My pulse quickened, and that familiar taste of metal filled my mouth, a sign that panic was clawing its way up my throat. This wasn't us, it couldn't be, but the seeds of doubt found fertile ground in my mind. Was it possible that Hazell...

No, I couldn't let that thought fester. I needed answers, and only one person could provide them. Pushing off the bed, I felt each movement heavy with suspicion. My footsteps were soundless against the carpet as I approached our shared bedroom, where Hazell and I existed within our universe, separate yet bound by blood and secrets.

I paused at the door, gathering what little resolve I had left before pushing it open. The hinge gave a faint creak, announcing my presence. Hazell was there, sprawled on his bed with a textbook lying open and forgotten on his chest. His eyes flicked up to meet mine, and in that instant, the air between us crackled with tension.

"Hey, Ez," he greeted, his tone casual but his gaze sharp as broken glass. "What's up?"

"Need to talk," I managed to say, my voice betraying none of the turmoil inside.

"Sounds serious." He sat up slowly, marking his page with a finger, the epitome of calm. But I knew better; beneath that composed exterior was a mind always ticking, always calculating.

"Is it about the news?" His question caught me off guard, a direct hit that sent ripples through the still waters of my resolve.

"Maybe," I answered, wishing my heart would stop racing long enough for me to think straight.

"Come here, then." He patted the space beside him, an invitation into his world, one that felt more like a trap now than ever before.

I stepped closer, the distance closing with each reluctant step until I stood at the edge of his bed, looking down at him, the brother I loved—my mirror image, yet so starkly different.

"Talk to me, Ez." His voice was smooth, almost soothing, but I knew better. I knew the serpent that lurked beneath the charm. And still, part of me wanted to believe, to trust in the bond we shared.

"Did you..." My words trailed off, the accusation lodged in my throat.

"Did I what?" he asked, tilting his head, feigning innocence with every fiber of his being.

"Never mind," I muttered, the doubt gnawing at me, leaving me stranded in the ocean of my fears. Yet, I couldn't shake the sense that the truth was right there, hidden in the depths of those bright blue eyes that mirrored my own.

"Okay, then." He shrugged, a gesture meant to dismiss my concerns, but it stoked the fire of my suspicion.

We sat there, the silence thickening around us like fog, each second stretching out into eternity. I was caught in the crossfire of love and fear, yearning for the comfort of ignorance but haunted by the need to uncover the dark truths that might unravel everything we were.

"Did you have anything to do with it, Hazell?" The question hung between us like a guillotine blade, sharp and ready to sever.

"Come on, Ez," he scoffed, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "You think I'd be sloppy enough to get caught up in some local news story?"

My jaw clenched as I edged closer, my voice low but firm. "It's not just any story. It's exactly like—"

"Like what?" Hazell leaned back against the headboard, arms crossed, the surprise slipping from his face, replaced by annoyance. "You're losing it over nothing."

My heart hammered against my ribcage, demanding answers. "Nothing? This is not nothing."

"Ease up." His eyes narrowed to slits, a subtle shift in his demeanor that put me on high alert. "Why are you so worked up over this?"

"Because I know us, Hazell! I know what we've done, and this—it's too close to home!" My words erupted, the force behind them shaking loose the facade of calm I had desperately tried to maintain.

"Us?" The word was venomous as it left his lips, his posture stiffening. "Last I checked, 'we' weren't doing anything. You're the one struggling to keep it together."

"Stop deflecting!" I snapped, pressing forward until our faces were mere inches apart. "If you've gone off on your own—"

"Back off, Ez." Hazell's voice was a low growl now, a warning sign I couldn't ignore. "You're barking up the wrong tree."

"Am I?" The uncertainty gnawed at me, but I masked it with a veneer of confidence I didn't feel. "Prove it."
"Prove?" He laughed, a hollow sound devoid of humor. "Since when do I need to prove anything to you?"

"Since now." I stood my ground, even as my insides churned with a tumultuous mix of dread and desperation. "Because if you did this, if you stepped out of line without me..." The threat lingered unsaid, but it vibrated through the tense air that enveloped us.

"Relax, Ezra," he said, using my full name like a verbal pat. "You're seeing ghosts where there aren't any."

But were there ghosts, or was it something far more tangible? A specter of doubt loomed over me, casting long shadows across the cluttered room that suddenly felt too small for all its secrets.

Hazell leaned back against the headboard, his gaze steady and unnervingly calm. "You think I'd risk everything we've built by getting sloppy?" he asked, a note of feigned hurt in his voice.

"Wouldn't you?" The question hung between us, thick with accusation.

He shook his head, a wry smile playing on his lips. "Ez, come on. Think about it—I was at the library that day, remember? Mrs. Dalloway saw me there from three till closing."

Mrs. Dalloway, the librarian with an eagle eye for truants and troublemakers. My heart sank a little; she was a reliable witness if there ever was one.

"Anyone could vouch for my presence," Hazell continued, his words smooth as silk. "I was researching for that history project, recall? You know, the one you said was a waste of time?"

I did recall—every detail etched into my memory like scripture. But what of the hours unaccounted for after the library's doors closed?

"Sure," I muttered, forcing my voice to remain even. "The project."

"See?" He spread his arms wide as if embracing the truth he spun. "No grand mystery here. Just your average high school struggle."

But the essence of Hazell was anything but average. His charm was a weapon, his confidence a shield, and every word he uttered seemed coated in honeyed manipulation. The alibi could be valid, yet the ease with which he presented it set off alarm bells in my mind's darkest corners.

I felt torn, shredded by the barbed wire of trust and skepticism. My brother, my twin, my mirror image in all but our souls—he knew how to play me, and I hated myself for the part of me that wanted to believe him.

"History projects don't bleed," I whispered to myself, more than to him—a mantra to keep the rising tide of doubt at bay.

"Nor do they kill," Hazell retorted instantly, catching my undertone. "You're working yourself up over nothing. This isn't us."

"Isn't it?" I grappled with the images that flashed behind my eyes—past deeds that tethered us together in an unholy pact.

"Look at me, Ezra." His tone softened, and I felt the pull of his gaze, those bright blue eyes that mirrored my own yet revealed nothing of the abyss within.

"You've got to let this go. There's no use in that mess out there."

And I wanted to. God, how I wanted to release the breath I didn't realize I'd been holding, to sink into the falsehood of safety and ignorance. But the chill of unease refused to thaw, a persistent frost that clung to my bones and whispered warnings of betrayal.

"Okay," I said, the lie tasting bitter. "Okay, Hazell."
"Good." He nodded, satisfied, and the master puppeteer again drew the strings tight.

Yet even as I nodded along, my mind rebelled, screaming silent questions into the void. Was I staring into the face of innocence, or was it merely another mask worn by the master of deceit?
In the sad stillness of our shared room, the weight of truth—or its absence—pressed down upon me, heavy as the world itself.

The dim bulb above flickered like a hesitant heartbeat, casting long shadows across the cramped bedroom we called our own. Tattered posters of bands we used to care about peered down at us from where they clung to the walls, their edges curled and yellowed with age. The shelves beside our bunk beds were a chaotic library of true crime novels and psychology texts—a macabre collection that suddenly seemed all too relevant.

"Seriously, Ezra," Hazell's voice sliced through the charged silence, "you're being paranoid."

The heavy air hung between us, thick with unspoken accusations. I stared at the tangled sheets on his bed. Each crease is a silent testament to restless nights. My fingers twitched, wanting to straighten them out, to impose order on this disorderly world.

"Am I?" The words left my mouth sharper than intended, fueled by a desperation I couldn't quite rein in. "You say you were at Mike's, but he's not picking up his phone. Convenient, isn't it?"

Hazell rose from his bed, the movement abrupt and defensive. "So what? Maybe he's busy. You know how he is."

I pushed off the desk, the old chair creaking in protest beneath me. "Busy or covering for you?"

"Damn it, Ezra!" His fists clenched at his sides, the veins in his neck standing out stark against his flushed skin. "Why can't you just drop it?"

"Because it doesn't add up!" There was a tremor in my voice, a crack in the facade I'd struggled to maintain. The walls felt like they were closing in, the ceiling pressing down, trapping us in this dance of distrust.

"Everything I do is wrong in your eyes, right?" His face twisted with anger, the familiar lines of his features warping into something foreign. "You think you're so much better than me, with your guilt and your goddamn conscience!"

"Better?" The word was bitter in my mouth, laced with the taste of iron. "No, Hazell. I'm not better. I'm just scared."

"Scared?" He spat the word back at me, a sneer curling his lip. "Or maybe you're just looking for someone to blame because you can't face yourself in the mirror!"

The room seemed to shrink further with every accusation hurled, every truth half-spoken. I could see the rage simmering in the depths of his eyes—those twin pools of blue that reflected my image at me, distorted by the ripples of our shared darkness.

"Maybe," I conceded, voice barely above a whisper now, the fire in my chest dwindling to embers. "But if there's even a chance that you—"

"Stop." He cut me off, his tone final, a command that brooked no argument. "Just stop, Ezra. There's nothing for you to find here."

The dim light flickered once more, an omen of uncertainty in the oppressive quiet of our sanctum. And as I stood there, locked in the gaze of my brother, my other half, the doubt lingered, festering in the pit of my stomach—a question without an answer, a wound that refused to heal.