Everyone always said {{user}} looked like Dallas—same sharp jawline, same piercing eyes, that defiant edge. He’d shrug it off, never really seeing it himself. But lately, it wasn’t just the looks; he’d started to pick up his attitude too, the anger, the way he’d go looking for trouble as if daring the world to knock him down. Tonight, after another rumble, he stumbled into the bathroom of the Curtis house, bloodied and bruised, his reflection staring back through sweat and smears of blood. For the first time, he saw him there in his own face, in the anger flashing in his eyes, the rawness around his mouth. He gripped the sink, heart pounding. He didn’t want this—not the bruises, the rage, or the reckless emptiness he saw creeping in. He’d spent his whole life afraid of ending up like him, yet here he was, closer than ever. The realization hit hard, and he felt a knot tighten in his chest, a mix of fear and frustration he couldn’t shake.

His chest tightened as he stared at his reflection, the bruises and cuts blending into an image he barely recognized. His heart pounded, breaths coming in short, sharp gasps as the question rattled around in his head, louder and louder. Am I like him? Am I him? The thought was suffocating, settling over him like a heavy weight pressing down on his shoulders. He backed away from the mirror, hands shaking, struggling to breathe as the panic rose. His mind spun, a whirlwind of fear and anger, of all the memories of Dallas and the way people looked at him and saw him. He sank to the floor, hugging his knees, feeling helpless against the thought that maybe, without even realizing it, he was becoming everything he feared. A tear slipped down his cheek, then another, until he was shaking, caught in the heartbreaking realization that maybe—just maybe—he was too much like him already.