The door squeaked when Rohit pushed it open.
Ava stood behind him, her fist tightening around the strap of her backpack. The tunnel they'd followed them to this point—to a rusty metal door behind stacks of crates long-abandoned. No sign. No indication of what lay within.
But the scent was wrong.
Not rot. Not decay.
𝗦𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗹𝗲. 𝗟𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝗰𝗵𝗲𝗺𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗹𝘀. 𝗟𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝗮 𝘀𝗽𝗮𝗰𝗲 𝗼𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝗰𝗹𝗲𝗮𝗻𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵𝗹𝘆.
Rohit went in first.
Ava followed him in.
The lighting was dim, from a lone buzzing strip on the ceiling. It flickered at random intervals, casting long, distorting shadows on the floor.
The room was empty.
Except for the mirror.
It stood in the middle, tall and gold-leafed, out of place amidst the surrounding industrial rubble.
But it was more than that.
It was 𝙬𝙖𝙩𝙘𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 them.
"I don't like this," Ava whispered.
Rohit did not answer. He moved towards her, hand close to the pocket of his jacket—where the gun was hidden.
The mirror reflected them all. The boxes behind them. The mud-streaked floor. Ava's wide, tense eyes.
𝗕𝘂𝘁 𝗥𝗼𝗵𝗶𝘁
Ava blinked. "Wait. Rohit."
She gazed at him.
He was beside her.
But in the mirror—
Only her.
Her alone.
Looking back.
Until her reflection flinched.
She hadn't.
Her own reflected self blinked—slowly, like she'd been drugged. And smiled.
A harsh, knowing smile.
Rohit grabbed her arm. "Back off."
Too late.
The mirror rippled, like water. A low whir filled the room. The walls shook.
A panel slid open behind the mirror.
Out of it, a projector cast light on the wall.
And there he was.
Her uncle. Tied to a chair. Bleeding. Alive.
Ava gasped. "What—how?! He's dead!"
The footage stuttered. The quality was bad, handheld. But the timestamp in the corner was readable.
𝗧𝘄𝗼 𝗱𝗮𝘆𝘀 𝗯𝗲𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗲 𝗵𝗲 𝗱𝗶𝗲𝗱.
He was mumbling something, eyes mad. Behind him, a shadowy figure blurred walked around the room. Same voice on tape—distorted, altered:
"Every truth has a price, Mr. Mehta. You should've kept your mouth shut."
Then static.
Then a lullaby was heard, a child's.
Quiet. Sweet.
Ava walked forward—drawn, enticed.
The mirror glowed on once again, and this time Rohit's image was in it.
Alone.
Bleeding.
Sitting in the same chair.
She turned to him—he was fine.
But the mirror didn't lie.
Rohit snarled low in his throat. "This is a warning."
"No," Ava gasped. "It's a threat."
Another section of the wall slid open with a metallic screech.
This time, there were photographs.
Printed and pinned to a corkboard. Childhood photos of Ava, some even in their former house—ones she didn't remember anyone taking.
In the middle was one single line, in red ink:
"To remember is to suffer. But forgetting will cost you everything."
Rohit approached the board, eyes tracing every detail.
Ava did not move, eyes staring at one picture. It was her—seven years old—sitting on a grass field with her mother sitting beside her.
But behind her, hidden behind the trees, a figure of a man.
Tall. Still. Observing.
Her throat dried.
"That's where our old house used to be…" she breathed. "But we never—there was never anyone else there that day."
Rohit stepped beside her, his face frowning. "You certain?"
She hesitated.
No. She wasn't anymore.
.....
𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐄𝐋𝐒𝐄....
The man behind the monitors leaned back.
"They found it," he said quietly.
Another figure stood behind him in the shadows.
"They're not running away."
The man smiled.
"No," he said. "They're walking right into it."
His finger hovered over a button.
"𝗜𝗡𝗜𝗧𝗜𝗔𝗧𝗘 𝗧𝗘𝗦𝗧 𝗧𝗪𝗢?"
He pressed it.
..........
𝑬𝑵𝑱𝑶𝒀𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑺𝑻𝑶𝑹𝒀? 𝑲𝑰𝑵𝑫𝑳𝒀 𝑫𝑶 𝑺𝑶𝑴𝑬 𝑹𝑨𝑻𝑰𝑵𝑮. 𝑰𝑻 𝑯𝑬𝑳𝑷𝑺 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑺𝑻𝑶𝑹𝒀 𝑻𝑶 𝑮𝑹𝑶𝑾...!
𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙙𝙤 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙨 𝙨𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙄 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙨.