Nine days since the first alerts began to come out, reports of strange, black-eyed clones across the worlds. As if the shutdown of the Ingress and the catastrophic freeze that followed had not been bad enough. Of course there's something else. There's always something else.

But J hasn't met her own copy. Likely, she'd begun to suspect she didn't have one. By now, that's known to occur— some people just don't. It hasn't stopped other shadow beings from attacking them, it confers no protection at all from the fear and confusion about what the Hell is going on. However, at least she hasn't had to deal with anybody wearing her face. At least, until she wakes up on July 12th, climbs out of bed, and finds a woman in her bathroom.

She's in the bathtub. Her blond curls damp plastered against the white ceramic. Bubble bath filled up high enough to cover her chest, and slender toes perched on the rim. Only her eyes are wrong, black as ink, no whites.

"Look at us," she says. "Productive citizens of Hell and Hell. Good morning."