Still hidden from their view, on the fire escape in some dark alley off First Avenue, Jack finally let his body go limp. Feeling a slight relief from the prevailing chase was enough to fall asleep.

Plain in appearance, Jack Wechsler blended in with any background. Brown hair, brown eyes; an oval face and a medium build, he was just an average guy. There was nothing special about him; he was no one of consequence. He held an office job, drank his morning coffee and took his lunch at the deli on the corner. His complacency made him prefect.

The thing that made him different was that one day Jack got sick. He began his imaginings; he made up people they say didn’t really exist, but his wife, his friends, and his shrink; they’re the ones who don’t exist. Their reality was no longer real to him.

He was seeing a psychiatrist because the bureau required it. Being an internet secret-agent; traversing the dangers of a worldwide web made having sound mental health an absolute necessity. The world was counterfeit.