Later, in the luxurious calm of his hotel room, Arthur stood before the minibar mirror. It was warped, like funhouse glass, as if even the furniture couldn't bear to reflect him honestly.
"You're a fraud," he said aloud. "They don't love you. They love someone who doesn't exist."
Then softer, as though confiding in the mirror: "Do I love him too?"
He thought about Jasmin. The way she'd lingered before leaving the party. The almost-invitation in her eyes. The blatant offer on her tongue.
You don't have to be alone, she'd said. Not tonight.
And how had he answered?
John Smith Doesn't Exist - By AI, John Smith and Alias Tummas