Arthur's perspective
The figure that stepped from the fractured mirror didn't make a sound. It was him—but not.
Its eyes shimmered like obsidian, and its movements were slower, almost deliberate, as if savoring each step. When it spoke, the voice echoed with the weight of every suppressed memory Arthur had buried.
"You wear your silence like armor, Arthur. But I know what you're hiding."
Arthur said nothing, his stance tightening.
"You let Evelyn go because she reminded you of her. The girl you couldn't save back then."
The chains coiled tighter around his wrists—not real, but very real. His breath hitched.
"Who are you?" Arthur asked, his voice low.
"I'm your echo," the figure smiled. "I'm what's left if you stop pretending you're fine."
The mirror behind it splintered further, spreading like veins through ice.
Arthur lunged. Their swords clashed—not metal on metal, but thought against will. The sound was like breaking glass. His reflection moved with his exact skill, dodged with his exact reflexes.
"You fight like a ghost," the echo taunted. "But even ghosts have regrets."
Arthur faltered for half a second. The reflection's blade found his shoulder—not deep, but enough to draw blood.
It grinned wider. "You're bleeding, Arthur. That means you're still human."
But Arthur didn't retreat.
He stepped forward, eyes sharpening.
"Then let's see what bleeds out of you."
Luke's perspective
The stairwell spiraled endlessly, the air growing colder with every step. Luke's flashlight flickered once—twice—then stabilized.
Gideon's breathing had gone ragged. "You don't hear it yet, do you?"
"Hear what?" Luke muttered.
Gideon paused, placing a hand against the wall. "The voices. They echo when someone's near the boundary. When memories start shifting."
Luke shivered. "Boundary of what?"
Before Gideon could respond, they reached a vast stone door at the base of the tunnel, sealed shut with carvings resembling the symbol—the circle with jagged lines—burned deep into its surface.
Luke traced the marks. They glowed faintly at his touch.
The door trembled. And then, slowly, it began to open.
A gust of cold wind hit them—carrying with it a sound like laughter in reverse.
And there—on the other side—stood a long corridor lined with mirrors.
At the end of the hall, a child's voice whispered:
"Luke… come play."
Gideon grabbed his arm. "That's not real. That's a memory. It's trying to lure you in."
But Luke was already walking.
Because that voice… it wasn't just any child.
It was his voice. From when he was seven.