[Jake's POV]
The mirror in the bathroom of my motel room on West Flagler had no frame. Just a rectangle of glass glued to the wall with something that used to be clear and was now yellow. I stood in front of it at 5:17 AM and stared at a face that wasn't mine.
Mateo Cruz stared back.
Dark hair, cropped short. Brown skin a shade warmer than my own. Jaw wider, cheekbones higher. The Shapeshift hummed at the base of my skull — not pain, just presence. A low-frequency vibration that never stopped, like a generator running behind a wall. The face wasn't a mask I wore. It was wired into me. The Cuban accent sat on my tongue the way a second language sits — not learned, just there, available, switching on when I opened my mouth.
