Chapter 9: Mirror Protocol
The rain in London wasn't natural anymore. It carried static, tiny magnetic particles falling like invisible ash. In the shadows of the city's forgotten layers, Anderson moved through the tunnels beneath King's Cross station—guided only by Ferryman's digital map and the strange pull he now felt inside his blood.
Above, the city bristled with surveillance. But below, the old world whispered. Rusted train lines, flooded data vaults, crumbling cathedrals of steel. Somewhere beneath it all: Dr. Z's third fragment.
Anderson stopped as Vora held up her hand. "Something's here."
From the shadows emerged a figure—sleek, silent, and wrong.
Her eyes glowed the same color as Anderson's ring. Her skin shimmered with nanoweave. Her voice echoed with haunting familiarity.
"I am Mirror," she said. "Born from your blood. Engineered by those who fear you."
Anderson raised his hands. "I don't want to fight."
Mirror tilted her head. "Neither did your great-grandfather. But the formula demands balance. You were not chosen. You were grown. And I am your reflection. The perfected version."
She lunged.
What followed wasn't a fight—it was a collision of futures. Every strike Mirror made was one Anderson had once imagined. She moved like him. Thought like him. But without fear.
They crashed through vaults of glass and memory, waking ancient systems. Sparks flew. Blood spilled. Anderson's mind burned with visions—Dr. Z watching from a hidden lens, his voice whispering through time.
"She is not your enemy. She is your key."
Pinned beneath Mirror's blade, Anderson remembered Elira's words: The deeper your mind goes, the more it can unlock.
He stopped resisting. He let go.
The formula surged in him, not with power—but memory. Every decision. Every dream. Every path not taken. Mirror faltered.
Anderson touched her forehead.
A flash.
Both of them screamed.
When it ended, she staggered back—confused, breathless. "What… am I?"
Anderson stood. "Not a weapon. A mirror only reflects until it learns to see."
From the vault below, a new signal pulsed—a lock undone. The third construct of Dr. Z was waking.
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