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It's not so much that she looks exactly like you as that her shoulder blades slice against her shirt at precisely the same angle. The anatomy of vigilance, to a trained eye. So you're surprised she hasn't spotted you.

Her fingers are curled around a half-drunk bourbon and she hasn't taken a sip in half an hour. It's already morning, and anyone who doesn't work nights has long since gone home.

The chair scrapes as you stand up and she looks toward you, then. Her irises match yours. You stand close enough to touch her (but with your hands in your pockets) and ask, "Want to compare... badges?" She blinks twice.