Chapter 3: My Name is Leo

Chapter 3: My Name is Leo

The heavy white door clicked shut behind him, and the sound was unnervingly final. It wasn't the solid thud of a normal door, but the precise, airtight snick of a seal engaging. Leo was locked in. The absolute silence that followed was a physical presence, pressing in on him from all sides. The room was a sensory deprivation chamber painted in shades of sterile white. The walls, floor, and ceiling were seamless, giving the impression of being inside a perfectly sanitized cube. The air, still carrying that faint, sharp scent of bleach, was cool and unnaturally still.

He stood frozen for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the single object that dominated the room: the hulking shape shrouded in deep purple velvet. His heart was a frantic drum against his ribs. Every rational part of his brain was screaming at him. This isn't a job. This is something else. Get out. Get out now.

But the image of Maya, her small frame lost in the starchy white sheets of a hospital bed, was a more powerful siren. Two thousand dollars. In four hours. It was the price of his courage, or perhaps his stupidity. He took a shaky breath and forced his legs to move, walking to the single hard-backed chair and sitting down. It was cold and unforgiving, bolted to the floor, forcing him to face the shrouded mystery.

He waited. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. He counted his heartbeats, tracked the slow creep of the second hand on his cheap watch. One minute. Two. Five. He felt like a lab rat, placed in a cage to see how he’d react. Was that the whole job? Just sitting here? Could it really be that simple?

Just as the thought crossed his mind, a soft crackle broke the silence, making him jump. It came from everywhere and nowhere at once. An intercom, hidden somewhere in the seamless walls.

A voice, flat and devoid of any human inflection, echoed in the small room. "Welcome, Observer 7. Your session has now commenced. Please proceed to the subject."

Observer 7. Not Leo. The detached label sent a fresh wave of ice through his veins. Steeling himself, he rose from the chair. His footsteps were the only sound in the universe, soft, squeaking protests against the polished floor. He stood before the draped object, the velvet so dark it seemed to suck the light out of the intensely white room. It looked ancient, the fabric thick and heavy with the dust of years, a stark contrast to the almost clinical sterility surrounding it. The air around it felt colder.

"Unveil the subject," the disembodied voice commanded.

His hand trembled as he reached out. The velvet felt strange, both plush and gritty beneath his fingertips. He curled his fingers around the edge, took a breath, and pulled.

The heavy fabric slid away with a soft, whispering hiss, revealing what lay beneath.

It was a mirror.

But it was unlike any mirror he had ever seen. It was enormous, standing at least six feet tall and four feet wide. The frame was what held his gaze; it wasn't a simple border but a riot of tarnished, antique gold. Intricate carvings of coiling vines, thorns, and leering, half-hidden faces writhed across its surface. It was a masterpiece of gothic art, something that belonged in a forgotten corner of a crumbling European castle, not in this futuristic white box. It felt ancient, powerful, and profoundly out of place.

And in the center, set against the dark, impossibly clear glass, was his own reflection.

He saw a tired, twenty-year-old kid staring back. Dark circles like bruises smudged the skin beneath his eyes. His brown hair was a mess, and his gray hoodie was wrinkled. His expression was a perfect portrait of fear and exhaustion. The reflection was flawless, capturing every detail with unnerving clarity. He took a step closer, and the image in the glass did the same, mimicking his every nervous twitch, every shallow breath.

For a moment, a sliver of relief pierced his fear. It was just a mirror. A weird, ornate, creepy mirror, but still just a mirror. Maybe this was all it was—some bizarre psychological test about isolation.

The intercom crackled again. "State your full name for the record. Introduce yourself to him."

The relief evaporated. To him. Evelyn's word. The voice’s word. They weren't seeing an object. They were seeing a person. The act suddenly felt deeply transgressive, like he was about to give a piece of himself away. He hesitated, his throat dry.

He opened his mouth to speak, to force the words out, but the intercom spoke first, its monotone delivery making the message all the more terrifying.

"A final protocol reminder for this session, Mr. Vance. Be advised: your own reflection will become a stranger."

The words hit him like a physical blow. It wasn't a warning; it was a promise. The room suddenly felt ten degrees colder. This wasn't a psychological test. This was something real. The fear he’d been holding at bay crashed over him, a suffocating wave. His gaze snapped back to the mirror, to the terrified young man trapped in the glass who was also him.

But the money. Maya. The treatment.

He swallowed, the sound echoing in the silence. He had to do this. He had to see it through. He focused on the reflection’s eyes—his eyes—and spoke, his voice a hoarse, unsteady whisper.

"My name is Leo. Leo Vance."

The words felt heavy, sacrificial. He had offered his name into the silence, to the thing in the glass. As the last syllable died, the intercom clicked off. He was alone again, left in the profound quiet with his own perfect, terrified duplicate.

He stared, his body rigid, waiting. For what, he didn't know. A sound? A movement? Nothing. The reflection remained perfectly still, a perfect echo of his own tense posture. One minute passed. Then another. He slowly, deliberately, raised his right hand. The reflection raised its right hand—its left from his perspective—in perfect, instantaneous sync. He lowered it. The reflection mirrored him flawlessly.

He let out a shaky breath, a small, nervous laugh escaping his lips. Maybe the warning was the test. Just words designed to fray his nerves, to see if he’d crack. Maybe his reflection was just a reflection after all. His shoulders sagged slightly with relief. He was just tired, his mind playing tricks on him.

He blinked, his eyes dry from the recycled air and the strain of staring.

And his reflection blinked back.

A fraction of a second too late.

Leo froze, his blood turning to ice water in his veins. It was a tiny, infinitesimal lag. So small he would have missed it if he hadn't been watching with such desperate intensity. It was impossible. He told himself he’d imagined it. It had to be a trick of the light, a symptom of his own exhaustion.

He had to be sure.

He held his reflection’s gaze, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his sternum. He focused, gathered his will, and blinked again. A sharp, deliberate closing and opening of his eyes.

The man in the glass did the same. And again, there was that tiny, impossible delay. A microsecond of disconnect between his action and the reflection’s reaction. It wasn't a mirror. A mirror was instant. This was a response.

The reflection was no longer a stranger. It was something else entirely, looking back at him from his own face, with an intelligence that was not his own, from behind a pane of dark, cold glass.