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The Patience’s Of Predators: The Apartment of Doubles

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The night doesn’t stalk Aston with footsteps—it grins back from the glass. A rain-soaked walk home becomes a hall of mirrors where reflections move first, a colleague recites his thoughts before he can speak, and a phone call returns his own words in a lover’s voice. We take you inside a city that copies, a firm that rewards repetition, and an apartment where photographs rearrange themselves into a circle of doubles, each one a sharper, hungrier draft of the original.

We unravel how imitation turns predatory when credit blurs and speed rules, and why identity erodes fastest in places that praise confidence over provenance. Elliot keeps the blade hidden behind policy, Janine hunts with precision, and the ledger of images grows from twelve to fourteen with impossible clicks in the dark—proof that copies breed copies even when you try to burn the evidence. The question tightens: is it worse to be hunted, or to be replaced by a cleaner, crueler version of yourself?

Along the way, we share five reflection prompts to test your defenses: where control slips when your words come back through someone else, which doubles you carry under pressure, what part of your life attracts predators, how to tell imitation from replacement, and which version of you would outlast the others if the ledger kept adding pages. Expect psychological horror, corporate intrigue, and practical takeaways on protecting authorship, building boundaries, and keeping the original intact when the room starts echoing.

If this story hooked you, share it with a friend who loves smart thrillers with a self-development edge, and drop a quick review so more listeners can find the series. Want to talk about the episode or the upcoming Halloween run? Hit the “let’s chat” link in the show description, email anthonygentsjourney.com, or DM us on Instagram at my gents journey. Subscribe and stay close—the next chapters land fast.

"True mastery is found in the details. The way you handle the little things defines the way you handle everything."

SPEAKER_01:

Hello and welcome to the Gentleman's Journey Podcast. My name is Anthony, your host. And today we are in episode five of the Patience of Predators. So let's go ahead. Oh, I gotta tell you the name of it. Name of the episode is the apartments of doubles. So let's go ahead and let's get in the cold opening. The city always looked different after midnight. The glass towers that gleam during the day turn hollow. Black eyed sentinels at night, their windows reflecting fragments of neon and sodium light. The streets grew slick with dew and oil, reflecting the city back at itself until the sidewalk shimmered like mirages. To Aston it felt like walking inside a hall of mirrors. His footsteps echoed against wet pavement as he cut down Seventh Avenue. He had stayed too late at the firm, hiding behind piles of briefs he hadn't read, equations of debt that refused to balance even on paper. Elliot had stopped him. Janine had needed to. Their silence had been sharper than any rebuke. Now the streets pressed in around him, silent but not empty. A few stragglers smoked near a shuttered diner. A taxi drifted past, tires hissing on the wet asphalt. Music bled from somewhere faint, distorted, carried on the wind. Brian Adams, everything I do, I do it for you. The lyric barely reached him. The words warped by distance. Look into my eyes, you will see what you mean to me. He stopped walking, the words cut too deep. They weren't meant for him. But they sounded like Claire. Aston forced himself forward, he told himself the song was a coincidence, nothing more. The city coughed up echoes all the time, snippets of conversations, music drifting from open bars, the same words spoken by strangers in different mouths. That was the city's rhythm. But tonight it felt personal. Every sound aimed, every lyric chosen. He pulled his coat tighter against the wind, his eyes caught on a storefront ahead, an old clothing shop wedged between two shuttered bodegas. The lights inside glowed dim, too dim for the hour. The display window stretched wide, glass smeared with streaks from recent rain. He saw himself in it. At first he thought nothing of it, just his reflection, pale and haggard under the street light, eyes shadowed from sleeplessness, but then the reflection moved, not with him, against him. He froze, his heart was hammering. His reflection straightened, rolling its shoulders, adjusting the lapel of its coat, then reached out, picked up a folded shirt from the display table inside the shop, and examined it as though shopping. Aston staggered backward, pulse roaring in his ears. The reflection wasn't a reflection at all, it was another hymn inside the shop, moving freely, oblivious to his shock. The Aston the other Aston it tilted its head, studying the fabric. He turned in his hands, frowned, and looked up. Their eyes met through the glass. And the devil smiled. Aston's breath stopped, his chest locked tight. It wasn't his smile, not the half strained half smiles he wore in depths, not the polite courtroom curve, not the word warrant Claire used to draw from him. This was wider, sharper, predatory. The smile of someone who knew his secret and savored it. Aston's knees trembled. He pressed his palm against the cold glass as if to steady himself. His skin left a print on the pane fogged with sweat. Inside the double mirrored him, but not exactly. It placed its hand beside his, a fraction off. Fingers splayed wider, deliberately misaligned. It was showing him the difference. Not a reflection, a replacement. A car honked behind him, breaking the silence, a bus rumbled past, spraying mist from the gutter. When Aston looked back, the shop window was empty. Not double, no lights. The store was dark, it was closed. The display tables inside were bare. He stumbled back a step, his heart was still racing. His throat was dry as paper. Had he imagined it? A trick of light, of exhaustion, of his own fraying mind? The city didn't answer. Only the faint residue of the song lingered, carried on the night air. Look into your heart, and you will find there's nothing there to hide. The lyric curdled in his ears. He turned, quickened his pace, every shadow now carrying a second version of himself, waiting to look up, waiting to smile. The streets stretched longer than they should have, the city folded in on itself. And for the first time, Aston realized the predators weren't chasing him. They were copying him. Part one at the firm. Morning light leaked gray through the blinds of Aston's office, but it brought no warmth. His suit clung to him uncomfortably, color tight around a throat that still felt constricted from the night before. He had barely slept. When he closed his eyes he saw the double smile in the shop window wider than his own. When he opened them, he saw the photographs waiting on the wall, red marks multiplying while he blinked. At the firm, everything smelled faintly of polish and ambition. Coffee cups lying desks like trophies of endurance. Associates clutched files as if their weight proved worth in this place. Weakness wasn't hidden. It was broadcast, catalogued, and remembered. Aston walked through the lobby with his shoulders set. Though every step felt unsteady, he could feel eyes on him whispering, counting. The conference room was already full when he arrived. Elliot sat at the head of the table, graysuit immaculate, glasses folded in front of him like an executioner sharpening a blade. Around the table, Junior Associate shuffled papers, whispering, and Janetorus sat at Elliot's right hand. Her posture was perfect, spine straight, chin lifted, eyes forward, but when Aston entered, her glaze slid to him, slow and deliberate, like a predator catching the scent of blood. Nice of you to join us, Elliot said without looking up. Aston was adjusting his tie. I was reviewing briefs. Then I trust you'll have sharp insight to offer. Elliot mentioned to a stack of documents at his elbow. Start with the Donovan case. Aston reached for the file, but Janine's voice cut in, clear and smooth. I already prepared a summary, she said. Would you like to me to walk through it? Ella looked up, faintly amused. Yeah, please, go ahead. Janine spoke with precision, her words were crisp, her tone confident. But as she laid out the case, Aston's stomach twisted. She was quoting him. Not just his analysis, his exact phrasing from a conversation they had two days earlier in the hallway, line for line. He sifted in his seat. That's word for word what I said, he muttered. Janine looked at him. It's good phrasing. Why waste it? The junior smirked. Elliot's lip twist as though suppressing a smile. He crawled up Aston's neck. You're passing off my work as your own? Seriously? She turned her head, eyes locking with his. Maybe you're just hearing echoes. Happens when you're tired. The words landed sharp, deliberate, an insinuation and a challenge. Elliot's gaze moved between them, silent and assessing. Aston's chest tightened, he wanted to lash out, to strike, to prove she was twisting the knife. But Janine's calm face gave nothing away. Her voice remained smooth, steady, the voice of someone in control. Predator and predator. The silence stretched too long. Finally, Elliot spoke, voice low but heavy with warning. We don't have time for personal disputes. Results are all that matter here. If Torres says producing them, I expect the same from you. The dismissal landed like a blow. Janine looked back to her notes, her lips curling in the faintest suggestion of a smile, not triumph, anticipation. The meeting continued, the words washed past Ashton in a blur, but he could feel her eyes on him whenever Elliot wasn't looking, watching, testing. By the end his hand shook as he gathered his papers. When he stood, Janine leaned close enough that only he could hear. You're slipping, she whispered. And the firm doesn't feed strays. Her breath brushed his ears warm and steady, a warning, a promise. Aston clenched his jaw so tight that teeth ached. He didn't look at her, he couldn't, but her words followed him out though to the room, circling like a shadow, like a second version of himself waiting just behind glass. Part two Conversations echoed. The day bled forward in fragments. Aston tried to bury himself in work, but the words on the page wouldn't hold still. Case notes blurred, lines repeated themselves. Margins seemed to creep wider when he blinked. His pen moved automatically across the briefs, but when he looked down, he saw the same sentence written three times in identical script. Balance deferred, balance deferred, balance deferred. He shoved the papers aside, hands trembling, the office buzzed around him, phones ringing, clerks moving, Elliot's voice rising in the distance, but every sound felt doubled, echoing a fraction too late, like the firm had become a caravan repeating itself. By lunchtime, he gave up on the presence of focus and left the building. The air outside slapped him with cold, but the streets were no relief. At the corner cafe he ordered black coffee. Debris smiled as she sat it down. Patience is a predator, she said. The cup nearly slipped from his hand. I'm sorry, what did you say? The girl blinked, confused. I said sugar's by the register. But he had heard it, clear as glass. Claire's voice, not hers, patience is a predator. Claire had whispered that once in bed, laughing years ago, when he teased her about her habit of watching people too long before speaking. He left the cafe without touching the coffee. On the subway a man in a heavy coat hummed softly to himself. The melody drifted through the car, low but unmistakable. Nirvanos, come as you are. Ashton's throat tightened. That song that had bled through his apartment walls days earlier had turned sharply, staring at the man. But the stranger kept his head bowed, rocking with the rhythm, oblivious. The humming didn't stop until Aston stepped off the train. Back at the firm, Elliot summoned him for a briefing. Janine was already there, seated across the table, her notes spread in neat columns. Elliot asked a question about a pending case. Before Aston could answer, Janine spoke. Her words matched his own's thoughts exactly, word for word. He froze, lips parted. She looked at him as she spoke, her gaze steady, almost daring him to interrupt. By the time she finished, Elliot nodded satisfied. Good work, Taurus. Aston's pulse hammered. Those were my Janine eyebrows arch echoes again, Keller. The words cut deep echoes. That evening walking home. The city felt louder than usual. Stimpets of conversation reached him from strangers passing on the sidewalk, balance deferred, debts rising, you owe us. He pressed his hands to his ears, but the words seemed to bleed through his skull. By the time he reached his building, his chest ached with certainty that the city itself had learned to repeat him. Every voice was his, every word an echo, and predators always spoke in chorus before they struck. The rain had returned by evening, it was thin and cold, drifting sideways in the wind. Aston pulled his coat, tied as he left the subway, and stepped onto the sidewalk. The city glistened under the haze, headlights smearing into pale streaks, neon sign bleeding colour into puddles. He walked fast, head down, eager to get home before the night, breast too deep. His mind still throbbed from the day's echoes. Janine's stolen words, the Borisa's slip, the man humming Nirvana. Each repetition had carved itself in him like notches, and now he carried them the way the photographs carried their marks. But something shifted as he crossed forty fifth. He felt before he saw it, the sense of being watched, not from behind, but from ahead. He lifted his head and froze. A man stood at the far corner beneath the flickering street light. He wore a charcoal suit, rain darkening his shoulders. His posture was identical to Aston's, weight on the left leg, hand tucked into the coat pocket, chin slightly lifted. The distance was too familiar, too precise. The man's face was shadowed at first, but Aston stepped closer. A passing car's headlight cut across it. The same face. His face. Aston stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, traffic blaring behind him. The man on the corner tilted his head in a perfect mirror. But then the imitation broke. The devil's lip curled upward, revealing a grin too wide, too sharp. Predatory. The grin held unwavering, as if curved into stone. Aston's chest constricted, his breath came shallow, uneven. He wanted to shout to the man who the man was, but the words tangled in his throat. The walk like flickered red. A cab honked furiously. Aston stumbled back under the curb, eyes never leaving the figure, and just like that, the man was gone, and the corner was empty. Aston's pulse thundered in his ears. He staggered to the spot where the figure had stood, rain soaking through his hair and collar, nothing remained, only the faint scent of cigarette smoke lingered in the damp air. He turned in frantic circles, scanning the street, the alleys, the doorways, nothing. And then in the reflection of a storefront window he saw it himself standing behind him, grinning. He whirled around, the sidewalk was empty, but the reflection stayed, lips carved, and that impossible smile. The rain intensified, slabbing against the pavement, blurring his vision. He stumbled forward, nearly slipping until he reached his building. His hand shook as he dug for his keys. When he finally forced the door open and stepped inside, the silence of the lobby struck him like a blow. He caught his reflection in the glass of the elevator doors. The grin was there, his mouth, his face, but smiling without permission. Watching waiting. Part four The Call again The apartment felt foreign the moment Aston stepped inside. The hum of the refrigerator, the faint tick of pipes in the walls, even the glow of the city through the windows, all of it felt like mimicry, as though the place itself were practicing the rhythms of life without quite living them. He loosened his tie with shaking fingers, but the relief never came. The photographs on the wall waited, still twelve, still bound by thread, but their angles had shifted slightly, just enough to suggest they had been moved in his absence. Aston sat heavily at the desk, palms pressed against his knees, his ears rang with phantom echoes. Janine's words, Elliot silenced the stranger's grin. And then the phone rang. He jumped so violently the chair scraped against the floor. The sound split the silence like a blade. Three rings, four. He grabbed the receiver. Claire, Claire are you there? Claire, Claire A pause a static. Then her voice faint, ghostly, breaking through in pieces. Aston His breath shouted. Claire God I can't You said balance deferred His chest froze. Those were his words. He had written them earlier today over and over, scrawled across case notes and handwriting you couldn't control. You said debt rising The lion bled static. You said predators feed on weakness His stomach dropped. Every word was his not hers. His stop it he whispered into the phone. Stop repeating me but her voice continued soft now as though mocking. Patience is a predator. You owe us everything. The cadence shifted another voice emerged beneath hers, low in male whispering numbers. One, two, three, four. Aston clutched the receiver tight. Who the fuck is this? The voices tangled clear as echoing his own thoughts, the man counting debts until they became a single sound. Five, six, seven, ledger balance due. The static rose swallowing the words until only the faint rhythm of counting remained, then silence. His hand shook so barely the phone rattled against his face. The photographs watched from the wall. Red marks glowing faintly in the lamplight. He whispered into the silence If they're my words, then who's speaking them back to me? The room offered no answer. But in the reflection of the darkened window, his mouth curved upward in the grin he didn't feel. Part five The Circle of Doubles. The apartment had grown unbearable. Every sound scraped, his nerves raw, every shadow tugged at his focus, the phone call still echoed in his head, Clara's voice repeating his own words, the male voice counting debts beneath her. It left him hollow, trembling, caught between fury and despair. He turned the wall of photographs, desperate for answers. At first glance there were still twelve, twelve squares of frozen time bound by red thread into strange geometries. But the arrangement was new again, not a grid, not a line, a circle. The twelve photographs looped around each other, orbiting some invisible center, each was paired with its own reflection. Aston twice at the diner, twice at the courthouse, twice in the chair, but the doubles were wrong, they were slightly off. In one diner photo he slipped coffee, weary eyed, and the twin he smiled faintly, as though sharing a private joke. In the courthouse shot, he looked severe, jaw clenched. In its pair, his lips parted, revealing teeth. Every match was imperfect, it was skewed. The doubles were exaggerations, they were distortions. Predators. Aston's stomach lurched. He's he traced the circle with his eyes, following the thread from one pair to the next. Each contrast sharpened, turning him into a caricature. The grin wider, the eyes colder, the posture crueler. At the bottom of the circle lay the chair. Two versions of him sat there, one rigid hands on his knees, the other leaned back, relaxed, smiling like a wolf, who's already fed. He staggered back. His breath was rasping. The circle was complete, and at its center was nothing, an empty space waiting. He couldn't look away, his own faces stared back, each one an echo of him, each one slightly wrong. They weren't memories anymore, they were auditions. Which version would step forward? Which would replace him? His throat constricted. He thought of the double in the shop window, of the man on the corner, of the reflection in the elevator doors. They were rehearsals. The circle was casting. Predators don't circle forever. Eventually they strike. His knees buckled. He collapsed into the desk chair, palms pressed over his eyes. But even in the darkness he could still feel them smiling, watching waiting. Part six The Ledger expands. The room had gone unbearably cruelled and unbearably quiet. Aston kept his hands clamped over his eyes, but the darkness behind his lids were worse than what he had seen. In the dark the photographs lingered anyway, their imperfect smiles and sharp eyes etched against the black. He could almost hear them breathing. A dozen pair of lungs drawing in time with his own. Finally he lowered his hands. The circle of poroids still held the wall, still twelve, still paired, still wrong. But now there's something else. On the desk, a thirteenth photograph. His heart dropped. He destroyed the last one, torn it in half, burned the pieces in the sink. And yet here it was again. He reached for it with trembling fingers. The image showed him slumped over the desk, head buried in his arms, the lamp light glowed against his back. His hair fell across his face. It was him. Not from the past, from now, from tonight. He staggered back, nearly tripping over the chair, his stomach churned, bowel bitter in his throat. He spun, scanning the room. The door was locked, the windows latched. No one could have taken it. And yet the angle is perfect, as though the photograph or photograph her had stood directly over him. Leaning close enough to feel his breath. Aston clutched the photo so tightly the edge curled in his fist. The photographs on the wall seemed to lean closer. They're distorted doubles watching. From the silence a sound emerged. Soft rhythmic. Click. The unmistakable snap of a shutter. Aston froze breath caught in his chest. Click. The sound came again closer this time, though no flash lit the room. Click three times, steady, deliberate. His pulse thundered in his ears. He turned toward the wall of photographs and saw that an empty space on the circle center was no longer empty. Another photograph laid pin there. Number fourteen. His own face stared wide eyed at the camera. Not a second ago, not a minute ago. Right now. The circle had expanded. The ledger was still writing, and Aston realized that predators weren't just copying him anymore. They were mocking him. Aston's monologue. They say repetition is the mother of mastery, but repetition is also the seed of madness. The city is repeating me. That's what I feel now. Not just mocking, not just waiting, copying. Claire's voice returns only to spit my own words back at me. Strangers hum the same songs that bled through my apartment walls. Janine opens her mouth and my thoughts fall out. And the photographs, God, the photographs, arrange themselves into doubles, not memories, not reflections, drafts. Twelve photographs, twelve rehearsals, each one twisted, exaggerated, refined. The circle doesn't watch me anymore. I wait for the final version of me to step forward. I can feel it in the empty space at the center, like a stage, awaiting its actor. Another 13th has returned. I destroyed it, but it's the destruction doesn't matter here. Copies breed copies. The ledger doesn't subtract, it multiplies. I don't know if I'm being hunted or if I'm hunting myself. I don't know if I'm the predator who wears Janine's face. Claire's voice, the stranger's grin, or my own reflection smiling without consent. But I know this: predators feed on weakness. A weakness is all that I'm showing. If every word, every photograph, if every reflection of me is a copy of me, then what remains of the original? I don't know, maybe I'm already gone. Maybe the ledger had already been balanced. Maybe the predator has already won. And all that's left for me is a smile back. Alright, guys, let's get into my monologue here. You know, as I was doing this, I had this question, right? Of what's more terrifying? Being hunted or being replaced? And episode five shows us that. Ashton's world no longer stalks him with shadows alone, it stocks him with mirrors. Janine repeats his thoughts. Strangers hum his songs. Claire's voice counts his debts and his own words and the photographs. Those relentless jurors no longer capture who he was, but who he could be. Versions, drafts, copies. See, predators they don't need to tear flesh to feed. They can consume identity, erode originality, until only echoes remain. And the cruel's echo is the one that smiles differently than you do, as though it knows a joke you'll never catch. Right? See, the city had become a copy machine that doesn't need electricity. The firm has become a hunting ground where ambition repeats itself only until the sharpest survive. Right? And the photographs have become scripture rewriting Ashton's face in the gospel of predators. And here's the lesson: Ledgers don't just stop at 12. 12 is order, balance, completion. But predators thrive on expansion. 13, 14 copies without end, each one hungrier, sharper, more certain. And the question is no longer whether Aston can escape, right? It's whether Aston remains at all, or if he's already been devoured by the virgins replacing him. All right. So as we're talking about that, let's get into the reflections here. Reflection one. And what did that moment reveal about your control? I'll give you a great example of this. And this happens to me all the time. Let's say you give a a good friend or a loved one advice, right? They don't take it. But then all of a sudden, a couple weeks later, they hear it online or through somebody else, and it's almost word for word what you said, right? How do you react to that? With me, it's like, I just but sometimes, like, you know what? No, I'm just gonna leave that there. Because that reveals about your control, right? But here's a big question. Number two What doubles do you carry? The virgin sow to others, right? The one in your head, and the one emerging when fears take over. A lot of the times who we really are is when we're faced against fear. That's really who you are, right? So who is that person? Number three. If predators feed on weakness, what part of your life right now would attract them first? That's a big, big, big question. Number four. How do you tell the difference between being I should say imitated? Easy for me to say, and being replaced. There's a fine line there. And number five. If the leisure of your life kept making copies, which version of you would survive the longest? And would you recognize them? Another big question.

SPEAKER_00:

So you know, guys, so you're probably gonna in the next couple days here.

SPEAKER_01:

Excuse me, I had to drink some water there. I apologize. Um, it's gonna get a little crazy. We're pretty much gonna be at the end of this. So you're gonna see about three or four in a row here that are just gonna be bang, bang, bang, bang, bang. Then next week will be the beginning of our Halloween week because it'll be the beginning of October. Okay. So what's gonna happen there? Those series are only gonna be one week series, and they're all gonna be awesome. They're gonna be scary, there's gonna be some gruesomeness. It's going to be awesome, and I'm so excited for you. Because realistically, guys, here's the thing: we have October, which is all gonna be Halloween based, then you have November, which is all gonna be Thanksgiving based, and December is obviously gonna be holiday related to Christmas, you know what I'm saying? So it's gonna be a lot of this. This next 60 days is going to be absolutely nuts because we're almost at the end of the year, which is crazy. Um, so uh with that, I have to say this. So I have taken some time off, you know, with doing this because life's been a little crazy. But like I said, we're gonna get back into this, and there's gonna be a lot of stuff coming. And I just want to just take a step or uh a thing here really quick, and just think every single listener here. I cannot tell you, honestly, how much it means to me that you listen, that you send me messages, that you support the show with with referring this out to people. Like we had our uh another massive day on on Friday, which was just crazy to me. So it it's it's it's starting to work. You guys are making this bigger and bigger every day. And I just am so grateful and so thankful for you as a listener. And if you want to support the show, it doesn't cost anything and it's super simple. Just do one of two things. Two things if you can, but one for one of these things for sure. Easiest way, share this with a family member or a friend, right? We're doing something completely that doesn't exist out there. We're doing stories, right, like this that are thrillers, but have a self-development edge because we want to be entertained, but we also want to be better selves too, right? Or the second way, leave a review of this, of the series, of the show. That helps out immensely. Now, if you want to get a hold of me, if you want to have a dialogue with me, it's really super simple. The easiest way to do it is if you look on the description of this podcast, there's a let's chat function. You click on that, you and I can have a conversation about this series, this episode, the 15th series that are out there, and the 300 plus episodes that I have on Gents Journey. That's the first way. Second way is gonna be through my email. My email is anthonygentsjourney.com. And then last but not least, you can always go to my Instagram. My Instagram is my gents journey. So, again, guys, thank you so very much for listening today. And remember this you create your reality.

SPEAKER_00:

Take care.