Chapter 7: Reflections on the Street

Chapter 7: Reflections on the Street

The automatic glass doors of The Foundation hissed shut behind him, and the sudden immersion in the real world was a physical shock. The sterile silence was replaced by the chaotic symphony of the city at night: the hiss of tires on wet asphalt, the distant wail of a siren, the low rumble of a world that was still moving, blissfully unaware of the silent predator Leo had just left behind. A cold, drizzling rain fell, plastering his hair to his forehead and blurring the streetlights into hazy, watercolor coronas.

He stood on the pavement, gasping for air that felt thick and real in his lungs, a stark contrast to the dead, recycled atmosphere of the white room. In his right hand, he clutched the envelope of cash, a thick, reassuring weight. In his left, his fist was clenched so tightly around the crumpled note from Evelyn that the paper was digging into his palm. SWAP. The single word was a brand on his mind.

His first instinct was to run, to put as much distance between himself and that concrete monolith as possible. He started walking, fast, his stride just short of a full-blown sprint. He didn't look back. He was afraid that if he did, he'd see his own face staring out from one of the building's darkened, featureless windows.

He made it to a bus stop, huddling under the flimsy shelter. The envelope felt dirty in his hand. Two thousand dollars. It was a lifeline for Maya, but it felt like blood money. Evelyn's words circled his mind like vultures. It feeds on what you give it… Stop thinking at it. He had to clear his head. He had to stop broadcasting his fear, his memories, his very identity to the thing in the glass.

The bus arrived with a groan of hydraulics, its interior bathed in a sickly yellow light. Leo found a seat by a window, the glass streaked with rain and grime. He tried to focus on his destination: the hospital. He pictured Maya’s face, not as a memory to be stolen, but as a goal, a reason. He focused on the weight of the envelope, translating it into medicine, into another day, another chance for her.

He forced himself to look out the window, at the passing blur of neon signs and darkened storefronts. And that’s when it happened for the first time.

As the bus rumbled past a brightly lit pharmacy, his own reflection sharpened against the dark glass for a moment. He saw himself, a pale, rain-slicked ghost against the warm lights of the city. But something was wrong. For a split second, the expression in the reflection wasn't his. His own face was a mask of weary anxiety, but the face in the window was utterly placid. Its gaze wasn't directed outward at the passing city, but inward, directly at him. It was a look of calm, terrifying awareness.

Leo recoiled from the window as if he’d been burned, his heart leaping into his throat. He blinked, and when he looked back, there was only his own panicked face staring back, a perfect, normal reflection.

It’s just exhaustion, he told himself, the old mantra feeling thin and pathetic now. The stress. The rain on the glass. It’s a trick of the light.

But he knew it wasn't. The connection had been made in that room. The entity had his name. It had his face. And now, it seemed, it had a window into his world.

He got off the bus three stops early, the enclosed space suddenly feeling like a coffin on wheels. The rain had eased to a fine mist. He needed to walk, to feel the solid, unforgiving pavement beneath his feet. The city was a hall of mirrors. Every shop window he passed held a potential threat. He kept his head down, his gaze fixed on the cracks in the sidewalk, his paranoia growing with every step. He was becoming Evelyn, his eyes darting, afraid of his own image.

He was so focused on avoiding the windows of parked cars and storefronts that he didn't see the puddle until he was right beside it. It was a shallow pool of rainwater in a dip in the concrete, its surface a perfect, dark mirror reflecting the overcast, light-polluted sky. He glanced down for only an instant.

But it wasn't the grey, hazy sky he saw reflected back.

For a fraction of a second, the surface of the water showed a glimpse of a different place. There was no sky, only a low, oppressive ceiling. The light wasn't the diffuse glow of the city, but the sickly, greenish-yellow luminescence of the dark room he’d seen behind the entity. He saw the reflection of a black, mold-stained wall. The vision was gone as quickly as it came, the puddle once again a simple mirror for the rainy night.

Leo staggered, a wave of dizziness washing over him. It wasn't just his reflection anymore. The entity was projecting its world, its prison, into his. The barrier between them was dissolving.

He finally reached the hospital, the automatic doors sliding open to welcome him into a world of quiet beeps, hushed conversations, and the persistent smell of antiseptic. This was his sanctuary, the one place that felt real, the reason for his descent into madness. He made his way to Maya’s room and found her sleeping peacefully, her small chest rising and falling in a steady, reassuring rhythm. The sight of her calmed the frantic storm in his mind.

He sat in the visitor's chair for nearly an hour, just watching her breathe, the envelope of money resting on his lap. This was what mattered. He could endure anything for this. He would go back to that room. He would face that thing. He would be a statue, a blank wall, and he would starve it. He would win.

Feeling a renewed, if fragile, sense of resolve, he decided to check the time. He pulled his phone from his pocket. The screen was dark, a perfect rectangle of polished black glass. He tilted it to check the time, and his own face stared back at him from the dark surface.

He was tired. His hair was damp. Dark circles smudged the skin beneath his eyes. It was him.

And then, the reflection smiled.

It wasn't his smile. It was the other one. The one from the mirror. It was slow, deliberate, and utterly devoid of warmth. The corners of his mouth, on the screen of his phone, stretched a fraction of an inch too wide. It was a smile of pure, predatory triumph. It was a smile that said, I see you. I’m not in the mirror anymore. I’m with you now. And there is nowhere you can hide.

Leo’s hand went slack. The phone slipped from his grasp, clattering onto the linoleum floor with a sharp crack that echoed in the silent room.

The horror washed over him, absolute and complete. The white room wasn't the prison. It was the keyhole. The mirror wasn't the cage; it was the door. He had spent four hours with his eye pressed to that keyhole, and something on the other side had looked back and latched on.

The oppressive presence of the mirror was no longer confined to that sterile, isolated facility. He had carried it out with him, like a virus. The white room was no longer his prison. The whole world was. And every reflection was a bar on the cage.