Despite not being far from the bustling epicenter of the metropolis, in North Zone, the neighborhood where Uri lived, was a quiet area full of residential towers with extensive front yards, and wide sidewalks with trees that joined their canopies at the top, forming thick roofs of reddish leaves over the narrow streets.

With the idea of ​​going out again, Uri left the car on the street and not in the building’s garage. Seeing Ruben from afar, he opened the glove compartment, took one of Loud’s two holographic cards, and crossed toward a tower with long quadrangular windows, which looked like a concrete cylinder coiled with glass ribbons. His apartment was on the 12th floor.

Ruben N43, the building’s caretaker at night, finished smoking, leaning against a pillar at the entrance. When he saw Uri arrive, he took one last drag on his cigarette, tossed the butt into the trash can, and stepped forward to open the glass doors for him.

Ruben was a man in his sixties, with a lean face, hair too dark to be natural, and a prominent belly, resulting from regular beer intake, with a peculiarity that he shared with Uri.

“N43,” Uri called him. “N43.”

“O22,” Ruben called him; “any problem with my last name?”

“Nope. Today no one forgot I’m an orphan, so I wanted to remember I’m not alone.”

“You and thousands more, little princess,” said Ruben. “In this city, even the guy with the fanciest last name is alone. I can’t say the same for your car, though, which will soon receive a visit from the tow truck,” he warned him. “The spot you took is private parking. If they find it there…”

“Chill, old man,” Uri said. “Parking robots don’t take rounds down this street.”

“Robots don’t, but flesh-and-blood inspectors do.”

“C’mon, old man! It’ll just be a moment,” Uri replied. “I’ve come to change my clothes. I’m leaving in a heartbeat.”

“Change your clothes? Again?” Ruben was puzzled. “I thought it was a costume party or something, nothing serious. What was wrong with the military uniform?”

Uri chuckled. Counting Little John’s, with this one, has been already two comments about a costume on that same night.

“What the hell are you saying, old man? Are you drunk yet?”

“You’re the drunk one,” Ruben accused him and pointed out the red stains on his T-shirt. “That’s red wine, Uri-boy! You don’t fool me, huh? You spilled wine over you and came to change your clothes so no one would know how much of a bad boozer you are.”

Uri snapped his finger as if to say, ‘You caught me!’. He didn’t feel like talking to the old man or explaining to him what had happened.

“Here,” he said, and activating the holo-magazine, passed it to him. “Have fun reading about me. You’ll find an article on how to knit a balls-grabber for dirty old men on page fifty—I mean; in case you’re interested in dabbling in macrame.”

“Buzz off, little princess, and dress up already that your hunk awaits.”

They showed each other’s middle finger, and Uri walked through the entrance hall with a cheerful glow on his face. That’s what he needed for his night to change: happy moments.

He called an elevator. And when the metal sheets opened, he came across a pleasant surprise in there. A beautiful feminine specimen, leaning against the mirrored wall, with arms folded and gazing down. If Uri had believed in the gods, at that moment he would have thought the goddess of beauty had just given him candy for his eyes, a present destined to restore his happiness.

She was a sexy girl with well-defined muscles like an athlete. She looked tough and yet very feminine. He hadn’t seen her before in the building. Maybe she was a new tenant.

She must have been around his own age, he estimated—a few years younger, perhaps. She had high cheekbones, her skin was shiny like porcelain and her hair was golden like ears of wheat, falling down the sides of her face like a cascade of waves over her shoulders.

She wore a black T-shirt, tight blue jeans, and knee-high boots, black and shiny, with high heels. The funny thing was that in her trousers and boots there were traces of what appeared to be dry mud. Maybe she worked on a farm, or she was a rancher; the Proxima district encompassed not only the gigantic city but also miles and miles of unspoiled places and small, sparsely populated towns.

With a polite gesture, Uri sided to make room for her to come out—with his hand he covered the bloodstains in his T-shirt. She didn’t move, so he came in.

“To the garage?” he asked.

She didn’t answer. He pressed the button on the board to go to the twelfth floor and saw she had not specified direction. Well, that gave him a perfect excuse to look for some conversation.

“What floor?” he offered to touch the button for her.

And again, he didn’t have an answer, although he got the girl to look at him. Her eyes were big and slanted, and as light blue as a representation of the sky in miniature.

The elevator closed its doors and went up.

Haven’t you noticed yet, champ? Uri heard the often-treacherous voice of his own ego. She’s playing hard to get. Otherwise, she would have hopped off the elevator.

“Are you new here?” he asked.

She looked at him sideways. It was a strange look; somewhat knowing, but intimidating.

Until number twelve lit up on the elevator board. The journey had ended, and with it, his opportunity to engage in a conversation with the young woman.

The doors opened. But just before Uri put a foot outside, he felt her hands on his back, giving him a slight push.

“Go ahead, cute boy,” said the blonde; her voice was raspy, and carried a slight accent that sounded weird, somewhat melodic and very sensual, of which he didn’t know how to pinpoint its origin.

Uri looked over his shoulder with a triumphing smile. He soon realized there was someone at the entrance of the twelfth floor, waiting for him, though. The blonde girl’s intention was not to flirt but to hand him over to that person.

Shock gave him the death kiss for the second time on the same night: the one in front of him was no other than his double.