Rain tapped against the glass in a rhythm too deliberate to be random.
Mary Caldwell—no. He, in Mary's skin—sat up slowly in the small one-bedroom apartment, heartbeat thudding in borrowed ribs.
The first thing he noticed was the clock.
2:47 A.M.
The room was dim, bathed in the dull blue haze of a streetlight filtering through the rain-streaked window. The second thing he noticed was the silence—not peaceful, but pressurized, like the air was holding its breath.
[Fear System Notification: Timeline synchronized. Role calibration at 87%.]
[Remaining Objective: Survive until 6:00 A.M.]
The voice in his skull whispered like something slithering just beneath his consciousness. He tried to reject it, to remember who he really was, but the sensation was like trying to hold smoke in his hands.
His name wasn't Mary. He knew that. He felt that.
But the apartment? The layout? The scent of lavender detergent mixed with hospital antiseptic? That was Mary's. Her memories bled in at the edges. He could feel them in the way his—her—fingers twitched, in the ache of her knees from twelve-hour shifts on white-tiled floors.
A shadow shifted outside the window.
He froze.
Just a flutter, like someone walking past the building. Perfectly normal. Perfectly—
There it was again.
Not someone walking—someone watching. Standing still. Just beyond the edge of the streetlight. Too far to see clearly, too real to dismiss.
He rose to his feet. The floor creaked under his weight. The reflection in the glass mirrored his movement—shoulders hunched, eyes sunken, lips parted.
"Just a dream," he muttered, but the voice wasn't quite his.
[Reminder: You are Mary Caldwell. Role deviation increases threat level.]
He swallowed hard.
No dream. No game. Just a storm and a stalker and a name that wasn't his tied to a body that wasn't his either.
The flicker came again.
This time, inside the room.
He turned. Nothing but the coat rack, the empty hallway, the kitchen beyond. The apartment was still, save for the subtle, persistent hum of the fridge and the ticking of the wall clock.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
The power blinked.
One breath. Darkness.
Then light again.
Everything in place—except for one thing.
The hallway door, which he knew for certain had been closed, now hung slightly open.
He stood there staring at it for a long time, pulse loud in his ears. Behind that door was a coat closet. Nothing more. Mary always kept it locked. The knob creaked when you turned it. You could hear the hinges from the bedroom if it ever opened.
He hadn't heard it.
But it was open now.
A memory not his surfaced: Three weeks ago, Mary had a nightmare. Woke up to the closet door open just like this, no noise, no explanation. She thought it was stress. Or a trick of sleep.
She never dreamed again after that.
Only flickers.
Shadows.
Shifting shapes.
And now, so did he.
The wind picked up outside, and with it came a subtle change. Not in the apartment, but in the air itself. He felt it—like he was being studied.
He crossed the room and shut the closet door. Latched it. Locked it with shaking fingers. He didn't know why it helped, but it did.
He turned back to the window to check for the figure on the street.
Gone.
No shape.
No outline.
Just the streetlight and the empty sidewalk.
Relief hit him in a weak wave—just strong enough to take a step toward the bed—when a soft tap sounded against the window glass.
Not a knock.
Not a hand.
Just—
Tap.
Like a fingernail.
He turned back slowly.
There was nothing there.
But the reflection had changed.
The room behind him looked the same. But his reflection? It wasn't quite synced. One shoulder slightly lower. A smile threatening to form on the lips. The eyes were still—but wrong. Off by a centimeter. Too wide. Too knowing.
He stepped forward.
So did it.
But just a moment too late.
He lifted a hand.
The reflection followed.
Perfectly, this time.
Then, just as he started to exhale—
It blinked.
He hadn't.
[Threat Level Increase Detected: Entity Engaged.]
The light overhead flickered once more. The temperature dropped.
His breath fogged the glass.
Then, very faintly, just as he turned to step away—
The reflection didn't.
It stood still, watching him as he backed toward the bed. As he reached for the phone on the nightstand. As he debated whether to call the police or scream or smash the mirror with the lamp.
And then it smiled.
A full, wide, knowing smile.
Not cruel. Not maniacal.
Hungry.
He dropped the phone.
Behind him, the closet door creaked open again.