three-piece suit, the gleaming shoes, the leather briefcase that seemed allergic to dirt. His silver-streaked hair was combed with military precision, and his eyes—sharp, assessing—were locked on Ethan as if he were studying a specimen under glass.
"Neither," the man replied. "Mr. Miller, is it? My name is Walter. I… represent someone very important."
Ethan tossed the towel over his shoulder, his grin widening. "If you're about to sell me life insurance, save your breath. I barely insure my socks."
That usually earned at least a chuckle. But this man didn't flinch. Didn't blink. His gaze stayed steady, and Ethan, for the first time in a long while, felt like the joke bounced off someone made of stone.
Walter's voice was calm, measured. "You don't understand. You are the spitting image of someone vital. Adrian Arden."
The name hit Ethan's ears like a faint bell he didn't quite recognize. He tilted his head. "Arden… wait, you mean those fancy skyscraper folks? The billion-dollar people who look allergic to smiling?" He gave a low whistle. "Buddy, I think you've got the wrong clown."
Walter pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose, as though trying to summon patience from thin air. "I cannot believe I'm about to say this," he muttered, more to himself than Ethan. Then, louder: "Mr. Miller, I need you to impersonate him. Temporarily."
For a second, Ethan just stared. Then laughter erupted from him, full-bodied and echoing against the alley walls. He bent at the waist, clutching his side. "Me? Pretend to be some billionaire stiff? Sir, I can't even afford Netflix without borrowing my cousin's password!"
"This is no joke," Walter snapped, his composure cracking just a fraction. His voice softened a moment later, but the urgency remained. "Mr. Arden is… indisposed. Gravely so. And without him, the company—and his family—will collapse. You may be the only person alive who can stand in his place."
The weight of the words shifted the air. The alley no longer felt like a place for banter but like a stage where the wrong play was being performed. Ethan's grin faltered. He opened his mouth to respond, then shut it again.
"You're serious," he said finally.
"Utterly."
Ethan leaned back against the brick wall, the rough surface pressing into his shoulders. He scanned Walter up and down, still half-expecting him to break into a laugh and reveal a hidden camera crew. But no—Walter's posture was rigid, his expression carved from stone. The man wasn't here to prank him.
A billionaire's double. The idea alone was insane. Him, Ethan Miller—failed actor, part-time comedian, the guy who once got paid in pizza for hosting a kid's birthday party—playing pretend in the glass towers of Manhattan.
It was laughable.
And yet, something inside him stirred.
Ethan tried to push it away. "Listen, pal. I don't know what kind of soap opera you're tangled up in, but I'm not your guy. I can barely tie a tie. I say 'portfolio,' and my brain thinks art supplies, not stocks."
Walter stepped closer, the lamplight catching on his silver hair. "Do you think I would risk approaching a stranger if I had any other option? You don't just resemble him, Mr. Miller—you are his mirror. The world would believe it."
"That's your mistake," Ethan shot back, though his voice lacked its usual confidence. "The world might believe it, but me? I wouldn't. I'm not some cold-hearted executive. I make balloon animals for crying out loud."
"And that," Walter said quietly, almost to himself, "might be exactly what they need."
The words hit Ethan harder than he wanted to admit. For a fleeting second, he saw something behind Walter's stern face—a glimmer of desperation, maybe even hope. This wasn't about money. This wasn't about trickery. This was about survival.
He swallowed, throat dry. "Why me?"
Walter's eyes narrowed, studying him once more. "Because if you say no… I fear everything Mr. Arden built will fall apart. And many innocent people with it."
Silence fell again. Only the buzz of a neon sign and the distant honk of a cab filled the space between them. Ethan shifted his weight, the laughter from earlier now feeling miles away.
It was absurd. It was impossible. It was dangerous.
And yet…
Ethan had never been good at walking away from someone drowning.
He rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous tic he couldn't shake. "Man," he said with a weak chuckle, "either you're insane, or I'm dreaming. Probably both."
But deep down, he already knew—he was considering it. Against all logic, against all common sense, part of him was leaning toward yes.
The alley behind the theater reeked of fried food and damp brick, posters of long-forgotten shows peeling from the walls. But now, under the flicker of a lone streetlight, Ethan Miller found himself staring at the strangest curtain call of his life—an invitation into a role he wasn't sure he wanted, yet couldn't seem to refuse.