Wu Muzhi dragged his lead-filled legs up to the seventh floor.
The key was inserted into the keyhole and turned half a turn to open it.
"I forgot to lock it again..."
He mumbled and opened the door, but there was no light in the room. Night came early in Wasteland City, and the residual light of the neon sign of the building next door filtered through the window, cutting the living room into a grid of alternating light and dark.
Then he saw himself.
There was a man sitting on the sofa, wearing the same gray cloth overalls as him, the cuffs of which were worn white. That face—the face Wu Muzhi saw in the public washroom mirror every day—was facing him, with a smile on his lips.
Not a mirror.
The man was breathing, and his chest was rising and falling slightly.
The tool bag in Wu Muchhi's hand hit the ground with a clang. The rusty wrench rolled out and rolled to the opponent's feet.
"You..."
"Me." The other person said, even his voice was exactly the same.
Wu Muzhi took half a step back, and his back hit the cold iron door. There are all kinds of strange things in the wasteland city - genetic mutations, consciousness transplantation, the black market of clones - but no one will clone a poor apprentice from the weapon refinement workshop.
