Luke's footsteps echoed in the corridor like distant applause.
He hated silence. Always had. That awful stillness between moments—where the punchline never landed, and the crowd never laughed.
The corridor was lined with mirrors. Not just any mirrors—these ones moved. Reflected memories shimmered faintly on the surface, playing like scenes from a broken reel.
There—his old apartment.
There—his mother's silhouette, turned away from him at the stove, never quite meeting his eyes.
There—Arthur, alone on a bench the night of Evelyn's disappearance. Luke had seen him. Said nothing. Walked away.
He swallowed.
"This place is creepy as hell," he muttered, forcing a smirk. "Someone cue the horror music and cheap jumpscare already."
The mirrors didn't laugh.
They whispered.
One flickered.
Luke stepped in front of it—and it blinked to life, displaying a version of him: blood-soaked, wild-eyed, laughing too hard.
"There's the real you," it said, voice identical. "The one who hides behind jokes because silence means hearing the truth."
Luke flinched.
The mirror-self stepped out.
Like Arthur's reflection—but twisted. Grinning too wide. Hands twitching like a puppet cut from strings.
"You think jokes make it better? That they make you better?" the copy circled him. "You're the coward who never says what he really feels. Who watched his friend crumble and thought a smile could fix it."
Luke backed up.
"Shut up."
"You think you're the light in the darkness. But you're just scared of your own shadow."
Luke's fists clenched. "I said shut up."
"You let Evelyn die."
Luke swung.
His fist went straight through the copy.
He staggered, and the mirror image warped—laughing louder. The corridor trembled with it.
"It's not my fault!" Luke shouted.
The image froze.
Silence.
Then—
"Isn't it?"
The lights dimmed.
Every mirror flashed a different version of Evelyn—smiling, afraid, broken.
Luke fell to his knees.
He covered his ears. Shut his eyes.
He didn't want to see.
Didn't want to remember.
Until—
"Luke."
Arthur's voice. Steady. Real.
It wasn't coming from a mirror.
It was behind him.
Luke opened his eyes.
The corridor was empty again.
The mirrors were silent.
The laughter was gone.
He stood slowly. Shaken, but standing.
A single mirror remained at the end. Cracked but still intact.
It didn't show a twisted version of him.
It showed him—as he was now.
No mask.
No jokes.
No lies.
Just Luke.
And for the first time, he didn't look away.