It began with a mirror.
Not a creepy one—not at first. No cryptic glyphs, no ghostly reflections, no blood smears spelling "YOU'RE NEXT" in reverse. Just a plain, cracked mirror propped up in the alley behind a rundown bar called The Rusty Halo, reflecting a very confused, very tired Asher Blackwood.
And maybe that was the most terrifying thing about it.
Because his reflection was smiling back.
And Asher wasn't.
Shatterpoint
"You ever get the feeling," Asher muttered to no one in particular, tugging the hood of his jacket tighter against the late-night drizzle, "that your reflection is just waiting for you to blink?"
A man in a stained business suit stumbled past him, empty bottle in hand. The kind of person the city forgets. He paused mid-stagger, turned, and locked eyes with Asher.
"Yeah, bro. That's why I only look in bottle bottoms."
He tipped an invisible hat and walked on into the blur of neon and rain.
Asher snorted. "Deep wisdom."
Still, his eyes returned to the mirror.
It shouldn't have been there. Not in this alley. Not this mirror. He didn't remember it on his way in, and he noticed everything these days.
His own face stared back, pale and worn from sleepless nights, dark circles under eyes that hadn't sparkled in weeks. He looked thirty. He was twenty-three.
And his reflection... was smiling. Slow. Subtle. As if it knew something he didn't.
Something ancient.
He stepped closer.
The surface rippled—not metaphorically. It moved like water disturbed by a stone. Cold leapt up his spine.
Then the reflection moved first.
Its hand reached outward—too smooth, too fast—trying to grab him.
The mirror shattered before he could scream.
Shards tinkled to the wet ground. Silence settled like a verdict. Asher backed up three paces, hand already on the hilt of the flicker-knife sheathed under his coat.
No monster. No dramatic boss music. Just shards. His own face staring back in a hundred broken angles.
"…Okay. That was new."
He was still breathing hard when the voice came.
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Kiko, Dumpster Oracle of Sarcasm
"That's what happens when you don't say 'please' to cursed objects."
A casual drawl. Too casual.
Asher spun, weapon half-drawn.
The woman sitting atop a graffiti-tagged dumpster didn't flinch. Her boots glowed green under the alley lights. Her leather jacket had too many pins and not enough context. One sleeve had "SORRY I'M A VIRGO" and the other added: "BUT ALSO A WAR CRIMINAL."
She blew a bubble with pink gum. It popped.
"Kiko," she said, hopping down with the grace of someone used to rooftop escapes. "Reality shanker, memory thief, spiritualist therapist, and part-time noodle critic. You must be the guy who's been breaking timelines like bad relationships."
"…Come again?"
She poked his forehead. "Echo boy. You've got that 'Rewritten' stank. Very 404-core. Big bug-in-the-simulation energy."
He rubbed his temple. "You're making less sense than usual city madness."
"I'm not city madness," she said cheerfully. "I'm imported."
She tossed him a half-folded business card. It read:THREADCUTTERSWe untangle memory knots. Or strangle them back.
The back just said: "We don't do weddings."
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Neon Noodles and Unspoken Truths
The next ten minutes were a blur of conversation and spicy noodles that probably violated human rights.
They sat at a cursed noodle cart glowing violet under flickering lanterns. The cook wore a blindfold and never spoke. Probably for the best.
"So the mirror?" Asher asked between coughs. "It tried to kill me."
Kiko slurped a dumpling like it held state secrets. "Nah. Not kill. Redirect. It was an Echo Anchor. Like a node from an earlier version of this timeline, poking through."
"How does that work?"
"You know when you smell something that reminds you of childhood, and you suddenly remember the color of your old bedsheets?"
"Sure."
"Same thing. But weaponized. They're trying to erase loose ends."
"And I'm a loose end."
She raised her soda bottle. "Ding ding ding."
Asher sighed. "What about Wisp? What about Rachel?"
Kiko paused.
"Wisp's not lying," she said carefully, "but she's not saying everything. As for Rachel… she might be alive. Or versions of her might be. Or you're remembering her through someone else's life."
"…How would that even work?"
"Like a hard drive that's been overwritten but still has ghost data."
She leaned in, serious now.
"And Oblivion? It's not just erasing anymore. It's recruiting. You're probably on the short list."
That made Asher freeze.
"Recruiting for what?"
"That," Kiko said, standing up and tossing a few credits on the cart, "is something I don't plan to survive long enough to find out."
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The Trainyard Test
Late that night, Asher found himself walking through the rusted skeleton of the South Halcyon rail yard.
No people. No lights. Just dead trains and graffiti like prayers whispered to concrete.
He stood before the shattered window of an old train car. His own reflection flickered.
Then...
Another version appeared.
Older. Muscular. Covered in black ink sigils that pulsed like veins. Eyes glowing pale white.
The world slowed.
Asher felt it—Echo Resonance—like tuning into the frequency of another version of himself. Their pain. Their strength. Their rage.
He reached for it.
And bled.
Nose dripping red, ears ringing with distant screaming in a language that didn't exist.
But he stood taller. Stronger.
And in the flickering glass, the other version smiled.
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The Noodle Stall That Wasn't
He returned to the noodle cart at midnight.
It was closed. No lanterns. No cook.
Just the old woman behind the counter, still as death.
"You weren't here before," he said softly.
She didn't turn. Just muttered.
"There are three of you inside the same name. The one who killed. The one who saved. The one who watched."
Lightning flashed overhead.
And then her skin peeled—not off, but away, like fabric lifting. Something writhed beneath. Something that didn't blink. Didn't breathe.
Asher stumbled back, reaching for his weapon.
The world flickered.
And everything was normal.
People slurping noodles. Music playing.
The woman?
Gone.
[End of Chapter 11]
Asher reached into his jacket pocket.
A note.
Neat handwriting. No name.
You won't survive what's next without help. Find her before the mirror does.—R
His throat tightened.
"Her."
Rachel?
Someone else?
Or something worse?
Preview – Chapter 12:
"The Woman Who Wasn't Herself"
Asher follows a clue to the Redlight Sector, where dream-vendors sell stolen memories and reality's rules bend like smoke. There, he meets a woman who speaks in fractured rhymes and claims they were lovers in her nightmares.
But she doesn't know who she is.
And neither does he.