Four of Me, One ID

Every clone story you've ever read ends the same way: paranoia, betrayal, a gun pressed to your own face. One man split into two versions, and only one of them walks away alive. Westerners have a disease, and that disease is a question—which one of us is the real me? I don't have that question. I'm an East Asian trucking magnate in America. Three kids. A wife who manages me like a company. A mistress I'm too smart—I tell myself—to ever touch. A life so full there was never enough of me to go around. So when a voice out in the desert offered to make more of me, I said yes without blinking. Because nobody knows me better than I do—and a man who truly knows himself doesn't fear himself. He drinks with himself. He covers for himself. There are four of me now. One note, left on the kitchen table: "Gone to have some fun, brothers. Good luck." He ran off before the rest of us even woke up. Now three of us have a company to run, a wife to love, three kids to raise—and exactly one driver's license between us. So we worked out a system. One man holds the family, the business, the money. The rest go chase the lives we never let ourselves have—one to the woman who's been waiting all along, one to the wide-eyed girl at the Mercedes dealership. We rotate every month. Miss your turn coming home, and whoever's holding the wallet cuts your credit card. What could possibly go wrong? This is a story about a man, his desires, his family—and the three other men who are all, down to the last bone, him.