Stay in bed but maintain distance, drifting back to sleep while wondering how you ended up here.

You drift back toward sleep, vaguely wondering how you ended up in Lina's bed. The question floats through your drowsy mind as consciousness ebbs and flows like a tide. You're aware enough to maintain some distance between your bodies, but sleep pulls you under before you can fully process the situation.

When you next open your eyes, golden morning light streams through the half-drawn curtains. Something feels different. Warm. Intimate. Your body has shifted during sleep, curled protectively around Lina's smaller frame. Your chest presses against her back, your knees tucked behind hers, and—with a jolt of awareness—you realize your right hand has somehow slipped inside her sweatpants, resting directly on the warm, slick folds of her pussy.

Your breath catches. She's wet. Very wet. The moisture has collected around your fingers, making them stick slightly to her delicate skin. Lina continues sleeping deeply, her breathing slow and even, completely unaware of the intimate position. Her body fits against yours exactly as Jane's used to—the same curve of hip, the same subtle scent of shampoo in her hair.

Your body responds instinctively to the familiar shape, to the warmth of her skin against yours. Muscle memory, you realize with a flush of guilt. How many mornings had you and Jane woken like this, spooned together in your narrow dorm bed?

With exquisite care, you begin extracting your hand from her sweatpants. Each fraction of an inch feels dangerous, your fingers sliding against her slippery folds as you try to pull away without disturbing her. Her wetness has left your fingers slightly pruned, the skin wrinkled from prolonged contact with her moisture.

Lina stirs slightly, making a soft sound in her sleep—the same little half-sigh Jane used to make. She shifts her hips, unconsciously pressing back against you for a moment before settling again into deep sleep.

You finally free your hand, bringing it up before your eyes. Your fingers glisten with her arousal in the morning light, and you're struck by a confusing blend of guilt, grief, and unwelcome desire. This is Jane's sister. Your dead girlfriend's identical twin. And yet your body responded to her as if she were Jane herself.

Carefully, you shift your weight away from her and ease yourself off the bed. The mattress springs creak softly as you stand, but Lina doesn't stir. She remains deeply asleep, her dark hair spilled across the pillow, one arm flung out in the space you just vacated. Her lips are slightly parted, a small dark spot of drool on the pillow beneath her mouth—exactly how Jane used to sleep.

You flex your fingers, feeling the slight tackiness as her wetness begins to dry on your skin. The intimacy of what just happened—even if accidental, even if ****—feels like a betrayal. Of Jane. Of Lina herself. And yet there's a dangerous undercurrent of desire humming through your body that you can't fully silence.

Standing at the bedside, watching Lina sleep in postures and positions so hauntingly identical to Jane's, you're struck by the bizarre reality of your situation. Twenty-four hours ago, you were a prisoner helping Marco hunt this woman. Now you're waking up in her bed, your fingers wet with her arousal, both of you united by grief for the same person.

The neutralizing compound waits in the freezer. Marco's men are likely searching for you both. And the clock is ticking toward whatever comes next.