The Wrong Twin’s Keepers

The heavy thunk-tap of my white cane against the cracked concrete is the only rhythm keeping me grounded this morning. Tap, slide, feel. Smooth edge of the curb. I keep my steps measured, head tilted slightly to catch the ambient roar of the transit grid overhead and the stale, chemical-laden breeze of the street.

Living in the processing ward's state-subsidized group home means my life is a ledger of permission slips. Technically, I'm a graduated submissive who cleared the basic curriculum, but the system treats us like idle inventory. My eyes clear, bright, and completely deceptive look back at me from every mirror like a cruel joke. They don't give away the absolute darkness behind them, but in a world that worships sharp, compliant submission, no private dominant ever requested me from the registry it's not all that surprising.

I didn't even have to wait out the standard mandatory holding block in the central processing cages or the auction; they just stamped Ineligible for Placement on my file, handed me over to the group home's medical guardianship program, and forgot I existed.

Well, almost. My medical guardian some burnt-out district clinician who only shows up on the first of the month at least signed off on my work permit. Without good insurance or a dominant to sponsor my medical upkeep, a service dog was light-years out of reach if ever. It's just me, my cane, and a minimum-wage data-sorting gig at a blind-friendly terminal three blocks away.

Tap, slide, feel.

A sudden, jarring shift in the air pressure makes the fine hairs on my arms stand up. Before I can angle my cane outward or pivot away, heavy hands close around my upper arms.

"Got you, Lottie," a low, gravelly voice snaps right beside my ear, rough with adrenaline and cold fury.

"Let go of me!" I gasp, stumbling as my cane is wrenched out of my grip, clattering uselessly against the pavement. I try to wrench my arms back, but a second set of hands intercepts, hauling my body backward off my feet with terrifying ease.

"Stop thrashing, you little lunatic," a second man mutters, his grip iron-tight as they shove me backward into the dark, humming interior of a waiting vehicle. The heavy door slams shut with a muffled thud, cutting off the city noise completely.

"I'm not who you think I am," I pant, my heart hammering against my ribs as the vehicle accelerates hard, throwing me against leather upholstery. "You have the wrong person—I'm blind! I don't even know a Lottie!"

The man to my left lets out a harsh, disbelieving huff of laughter, the sound dripping with lethal sarcasm as he looks straight into my unblemished, wide eyes.

"Right. And we're supposed to buy that you forgot how to drop your head and play nice just because you spent the week on the run? Save the act, Lottie. Your little games end right now."

"No, my name is Stevie! I'm not Lottie!" I gasp, hot tears streaming down my face as I twist violently against the heavy grip holding my wrists. Everything is spinning, the roaring engine and the sudden, violent lurch of the vehicle throwing off my internal compass completely. I have no idea where I am, where we're going, or why strangers just snatched me off the street. "Why did Lottie leave you? Because you're completely crazy!"

"Hold her down—drive, get us onthe road now!" the man holding me barks over my shouting, slamming his palm against a wall close to us.

The engine roars, and the vehicle lunges forward with a sickening jolt. While they're distracted by the movement, I wrench my hands free and start scrambling blindly across the leather seat, sweeping my arms outward to find a door handle, a window seam, anything to escape. My palms slap wildly against smooth, seamless panels and freezing glass.

"Hey—stop, stop, what are you doing?" The first man grabs my shoulder, hauling me back away from the window.

"Let me out!" I sob, my voice cracking as I kick out blindly with my boots and thrash against them, absolute terror making my chest heave. "Where are you taking me? What did I do? Let me out of here!"

The man on my right catches my flailing wrists again, pinning my arms to my sides with terrifying strength, while the other leans in close. Because Lottie and I look like identical twins down to the last detail, my unblemished eyes look completely normal giving away none of the absolute darkness I'm trapped in. They think I'm just playing a desperate game.

"Save the act, Lottie," the man growls, his voice tight with frustration as he tries to force my hands down.

"Stop thrashing and look at me. Drop the waterworks and tell us where you hid the access codes. You worked with Camilla months ago I know you have them."

"I'm not Lottie!" I cry out, blinking rapidly as fresh tears spill over my lashes, completely disoriented by their refusal to listen. "I don't know any access codes! I'm blind, you absolute idiots please—I was just walking to work with my cane! Why won't you listen to me?! I'm scared." My voice cracks.

"So Lottie wasn't even your submissive," I choke out through my tears, the pieces suddenly clicking together in my terror-addled brain as I stop thrashing against their iron grip. "She stole access codes from you, and you thought—you thought I was her?"

The silence that drops inside the speeding vehicle is heavy and suffocating.

The man holding my wrists freezes. The tension in his muscles shifts from aggressive restraint to absolute stillness. Beside him, the other man stops trying to pin my shoulders, his heavy breathing hitching in the dark.

"She wasn't just some submissive," I pant, my chest rising and falling as the horrifying reality of what I've stumbled into sets in. I stare blankly into the space where I sense his face, my eyes burning with unshed tears. "She robbed you, and you hunted her down like animals—and you grabbed the person off the street because you didn't even bother to check who you were catching." I feel my lip begin to tremble despite me trying to stay strong.

"Shut up," the man on my right mutters, though the command lacks any real bite now. The fierce, unquestioning certainty in his voice has completely dissolved, replaced by a sudden, jagged edge of panic.

"No, you shut up!" I fire back, my voice trembling with adrenaline and pure disbelief. "I was just trying to get to my data-sorting shift. I have a group home breathing down my neck and a medical guardian who only cares about my paperwork, and now I'm trapped in a car with two maniacs who kidnapped a blind girl because they can't tell her and I apart! I'm scared." I explain again

A long, agonizing pause stretches between us, broken only by the low hum of the engine as the vehicle barrels down the highway.

"Check her bag," the first man whispers, his voice dropping into a tense, disbelieving murmur. "Check the bag she dropped on the sidewalk you grabbed."

"My bag," I snap, my voice trembling as I glare blindly in the direction of the first man's voice. "The one you kicked away when you jumped me on the pavement? Yeah, go ahead and check it. You'll find my government-issued group home transit pass, my minimum-wage employment schedule, andmy stuffie named Floppy... and my spare cane I think—none of which belong to Lottie."

The man on my left shifts heavily, the sound of a zipper scraping against fabric echoing in the cramped backseat. I hear the rustle of my canvas tote bag being unzipped, followed by the bag begging dumped.

"Well?" the other man demands, his grip on my wrists finally loosening enough that I can yank my hands back and rub my sore skin. "What's in there?"

A rustle of paper. Then silence.

"An ID card," the first man mutters, his voice dangerously low, stripped of all its previous bravado. "State-subsidized group home registry. Name... Stevie Brooks. Registration code for a non-compliant optical variance—meaning..." He trails off, the harsh intake of breath telling me he's just read the word blind in cold, official ink.

The man holding me slowly releases my arms altogether, his hands pulling back as if he's just touched something burning.

"God damnit she's not Lottie," he breathes, the realization sounding like a physical blow in the dark. He scrubs a hand over his face, a string of low, vicious curses slipping past his teeth. "Fucking hell. We grabbed a civilian. A blind girl off the public sidewalk. A fucking little."

"No shit, Sherlock," I hiss, rubbing my wrists and shrinking back against the opposite corner of the seat as far away from them as I can get. "And now that you've figured out you're completely incompetent kidnappers, what's the plan? Dump me in an alley somewhere, or do you have to kill me now because you've accidentally dragged me into whatever mess your runaway girlfriend or whatever left behind?"

"I don't think you have to kill me," I add, my voice dropping into a sharper, more sensible tone as I cross my arms defensively over my chest. "Obviously I'm blind. I couldn't pick your face out of a lineup if I wanted to. So why don't you drop me off in some random place—you know what, I'd actually prefer you to drop me off near my work so I can still go to my shift. Or you can drop me off right where you took me, and we'll just consider this a big misunderstanding. Just put my things in my bag and make sure you put Mr. Floppy in the bag.

The silence in the vehicle stretches on for a long, heavy second.

"Drop you back off?" the man on my right repeats, his tone incredulous. "After we just dragged you off the street and terrified you?"

"Well, you're the ones who messed up," I fire back, refusing to back down even though my pulse is still hammering against my ribs and my tears threaten to fall. "Unless you plan on putting me right back where you found me so I can find my own way with my spare gear, you owe me a safe drop-off. Otherwise, I'm completely stranded in a part of the city I don't know, with no cane and no way to navigate!"

The silence in the vehicle stretches on for a long, agonizing eternity.

No one answers. No one barks a command or offers a cynical excuse. There is only the low, heavy purr of the engine and the terrifying, absolute stillness of the two men sitting inches away from me.

My heart stutters against my ribs, a cold wave of dread washing over me. Why aren't they saying anything?

Oh god they are going to kill me.

In the total blackness of my world, the silence is a physical weight, a breeding ground for every horror story I've ever heard about the city's underworld. They aren't laughing off my demands. They aren't arguing. They're calculating. In books and rumors witnesses don't just walk away especially people who accidentally unearth high-level conspiracies or stolen codes. If they let me go, I'm a liability. A loose end.

The cold realization settles deep in my stomach like lead: They're deciding how to get rid of me.

My breath hitches, the thin veneer of my tough-girl act shattering completely. The little in my coming through as panic claws its way up my throat, hot and sharp, and I pull my knees up toward my chest, wrapping my arms tight around myself as a full-body shiver racks my frame. Hot tears spill over my lashes, tracking blindly down my cheeks.

"Please," I whisper, the word breaking on a ragged sob as the sheer terror of the dark overwhelms me. "Please... just drop me off. I won't tell anyone, I swear it... just please don't kill me."

Btw if you hate cover of book let me know i just picked something random lol