[Tokyo, Japan - High School Girls' Bathroom - 15:30 JST]
Hana Miyazaki felt as though the fluorescent overhead light was mocking her. She looked in the mirror and did not wipe her face this time. Instead, she examined her own pale visage. Staring back was an average, insecure teenage girl. She didn't look any different. But only moments earlier, frost had blossomed beneath her fingers. It was fragile and painfully real.
Hana ran cold water over her wrists. It was normalcy in a sense – to feel like things on this planet were normal. She stretched to turn off the tap, and touched the metal handle with her fingers. Immediately ice was applied to it while the faucet was left open. The water kept pouring out and would not stop.
"NO! STOP!" "Ow!" Hana said as she pulled her hand away. She hadn't meant to do that. It wasn't intentional; it was instinctive, as if to withdraw from something burning. The fear was inseparable from the power, a serpent curled inside. She was panting.
She scraped the ice from the tap with her fingernails before she could turn it off. The room went silent again. All she could see in the mirror was her own wide, terrified eyes. The strange hum of yesterday was a distant memory in her head where it pulsed gently.
Neon Tanaka… his pencil… did he feel anything like that? The thought was one that was too horrifying to even think. Was she the only person like this? Hana shakily pulled out her phone and began to text. It was like standing at the edge of a cliff, about to jump.
[Tokyo, Japan - Streets near School - 16:00 JST]
Neon kicked at a loose pebble, watching it skitter across the pavement. His mind wasn't on the jostling crowds but on the feeling. That subtle push-pull he'd experimented with on the rooftop. He focused on a crumpled flyer stuck in a grate across the street. Lift. Come here. He concentrated, feeling a familiar throb build behind his eyes, like straining a muscle he never knew he had.
The flyer trembled, one corner lifting perhaps a millimeter before settling stubbornly back down.
He sighed. "Needs work." More complex than shogi. More frustrating. More… compelling. The world suddenly felt like a vast, interactive physics problem he was just beginning to understand.
His phone buzzed. An unexpected name: Hana Miyazaki.
Need to talk. Something's happening. Midori Park?
He raised an eyebrow. About what?
You know what. The pencil. Please.
His steps faltered. She'd seen. And her message pulsed with an anxiety that felt disturbingly familiar. 30 minutes, he typed back. Maybe she had another piece of the puzzle.
Back in the cramped apartment, grabbing his jacket, he glanced at the dusty entryway mirror. For a split second, the reflection wasn't his. It was a woman – sharp features, silver hair, unnerving violet eyes, watching him with an unreadable expression. He blinked hard. Just his own reflection stared back, looking slightly spooked. "Lack of sleep," he muttered, heading out, leaving a vague note for Uncle Kenji.
[Midori Park, Tokyo - 19:05 JST]
Hana sat stiffly on a park bench, hugging herself against the evening chill, though Neon suspected that the cold was not entirely external.
"Hey," he said, sitting down and leaving some distance between them.
"Hi," she said, tugging at the strap of her school bag. "Thanks for... you know."
"I appreciated how specific your text was."
She nodded, breathed in deeply, and opened her hand. She held, cupped in her palm, a tiny, perfect snowflake, sparkling in the low light of the park.
"I can... do this," she said, in a whisper. "It just happens," she says. "Particularly when I am frightened."
Neon examined it, the crystalline structure, the sheer impossibility of it forming in her warm hand. "Since yesterday afternoon?"
Hana nodded mutely, her eyes wide.
"Same time for me," Neon said. He looked around to be sure they were not overheard and stared at a dry leaf on the ground near Hana's foot. He focused, and with a jolt of concentration, the leaf wobbled up a couple of inches, at most, and then floated down.
Hana gasped and drew her feet back. "So the pencil... it was you."
"Seems so," Neon said, feeling a headache coming on. "I felt something yesterday. Like a kind of hum."
"Deep. Like the world retuned itself."
"Yes! Like static," Hana breathed, her eyes relieved and terrified. "Inside my bones."
"Do you... do you think it's just us?"
Neon thought about it. "Not likely. If it is a wave or field effect, the distribution would be wider. Maybe global." But why?
Hana choked. "Not this!" she cried. "I want to be normal!" The snowflake in her palm melted at once, the water becoming jagged ice under her rising panic.
Neon filed the datapoint under, "emotional response seems linked."
"It's not data! It's data! It's dangerous!" Hana insisted, clenching her fist tight. "What if I hurt someone?"
Then they froze. The hum grew louder, a thrumming they could feel in their soles, drawing them to the dark public toilet block. It felt… like them. Another point of resonance.
"There," Hana whispered, pointing.
They crept. The door to the women's restroom was ajar, and ragged breathing issued from within. Neon spread it further. "Anybody need help?"
Against the far wall stood a girl, maybe their age, maybe slightly older, terrified. Every mirror in the bathroom was broken; glass covered the sinks and floor. But the truly bizarre thing was the reflections, each shard, no matter how small or angled, reflecting the panicked face of the girl. Countless eyes, identical and terrified, peered out from the floor.
"Please," the girl said, her Japanese thick with an accent. "Please, make it stop."
"I can't…" Neon and Hana traded glances. No kidding.
"You are not alone," Hana said, surprisingly steady despite her own fear. "We… we have things too."
Neon nodded. "It started yesterday, no? The hum?"
The girl stared, then nodded slowly, relief washing over her face. "Yesssssss!" The hum! I thought I was going crazy. The names Liu Min. From Taiwan. Yesterday, the mirrors… they started showing me things. Places I wasn't. People I didn't know. Then today…" she gestured helplessly at the fragmented reflections.
"Reflective surface manipulation," Neon murmured. "Maybe scrying?"
Hana shot him a look. "She can control mirrors," she translated gently to Liu Min. "And see things in them?"
Liu Min nodded again. "I think so. It's… too much."
"Three of us," Neon stated, the implications clicking into place. "In one city. This isn't random." He looked at the shattered reflections, a flicker of unease touching him. "We need to go. Somewhere safe. Somewhere private. We need to figure this out."
As they carefully exited the ruined bathroom, none of them saw the tiny lens of a hidden camera retract into the ceiling vent. And in the largest remaining mirror shard on the floor, the reflection of Liu Min lingered for a second after she was gone, morphing briefly into the cool, violet-eyed gaze of the silver-haired woman.
[Las Vegas, Nevada, USA - Backstage, Gilded Cage Lounge - 04:45 PDT]
The aftermath of panic lay thick in the air – stale sweat, cheap perfume, and the lingering scent of terrified dove. Magnifico Marco surveyed the carnage of his dressing room: playing cards blanketing every surface, sequins shed from his jacket like metallic tears, the single bare bulb highlighting the dust motes dancing in the gloom. His chest still felt tight, the phantom pressure of the stage collapse eight years ago mingling with the fresh horror of conjuring chaos instead of illusion.
He picked up a stray Queen of Hearts. Tried a simple vanish, pouring focus into the familiar motions. Felt that slippery, internal wrongness flare up. Opened his hand. Five Queens stared back mockingly.
Marco flinched, throwing them down as if burned. "Get out of my head!" he hissed at the empty room, the showman's bravado cracking under the strain. This wasn't stage fright. This was… violation. An unwanted power making a mockery of his carefully crafted illusions.
His phone buzzed. A curt message from club management: Meeting noon. Discussing future engagement. Code for 'You're fired, weirdo.' The Petrova twins receded further into fantasy.
Defeated, he slumped at the makeup table, catching sight of the news alert he'd barely registered earlier. The Italian physicist. Ikoo. Coma. Eight years. Energy. Eight years. That number again, a chilling echo of his own trauma. He forced himself to read, his blood running cold as he saw the location of Ikoo's original accident mentioned in passing – a conference hotel. The same hotel where Marco's stage, and life, had collapsed. The International Conference on Quantum Physics. Keynote: Dr. R. Ikoo.
"No. It can't be." Marco's voice was a strangled whisper. He hadn't just had a panic attack that night. He'd been there. This physicist, this… resonance… it was all tangled together. Was the chaotic energy he felt now related to what happened then? Had he caused it?
The thought was paralyzing. He stared at his reflection in the smeared mirror, seeing not Magnifico Marco, but a hollow-eyed man haunted by flickering lights and falling rigging. For a heartbeat, the reflection shifted – silver hair, piercing violet eyes, judging him. He recoiled, scrubbing at his eyes. "Stress," he muttered unconvincingly. "Just stress."
But a desperate plan formed, the only kind a cornered magician knew. He needed answers. He needed Rome. Maybe, just maybe, understanding this could fix the past. It was the longest of long shots, a final, desperate trick. He started searching for flights, ignoring the playing cards that materialized nervously around his laptop.
[Rome, Italy - Hospital Corridor & Olympic Training Centre - 12:15 CET onwards]
Ranger Ikoo moved with quiet urgency down the hospital corridor, clad in a stolen lab coat. Wells hadn't shown up yet, but the feeling of being watched was palpable. His enhanced senses picked up the subtle hum of surveillance equipment, the faint resonance of… another presence. Stronger now. Pulling him. Not hostile, but… similar? It emanated from the direction of the physical therapy wing, near the external gyms.
He slipped past a nurses' station, using a focused burst of mental static to momentarily fuzz the nearest security camera feed. His body was still weak, protesting the sudden activity, but the energy thrumming within him provided an unnatural fuel. He needed his data, needed allies. This nearby resonance felt like the first potential lead. He saw his reflection distorted in a passing chrome trolley – a flash of silver hair, violet eyes – and pushed the unsettling image away. Focus.
Meanwhile, at the nearby Olympic Training Centre, Tyzi Rossi landed a vault that drew gasps. The height, the triple twist – it flowed with impossible grace. Inside, she felt the familiar surge, gravity bending to her will. It was intoxicating, terrifying.
"My office. Now," Marco snapped, his face a mask of suspicion.
Inside, the accusation came quickly. "Performance enhancers. Who's your supplier?"
"There's no supplier, Marco!" Tyzi retorted, frustration boiling over. "Maybe I'm just getting better!"
"Better doesn't cover that!" He slammed a fist on the table. "The Anti-Doping Agency is coming tomorrow. A targeted test. For you."
Tyzi froze. They'd find nothing, but the scrutiny… She felt trapped. "I need a day," she said, forcing calm. "Personal reasons."
"Absolutely not! Not before testing!"
"One day," Tyzi insisted, meeting his gaze, letting some of the cold power she felt leak into her stare. "Or I retire. Effective immediately."
Marco hesitated, taken aback by her intensity, then grudgingly nodded. "Fine. One day. But you're back for the test, 8 AM sharp."
Relieved but unsettled, Tyzi gathered her things. The news report about the physicist, Ikoo, echoed in her mind. Energy surges. Coma. She felt a pull, a sense of connection. Maybe he had answers. As she left the gym complex, heading towards the main road, she almost collided with a thin man in a lab coat moving with surprising speed. He looked gaunt, but his eyes burned with fierce intelligence. They locked gazes for a brief, charged moment – a flicker of mutual recognition, of shared resonance – before he hurried past, disappearing towards the city. Tyzi watched him go, a strange certainty settling in her gut. That was him.
[Bibliotheca Alexandrina, Alexandria, Egypt - 14:12 EET]
The silence of the archive was profound, yet Aisha Hassan felt surrounded by whispers. Not auditory, but conceptual. The ancient texts spoke to her, their warnings converging across millennia. Ten vessels. The breach. The watcher below stone. Ex Darkside. Phrases that chilled her despite the climate control.
She documented the correlations, her own linguistic gift feeling less like a breakthrough and more like being handed a cursed key. The news reports – Rome, Vegas, Tokyo – weren't isolated incidents; they were data points confirming the pattern. Ten vessels awakening.
A wave of dizziness washed over her, accompanied by a phantom sensation – bright lights, chaotic noise, suffocating panic. It vanished as quickly as it came, leaving her heart pounding. An echo? From the magician in Vegas? The connections were strengthening, becoming visceral.
She turned back to a Ptolemaic era scroll. "Beware the reflection, for the mirror wastes, yet the truth reflects what watches."
Mirrors. Reflections. Watchers. She glanced instinctively at the darkened glass of a nearby display case. Her own reflection stared back, but for a terrifying instant, it wasn't hers. Silver hair framed an angular face, violet eyes coolly assessing. Aisha gasped, stumbling back. It was gone. Just her own face, pale and shaken.
The message was clear. They were being watched. Observed by the same entity hinted at in texts thousands of years old. She had to find the others. The vessels. Before the breach.
[Antarctica - Research Station Polaris - 07:30 Local Time (Next Day)]
Winx Abara stood on the ice, the wind biting, the sun blindingly bright against the snow. The cold was irrelevant. The ice spoke, not in words, but in pure data streams – planetary memory, cyclical warnings. The awakening, the ten, the breach, the watchers… it had all happened before. He was living inside a recurring pattern.
He knelt, pressing his bare palm against the ancient ice. The resonance surged, warm against the cold. Show me.
Flickering images flooded his mind, clearer than before: Tokyo – three teenagers, light, ice, reflections, forming a tight knot of energy. Rome – a gymnast defying physics, a desperate physicist reaching out. Vegas – a magician drowning in chaotic creation. Alexandria – a scholar deciphering the warnings. Seven distinct points of light. Rainforest – a child surrounded by unnaturally calm animals. Eight. Two remained shadows.
And behind it all, overseeing it, the constant presence: Silver hair. Violet eyes. Calculating.
Winx pulled his hand back, breathing hard. The convergence was happening. Tokyo felt like the strongest nexus point. He needed to go. Now. Emergency leave, fabricate a family crisis. Whatever it took.
He glanced back towards the station, catching his reflection in the mirrored surface of a solar panel. Silver hair, violet eyes stared back for a fraction of a second. Acknowledgment? Warning? He didn't know. He just knew he had to move.
[Silver Tower, New York City - 19:00 EDT]
The silver-haired woman observed the shifting lights on her wall of monitors. Eight confirmed, converging. Two latent, still elusive.
"Phase One completion imminent," she stated, her voice echoing slightly in the minimalist room. "Resonance synchronization at 52%. Subject convergence accelerating organically, supplemented by external pressure."
The synthesized voice replied, "Ikoo and Rossi proximity confirmed. Tokyo cluster established. Hassan and Bellini communication vectors aligning. Abara mobile."
"The breach?" the woman asked.
"Stable for now. First minor incursions anticipated within 48 hours."
"Acceptable parameters. Initiate Phase Two resonance amplification."
"Acknowledged. Boosting field harmonics."
The woman tapped a command onto her console. A low hum emanated from the speakers, undetectable to human ears but potent on the frequency the awakened shared. "Let them feel the connection," she murmured, a ghost of a smile touching her lips. "Let the echoes draw them together."
Across the globe, the eight active subjects felt it simultaneously.
In Tokyo, Neon, Hana, and Liu Min stumbled, clutching their heads as a wave of dizziness and shared awareness washed over them – fear, calculation, curiosity, panic, all bleeding together.
In Rome, Tyzi gasped mid-stretch, momentarily feeling the crushing weight of Antarctic ice. Ikoo, navigating the city streets, felt a surge of chaotic energy that tasted like cheap sequins and desperation.
In Alexandria, Aisha cried out as the ancient texts before her blurred, overlaid with images of impossible physics and spinning gymnasts.
In Las Vegas, Marco, booking his flight, was thrown back against his hotel bed as a cascade of doves erupted from his laptop screen.
In Antarctica, Winx doubled over, overwhelmed by a cacophony of voices – Japanese, Italian, Arabic, English – all echoing in his mind.
The echoes were getting louder. The connections tightening. Phase Two had begun. And somewhere, in the space between spaces, the thinning veil shimmered, disturbed by the amplified resonance. Something ancient and patient stirred in the Ex Darkside, sensing the open door. The reflections in the glass were becoming clearer.