Alex dragged himself into the bathroom, the door creaking as he pushed it shut behind him. His limbs felt heavy, the adrenaline crash leaving him weak and unsteady. He braced himself against the sink, his fingers curling tightly around the cool porcelain as he leaned forward. His breath came in uneven gasps, his chest still tight from the chaos.
The fluorescent light above flickered once before stabilizing, casting a pale, unflattering glow over his face. He turned the faucet, letting cold water rush over his trembling hands, the sensation grounding him just enough to keep him from spiraling further.
When he finally looked up at the mirror, his reflection stared back, disheveled and hollow-eyed. His hazel eyes, rimmed with exhaustion, searched the reflection for something—answers, reassurance, perhaps a shred of normalcy. But all he found was a stranger staring back, a stranger who had done things he didn't understand, who held a power he couldn't control.
Alex splashed water onto his face, the cold biting against his skin. He straightened slowly, droplets sliding down his jaw and neck. He sighed heavily, a sound filled with weariness and despair, and reached for the towel hanging beside him.
But something stopped him.
His hand froze mid-reach, and his body stiffened as a chill crept down his spine. Something was wrong.
He turned his gaze back to the mirror.
His reflection hadn't moved.
Alex's breath hitched, his pulse thundering in his ears. His own sigh still seemed to echo faintly in the air, but the figure in the mirror stood rigid, its expression unyielding, cold, and unnervingly still.
His reflection wasn't mirroring him anymore.
A sharp pang of fear shot through Alex as he slowly lowered his hand. His real hand. The one in the mirror stayed frozen mid-reach, its fingers slightly curled as if caught in the act.
His stomach churned, and his knees felt like they might give out beneath him. He forced himself to hold the reflection's gaze, but it wasn't his own eyes staring back anymore. There was a sharpness in them, a detached, icy clarity that felt entirely foreign.
"What... what the hell is this?" Alex whispered, his voice trembling.
The reflection tilted its head, a subtle, almost imperceptible movement that sent shivers racing down Alex's spine. Its lips curled into the faintest hint of a smirk, the gesture so small it might have been imagined.
But Alex knew it wasn't.
He staggered back, his hip bumping into the edge of the sink. His hands gripped the counter, desperate for something solid to anchor himself to. "This isn't real," he muttered under his breath, his voice growing frantic. "I'm just... tired. Stressed. This isn't real."
The reflection didn't blink.
It tilted its head the other way, the movement unnervingly deliberate, like a predator studying its prey.
Alex's mouth went dry. His fingers dug into the counter, his knuckles turning white. "Who... what are you?"
The reflection's smirk widened, just barely, enough to send ice coursing through Alex's veins.
And then it moved.
Not a jerky, sudden movement, but smooth and fluid, like a shadow slipping out of place. The reflection's hand—its hand—reached up slowly, almost mockingly, and pressed its palm against the glass.
Alex flinched, his breath catching in his throat. He instinctively stumbled back another step, nearly tripping over his own feet.
The reflection's lips parted, and though no sound escaped the glass, Alex swore he could hear its voice in his mind. Low, cold, and chillingly familiar.
"Do you really want to know what you are?"
Alex's heart thundered against his ribs, his mind screaming at him to look away, to run, to do anything but stand frozen under that gaze. But he couldn't move, couldn't breathe.
The reflection leaned closer, its face now mere inches from the other side of the glass. The smirk faded, replaced by a look of something deeper, something darker. Its eyes burned—not with fire, but with a cold, unrelenting intensity.
"I know what you are," it whispered, the words carving themselves into Alex's thoughts like ice. "And so do they."
The reflection slammed its palm harder against the glass. A faint crack spiderwebbed outward, and Alex stumbled backward, his body hitting the bathroom wall with a dull thud.
He blinked.
The mirror was normal again.
His own reflection stared back, wide-eyed and terrified, its chest rising and falling in tandem with his own. The crack was gone, the smirk erased, the cold, detached expression replaced by his own panicked face.
Alex clutched at his chest, his breath ragged as he sank to the floor. His gaze remained fixed on the mirror, half-expecting the reflection to move again. But it didn't.
Not this time.
For now.
Elsewhere
The facility hummed with cold, mechanical efficiency, the air thick with the low thrum of generators and distant, muffled voices. Fluorescent lights glared down from the high ceilings, casting stark, clinical light across the expanse of metal and glass. Men and women in dark uniforms moved with purpose, their boots clicking rhythmically against the polished floor.
In one corner of the building, the atmosphere grew heavier. A row of transparent cells lined the walls, each containing a prisoner who sat or stood with an unnerving stillness. These were no ordinary detainees; their eyes glinted with suppressed energy, their bodies radiating barely contained power. The cells were reinforced with thick, shimmering barriers that pulsed faintly, a silent reminder of the strength needed to keep these individuals confined.
At the far end of the corridor, a woman stood, her sharp features softened slightly by the glow of the barriers around her. Her dark suit was impeccably tailored, the fabric unwrinkled despite the long hours she had clearly spent here. Her arms were crossed loosely, a tablet tucked under one elbow, though her stance wasn't one of relaxation—it was a coiled, controlled stillness, like a predator waiting for the right moment to strike.
She was staring at a single, heavily guarded door at the end of the row. Unlike the others, this door was opaque, its surface smooth and impenetrable, with no visible seams or windows. Two guards stood on either side, their weapons at the ready, their faces as expressionless as the steel they protected.
A young man approached her, his footsteps tentative but audible enough to announce his arrival. He was lean, with tousled blonde hair that looked like it hadn't seen a comb in days. His uniform was a shade lighter than the others, marking him as someone lower in rank.
He hesitated for a moment, his hands fidgeting at his sides before he finally spoke. "What's in there?" he asked, his voice low, almost as though he feared disturbing the air around them.
The woman didn't look at him immediately. Her gaze remained fixed on the door, her expression unreadable. After a moment, she uncrossed her arms, letting the tablet slip into her hand. She tapped it lightly against her palm, a subtle gesture that hinted at the weight of her thoughts.
"Not what," she said softly, her voice calm but carrying an edge that made the young man straighten instinctively. "Who."
He blinked, his brows furrowing slightly in confusion. "Who?"
The faintest flicker of emotion crossed her face—something between reluctance and anticipation—but before she could respond, the sharp echo of hurried footsteps broke through the tension.
"Director Thorn!"
The voice was urgent, almost breathless. A man in a similar dark uniform rounded the corner, his face flushed from exertion. He stopped a few feet away, his posture rigid as he addressed her.
"Ma'am," he said, his voice tight with urgency. "You're needed in the Cortex. Immediately."
Thorn turned slowly, her cool composure unbroken. Her sharp, grey eyes narrowed slightly as they settled on the man, studying him with the precision of someone used to assessing threats and opportunities in equal measure.
"What's the situation?" she asked, her tone brisk but not rushed.
The man hesitated for half a beat, his gaze flickering briefly to the young man standing beside her before returning to Thorn. "It's... anomalous activity," he said carefully, as though weighing his words. "Something we haven't seen before."
Thorn's grip on the tablet tightened ever so slightly, her knuckles whitening against the smooth surface. Her jaw set, the only outward sign of her reaction.
"I'll be there in five," she said, her voice firm. She turned back toward the opaque door for a fraction of a second, her gaze lingering as though it held a silent conversation with whatever—or whoever—lay beyond it.
The young man shifted uncomfortably beside her, his curiosity palpable but unspoken. He opened his mouth to ask another question, but Thorn silenced him with a glance.
"Stay here," she said curtly, her heels clicking sharply against the floor as she moved past him, the urgency in her stride unmistakable. The man who had come for her fell into step behind her without a word.
The young man watched them go, his eyes lingering on Thorn's retreating figure before flicking back to the door. His fingers twitched at his sides, his mind racing with unasked questions. Whatever—or whoever—was behind that door, he had a feeling it was something far beyond his understanding.
And from the look on Thorn's face, it was something even she wasn't fully prepared for.