From that simple incident, Rilon felt mentally drained, declining in the month that passed.

He refused to see anyone, not even his own family, becoming a literal recluse in order to avoid any social interaction.

All he did was his work, writing by lamplight that only gave a pitiful amount of light itself. Some nights, he’d work himself nearly half to death, collapsing on the floor from pure exhaustion, and sleeping right there.

At least once or twice, he’d gotten too confused or frustrated. In a fit of rage, he’d thrown the desk over, spilling the contents onto the floor. The loud crash alerted a nearby guard, who burst into the room. Rilon had to reassure them that it was only a fit and dismiss them for lunch after.

Other than that, nobody came to his door, except for the cook, who brought him food once a day as if worried that he’d starve without it.

Work.

Eat.

Sleep.

Repeat.

Frankly, for even a recluse such as Rilon, the repetitive schedule was quite depressing. He needed something other than work to keep him busy.

The cabinets. What he’d said to Asiah came rushing back to him. I’m a doctor… Why am I writing about pointless things?

He got up from his desk and began going through the cabinets, with a notebook and pen in hand. He was careful with some contents, wary that some may be more toxic than others, setting the containers and his notebook down on the counter when his hands got too shaky from nerves.

After a while, he heard the door open, but he paid it no attention, figuring that it was the cook coming by with his meal again. He fixed his glasses and flipped through his notebook. “I’m over here.” He called.

“I’ve come here to apologize.”

Rilon looked up. That isn’t the cook.

He turned away, shrugging, and set the container back in the cabinet, pulling out a cylindrical beaker to take its predecessor’s place.

“Rilon… Can you stop being so self-absorbed for a minute?” Not the cook… Definitely Asiah.

He held the beaker closer to his face, muttering an absent, “Nuh-uh.”

“I’m speaking anyway.”

“Go for it.” Rilon set the beaker down and wrote in the notebook again.

“I realize that I’ve grown out of my habits. I won’t force you outside again.”

“Alright.” Through the amalgam of thoughts, that was the reply that came first. “Could you help me take some notes, Asiah?”

“What?” Asiah had braced himself on the counter top, having had walked over there during Rilon’s brief trance. Rilon cautiously pushed him back and handed him the notebook. “Take notes.” He repeated.

“Um…” Asiah stared at the object as if it had been a strange creature.

“Like what I said,” Rilon subsequently handed him the pen and turned back to the counter. “Take notes.”

Asiah let out a groan but complied. He faithfully took notes while Rilon went through the contents of his cabinet. He spoke about other things, mostly boring to Asiah, who still groaned.

“Alright,” Rilon opened the cabinet and stored the last beaker away. “We’re done.”

Asiah visibly relaxed, nearly dropping the notebook. “Oh thank God.” He sighed deeply. “Now I can leave.”

Rilon rolled his eyes, leaning back against the counter. “Leave the notebook here.”

“Fine.” Asiah dropped the notebook on the floor and ran before Rilon could rebuke him for it. He walked over to it, anyway, and picked up the notebook, which was open and on its face.

Then he read it. Most of the notes were in Asiah’s signature sloppy German, but the only thing written back in English was, ‘Keep a secret for me’.

Reading below, Rilon smiled broadly.

He didn’t know why the thought struck him in the first place. It must’ve been those notes, he’d figured, or something against his will.

It was early, very early in the morning.

The bedroom door swung open. Rilon, still in his nightclothes, dashed out into the main room of his apartment. His breath heavy, he went to the cabinets and started rifling through them like a starved animal.

It still felt against his will, animalistic. Empty glasses shattered on the floor as Rilon continued searching. This wasn’t him, this didn’t feel like him… Yet, it was him.

Suddenly, he stopped. Rilon had found something, bringing out a liquid-filled glass and setting it up on the counter top. By then, he had already gone through half of the cabinet.

What he was doing, still, he had no idea.

He took the glass in his hands and went to the balcony door. He held it up to the moonlight and stared at it; a red light spilled out onto his clothes, then to which Rilon nearly smiled.

“Very good… Very good.” His voice gained an unnatural depth, almost startling even himself. For a moment, he seemed to have regained his senses. “What am I doing?” He muttered, taking the glass away from the window, fighting back the urge to throw it across the room.

That would cause too much of a commotion, though… Wouldn’t it? The thought felt too strange, too detached, as if it didn’t belong to him. Maybe it didn’t.

“Only other way to get rid of it…” He shrugged. “You only live once, as they say.”

But he hesitated. This felt dumb... horrendously stupid.

Why am I doing this? Rilon asked himself once again. Finally, he was completely coming to his senses.

Then he shook his head. Because I must. Because I promised.

“It's a necessity.” His hand on which he held the flask trembled, almost spilling the contents. “It's a need.”

Rilon shook his head and stared at the flask.

“Don't hesitate.”

He brought the flask to his lips, downing the contents.

It was salty, and left a burning aftertaste down his throat. Who would expect anything else but that?

But, as strange as it was... It only got stranger. Nothing was happening. Sniffing, Rilon made his way over to his desk and took out a journal.

He picked up a quill and wrote,

“July 10th, 2659,

No changes to note.”

Rilon paused. How was he writing with his left hand, if he was primarily right-handed?

On the paper, he scribbled faster, “Somehow I've become… left-handed?”

To test out his theory, he attempted writing with the hand he was used to — his right — but was shocked to find that it was useless to him, leaving pitiful scratch marks in place of his usual, perfect writing.

Then he took his glasses off, setting them on the table. Rilon closed the journal without signing off the timestamp and his name and ran his hands through his hair, exasperated.

I'll just go to bed, I guess...

When he stood up, however, his legs went suddenly weak. Rilon fell back in the chair and clutched at his head, tearing at his hair. The splitting headache that almost immediately accompanied his actions threw him into nauseous vertigo.

“I should get to Asiah.” The words were forced out of his mouth, directed at nobody in particular — like there was anyone to talk to anyway.

He forced himself out of the chair and stumbled to his door. He blindly fumbled for the lock, and silently celebrated when it clicked open.

Rilon threw himself into the hallway, beginning to stumble along its length.

“Wait,” After several more feet — he didn't know exactly — Rilon fell back against the wall with a groan. “My brother isn't on this floor, is he?”

I need to call for a guard.

He opened his mouth to call out but panicked when words refused to leave his mouth.

I'm the biggest idiot to walk the face of the Earth. Rilon smiled to himself, managing to force out a hoarse laugh at least, sliding against the wall.

“Someone's…” he drew in a slow breath, saving it in case someone did actually find him. “They're going to find me here, aren't they. Stupid little heir, heh.”

At this point, he couldn't tell up from down, like he was swimming in an endless lake deeper than he had ever known. It was impossible to discern whether the vertigo was from the chemicals or just pure exhaustion. Perhaps it was both.

Either way, he needed to close his eyes.

Maybe he shouldn't have slept.

It took him a moment to realize that he had actually opened his eyes. Or had he?

This felt more like a mind space more than an actual world. A dark mind space, with no movement or activity whatsoever. It was so dark that he couldn't see his own hands.

Hello?

He wasn't alone. There was someone else sharing the mind space with him.

Am I alone?

Wait a minute... He knew that voice.

“Should I know you?” Rilon's gaze whirled around. Vertigo had left him at least; he could do this without feeling the world was on a three-second delay.

Should I know you?

Although the voice had a rising tone — a question — Rilon recognized it as an echo. He was talking to... Himself?

“I guess ...we may be the same, anyway.”

Wait, that sounded stupid.

“The same person…?”

Even worse.

The same… His echo hesitated as if contemplating his words. The same.

Quiet fell upon the mind space until a malice laced tone nearly made Rilon jump.

No, we're not.

Another pause.

We're not the same.

“How so?” He prompted his voice to give more than just a repeat of the same words.

They know you. They don't know me. Not for anything. I'm too new.

“I highly doubt the world knows me.” Rilon murmured, clutching at the collar of his nightgown. He lowered his head and asked, “Do you want to be noticed?”

Yes, I would like that. The voice perked up.

As the echo did, the darkness in the space lifted. Rilon could finally see his hands, his crimson nightgown, his bare feet.

He looked up to see a figure in the near distance — about fifty feet away. His echo.

Cautiously, Rilon approached. The echo sensed him and turned around.

Rilon flinched.

The figure looked him straight in the eye, curious.

He had nearly the same features as Rilon, black hair, pointed nose; he was even wearing the same crimson nightgown that Rilon himself had on.

Yet, although he had black hair, it was in a mess as though he had slept restlessly, and, upon close inspection, Rilon saw that his eyes were blue, so light that they could have been white. He recognized the color… somehow, but couldn’t place where he’d seen them before.

He was Rilon's echo, but yet he wasn't.

“You're new.” Rilon tilted his head. “Do you have a name?”

What better to do than get acquainted with… yourself.

The echo shook his head, staring at his feet. No.

Rilon held out his hand as if in offering. It was a desperate attempt to not feel awkward, but it made him feel all the more so. “Do you want one?”

The echo looked back up him, reluctantly nodding. I would.

The awkward feeling overcame Rilon, and he lowered his hand.

“What is your choice, then?”

The other hesitated, standing there in thought.

Eventually, he opened his mouth and spoke.

Hyde, he said, smiling. Edward Hyde.