Mira Dane had never truly known fear.
She had tasted envy, wielded cruelty, flirted with ruin but fear?
Fear had always belonged to other people. Lesser people.
She wore power like a silk robe. Pulled hearts apart with a smile. She had stepped on reputations in heels worth more than most people's cars.
But now
She was screaming at her own reflection.
"GET IT OFF ME! GET IT OFF!"
The ER lights at Glencroft Private Hospital buzzed too bright, too close. Her wrists were strapped down with trembling urgency, latex gloves digging into her arms as nurses and orderlies swarmed like hornets.
She thrashed on the gurney, wild-eyed, fingers clawing at the gauze on her cheeks.
"It's burning again! My skin it's cracking WHY CAN'T YOU SEE IT?! LOOK AT ME!"
Dr. Engel stood stiff beside the monitor, watching her vitals spike like a rollercoaster mid-derailment.
"No external wounds. No drugs. No concussion," he muttered. "It's like her brain is experiencing… simulated trauma. Psychic disruption. I've never seen this kind of somatic panic without cause."
"She's hallucinating," a nurse whispered behind her mask. "Could be schizophrenia, acute onset "
"No," the doctor said sharply. "This isn't psychological. This is engineered."
Mira screamed again, long and ragged.
"Where is he?! WHERE'S LEONARD?!"
Glass shattered as she kicked a tray off its hinges. Blood from her own fingernails streaked down her arms like war paint.
In the shadows of a narrow alley three blocks away, Leonard Dane leaned against a dumpster.
A cracked burner phone in his palm glowed with the livestream. The camera shook as it followed Mira's breakdown through a hospital window.
He watched in silence.
Took a long drag from a bent cigarette. The smoke stung, but it kept his hands from shaking.
On-screen, Mira shrieked again.
Subject 001:
Self-image: Shattered.
Delusion Index: Rising.
Public Sympathy: 2%.
Judgment Effectiveness: 64%.
Do you wish to proceed with further targeting?
He didn't answer. Not yet.
He closed his eyes.
One name pulsed red behind his lids. Next in line.
Officer Malcolm Briggs.
Detective Malcolm Briggs had a face sculpted to be punched. His smile just made it easier.
Leonard sat across from him in a grey-walled interrogation room that smelled like coffee, sweat, and forgotten justice.
"You again," Briggs muttered, tossing the file onto the metal table. "You must miss the food in here."
Leonard folded his arms.
"I didn't commit a crime," he said coolly. "But you did."
Briggs barked a laugh.
"You think anyone gives a shit what a broke, burnt-out Kane bastard says?"
Leonard tilted his head. The system flickered quietly in his mind's eye.
Mark Subject 002 – Malcolm Briggs?
[YES]
Judgment Type: Guilt Manifestation (Mild).
The effect was subtle. At first.
Briggs blinked. Rubbed his temple.
The air in the room chilled.
His fingers started to twitch.
"W-what the hell…?" Briggs muttered. His voice cracked, barely audible.
Leonard didn't move.
Briggs looked around, suddenly nervous. Sweat pooled under his collar. He flinched like someone had whispered in his ear.
"I did what I had to," he murmured, staring at something that wasn't there. "The girl… she lied… it was protocol…"
He stood up too fast. Knocked the chair back.
"I didn't mean to forge the report! It was a mistake it was a mistake!"
The room was dead silent.
Only the red light blinked from the wall camera. Watching. Listening.
Briggs froze.
"…Shit."
Leonard leaned in slightly.
"Say that again," he whispered, "into the camera."
Briggs turned ghost-white.
Three hours later.
Leonard walked out of the precinct with a file folder tucked beneath his coat.
Stamped: EXONERATION PENDING
Inside: The original report. The doctored signature. Briggs' panicked confession.
It wasn't a full acquittal.
But it was a crack in the wall.
He walked down the steps, rain slicking his shoulders, coat collar raised like armor. A notification hummed across his inner system:
Enemy 002: Reduced Influence.
Guilt Triggered.
Public Trust: Deteriorating.
Reward Unlocked: 1x Mirror Echo.
Use once. Forces target to face their worst hidden memory.
Leonard stared at the city skyline.
The storm hadn't started yet. But the wind smelled like war.
Elsewhere in the city…
Aunt Priscilla's office smelled like cherrywood, fear, and dying legacy.
She stood alone beside a tall window, her hands trembling as she dropped her phone on the carpet.
On the TV screen behind her:
"Breaking: Insider Trading Allegations Shake Dane Foundation New Evidence Traced to Private Accounts…"
"No…" she whispered. "Those files were buried. Deleted. I didn't… how did he find "
The door slammed open.
Her assistant's face was pale. "Ma'am… the auditors are here. From the Bureau."
She backed up.
"This isn't real," she said. "This isn't possible."
The desk phone rang.
She lunged for it like a lifeline.
"Mira?! Mira, I'm finished! It's him it's Leonard! Someone leaked everything everything! They're tying it all to me!"
On the other end, Mira sat in a hospital bed, pale as linen. Her face bandaged. Her hands shaking around the receiver.
"What do you mean 'him'?" she whispered. "Leonard's… he's not he's not like this."
Priscilla's voice dropped to a dry, cracking whisper.
"No. He's not Leonard anymore."
Mira's throat went dry.
"What… is he?"
A long pause.
Then: "He's something else now. Something watching us. Through him. Behind him."
The line went dead.
And in the silence of the hospital room, Mira Dane stared at her bandaged face.
Her reflection didn't blink.