I woke up on the floor. Cold tile pressed against my cheek. My body ached like I’d been dropped from somewhere high — but I was breathing. I was back.
For a second, I almost believed it was over.
Then I looked up.
The mirror was gone. In its place was something else — a reflection, but not mine. He was still there, still wearing my face. But this time, he wasn’t alone.
Behind him stood the others. The faces I saw in the void. Their eyes were wrong, sunken too deep, mouths stretched unnaturally wide. The woman was there too. Her face wasn’t empty anymore. It was twisted in agony, her hands pressed against the glass like she was trying to push through.
My stomach tightened.
The reflection of me stepped forward. He didn’t mimic me anymore — he moved on his own. His head tilted, slower this time, more deliberate. His grin didn’t waver.
“You’re getting harder to pull back.” His voice wasn’t a whisper anymore. It was clear. “Next time, you stay.”
The woman behind him moved. Her mouth shaped one word, slow and desperate:
“Run.”
The mirror cracked.
Not a small crack — it spidered, fast and loud, the sound echoing through the room. The stranger tilted his head again, his smile unfazed.
The Stranger Who Wore My Face 21