"The mirror doesn't punish your lies. It feeds them."
----------
The stairs groaned under each step Clara and Gustav took as they descended beneath the Albrecht Museum. The air was damp, ancient, and somehow... listening.
They'd followed the spiral. The Codex mark on Clara's palm pulsed with quiet urgency, glowing faintly every few seconds like a heart remembering how to beat.
At the end of the stone corridor stood a black iron door—no handle, no hinges, just a reflection polished into its surface. Cold. Perfect.
Too perfect.
Clara stepped forward, about to press her palm against the metal, when something inside her twitched.
She stopped. So did Gustav.
The air shifted.
And then — the door rippled.
No. Not the door. The reflection.
Gustav's reflection no longer mirrored him.
It moved just a heartbeat too slow.
And then, it smiled.
But Gustav wasn't smiling.
Clara stepped back instinctively. Gustav stared, frozen.
Then the reflection raised its hand — not in mimicry, but in mockery.
"Do you want me to do it?" it asked, voice like oil over broken glass.
Gustav staggered.
Clara turned to him. "What is that?"
His voice was hoarse. "Me. But not... now. That's me from the third cycle. The obsessed one."
The mirror-Gustav stepped out of the reflection. No crack, no sound. Just a fold in reality peeling open, letting something corrupted step through.
He looked the same. But older. Wilder. His eyes bled longing. Control. Desperation.
"You left her," the shade whispered to Gustav. "You always leave her. So I held her. Kept her. Loved her. Even when she screamed."
Clara recoiled. Gustav's hands curled into fists.
"That's not love," Gustav said tightly.
"It was more than you ever gave," the reflection spat. "I built her a world where she didn't have to choose."
"You built her a prison," Clara snapped.
Mirror-Gustav turned to her. And smiled. Slowly.
"She never asked to leave."
He lunged.
But not at Clara — at Gustav.
They collided in a blur, flesh and phantom, memory and self.
Gustav fell against the wall with a grunt, clutching his head. His knees buckled. His voice trembled.
"He's in my head—Clara—he's trying to—"
His body jerked once, violently, like a puppet tugged on too many strings.
Clara dropped to her knees beside him.
"Fight it," she whispered. "He's not you."
"He was," Gustav rasped. "He still wants to be."
His eyes flickered.
Then the reflection spoke through him.
"She begged me to stay. You? You just watched her burn."
Clara's heart ached. She looked into Gustav's eyes—and saw both men warring inside.
She placed her hands on either side of his face.
"You're not the Gustav I loved," she whispered. "You're the one I forgave."
Gustav froze. His entire body went still, like a statue caught between collapse and combustion.
The mirror-Gustav let out a slow, poisoned chuckle that echoed like rust grinding through bone.
"Forgiveness?" it hissed. "Don't insult me with that word. She forgave me too… after I locked her in a silver room and whispered love through the keyhole for twenty years."
Clara didn't flinch.
"That wasn't love. That was fear dressed as loyalty."
The reflection circled Gustav like a vulture, fingers grazing the edges of his aura. Every time it brushed too close, Gustav trembled, like it was trying to crawl back inside his skin.
"I gave her safety," the shade snarled. "I protected her from every other version of you who let her shatter."
"No," Clara said, her voice low and sharp, "you protected yourself from her pain."
The reflection stopped.
"She cried for me."
"No," Clara corrected, stepping forward, "she cried because of you."
Something broke in Gustav's face. His mouth opened, but only air came out — dry, brittle.
The mirror-Gustav knelt beside him.
"You're weak now," it whispered. "You barely remember what you were willing to become just to keep her."
He gripped Gustav's chin — and Gustav didn't resist.
Clara stepped between them.
"You don't belong in him."
The mirror-Gustav turned slowly.
"Then where do I belong, Clara?" it said — and for a moment, its voice cracked. Human. Hurting. "I'm not the monster. I'm the version that stayed. The one who never walked away, even when it meant giving up everything else."
Clara's throat tightened. She didn't have an answer for that.
Because it was true. In one life, Gustav hadn't left her.
And that had destroyed them both.
She whispered, "You stayed. But not with me — over me. Like a shadow I couldn't breathe under."
That struck something.
The mirror version staggered, like the truth had weight.
"I loved you."
"Then let him go."
Gustav groaned on the floor. His pupils flickered between two souls. His breath came ragged.
"You told me once," Clara said, turning to him now, "that real love isn't about control. It's about choosing someone every time — even when it hurts."
His lips trembled.
"Then choose me now," she whispered. "Even if the version you were once doesn't want to let go."
Gustav's hand twitched.
The mirror-Gustav screamed — a sound like mirrors being crushed under boots.
"She'll leave you again," it hissed. "She always does."
"I'll stay," Clara said.
"She'll forget you."
"Then I'll remember him for both of us."
"She'll choose the mirror."
"Then I'll break it."
The reflection lunged — straight toward Clara.
But Gustav rose in one desperate surge, tackling the phantom to the floor.
They rolled — real and unreal, fury and fear made flesh.
Then Gustav drove his hand into the mirror-Gustav's chest.
"You're not me anymore," he gasped.
"I'm the only part of you that knew how to keep her," the reflection growled.
"Then I'd rather lose her," Gustav said, "than become the thing that held her by the throat and called it love."
He tore his hand free — and light spilled out.
The mirror-Gustav screamed.
It began to crack.
Lines of light burst across his skin — like lightning frozen in glass.
"You'll come back to me," it whispered, fading.
"No," Gustav whispered back. "I'm not your mirror anymore."
And then—
It shattered.
No explosion. Just collapse.
Like a reflection giving up the lie it had clung to.
Gustav fell forward, panting, shaking. Clara caught him.
He was cold. Drenched in sweat. His body hummed like a wire still carrying residual power.
She cradled his face.
"Are you here?" she whispered.
He nodded. "Yeah. But he almost wasn't going to let me go."
Clara's voice wavered.
"I'm sorry. I didn't know he was part of you."
"He's not," Gustav said, weak but resolute. "Not anymore. You burned that part of me out the moment you forgave me."
She pressed her forehead to his.
"Let's not let him back in."
"Never again."
Silence fell, but it wasn't empty.
It was earned.
They turned to the iron door again.
Still sealed. Still silent.
But now — something had changed in the air. It felt clearer. Like one of the weights pressing down had lifted.
Clara walked to the mirror-polished surface.
It now reflected only her.
But just as she turned away — the reflection smiled.
A different Clara. Cold. Beautiful. Waiting.
"You're getting closer," it whispered, soundless on the glass. "But some truths burn more than fire."
His eyes widened. Something cracked.
A noise like shattered glass echoed in the corridor.
Gustav screamed—not in pain, but in memory.
The reflection behind him twisted, distorted—and then exploded into shards of smoke and shadow.
Silence returned.
Gustav collapsed into Clara's arms, shaking.
She held him tight. Neither of them spoke for a long moment.
Then—Clara looked toward the door.
Still sealed.
Still waiting.
"That wasn't the test," Gustav said hoarsely. "That was the warning."
Clara nodded. "And the door still won't open."
He reached for her hand, for the spiral etched in her palm.
"We're still missing something."
A soft hum rolled through the floor.
Clara looked up. Somewhere, faintly, she heard breathing that didn't belong to either of them.
"Naomi," she whispered.
Gustav met her gaze.
"We need her."
They both turned toward the stairs.
The Codex spiral on Clara's hand pulsed once more—brighter this time. Urgent. A heartbeat ticking toward something final.
And somewhere above them, a window began to fog.
—------