When Elara opened her eyes, there was no ceiling.
Only reflections. A thousand versions of herself staring back from every angle. Walls. Floor. Even above her — all mirrors. The air was cold, still, and smelled faintly of something sterile. Bleach and fear.
She sat up slowly, heart drumming in her chest, and stared at her own wide eyes multiplied into infinity. The room was a perfect cube of mirrors, the size of a modest studio apartment. No seams. No handles. No windows. No door.
She wasn't breathing hard, but her chest felt like it had been sealed shut.
Where am I?
She stood up and pressed her hand to the nearest wall. Her palm left no smudge. No warmth. The mirror was flawless — and wrong. Too clean. Too smooth. Too… alive. She pulled her hand back quickly when the mirror seemed to ripple faintly, like a pond disturbed by wind.
Then something moved behind her.
She spun.
But there was no one.
Just her reflections. And… a chair? She hadn't noticed it before. A simple metal folding chair, now standing in the center of the room, where it definitely hadn't been a moment ago.
Her pulse kicked harder.
"Elara," she whispered to herself, just to ground the rising panic. "Elara Vane. You're not hallucinating."
Then came the sound.
A click. Like a lock turning.
And then — a hiss. One of the mirror panels began to shimmer. A vertical line split the wall, opening like a door, but revealing only another mirrored cube behind it. And inside…
A man.
Tall, dark hair, lean build, blinking in confusion. Shirt half untucked. He stumbled in, then froze when he saw her.
"What the hell—" he muttered.
The mirror-wall slid shut behind him without a sound.
They stared at each other.
"Elara," she said first, quietly. Her voice sounded too loud in the mirrored silence. "I just got here."
The man ran a hand through his messy hair. "Jace," he replied, his voice wary. "This… isn't a dream, is it?"
She shook her head.
He looked around, lips pressed thin. "What is this? A prank? A set for some weird art film? I swear, if this is that producer's idea of viral marketing—"
Another hiss.
Another panel slid open.
This time, a woman stepped out, sharp-eyed, with angular features and tightly coiled black hair in a bun. She wore a dark blazer and had a tablet tucked under her arm, as if she'd been interrupted mid-lecture.
Her eyes scanned the room like a threat assessment protocol.
"Who are you people?" she demanded.
"Elara," Elara repeated, gently.
"Jace," the man said. "And you are?"
"Kemi," the woman answered. "Where the hell are we?"
Nobody had an answer.
Another hiss.
This time, two emerged.
A broad-shouldered man with a scar over one eyebrow, and a petite woman with warm brown eyes and a nervous expression. The man looked like he'd walked out of a warzone. The woman clutched her own arms like a shield.
Names were exchanged in a blur.
"Dorian," the man said.
"Harper," the woman added.
The sixth person came next — a young man in a paint-splattered hoodie, headphones dangling from his neck. "Teo," he muttered, voice low. "You all hearing voices or just me?"
And finally — the last mirror opened.
A tall, silver-haired man stepped through, composed as a chess master. He wore a neatly tailored coat and looked around with calculating calm.
"Dr. Lysander Coyle," he said. "You all appear... conscious. That's good."
Elara's eyes narrowed.
Coyle.
She knew that name.
But from where?
Before she could ask, the lights shifted. Faint text began to appear across the mirrored walls in dark red letters. Not glowing. Etched. As if burned into the glass by an invisible hand.
They all turned to read.
"Lie once, mirror cracks. Lie twice, you disappear."
The silence that followed was pure, taut dread.
"What the hell does that mean?" Jace muttered, stepping back instinctively.
"It means someone is playing a very sick game," Kemi said coldly.
"No," Harper whispered, stepping closer to the mirrored writing, her voice trembling. "It's a warning."
Elara felt a chill crawl down her spine.
"Lie once, mirror cracks…"
Everyone was reading it.
Everyone was trying to understand.
And everyone was beginning to realize the same thing.
This wasn't just a room.
It was a trap.
They tried everything for the next hour.
Pushing on mirrors. Yelling. Searching for seams, buttons, cameras. Kemi began testing pressure points on the floor. Dorian slammed a fist against one mirrored wall, but it didn't even rattle. No cracks. No echo. No indication of exit.
"It's like being inside a damn jewelry box," Teo muttered, pacing.
Jace paced in the opposite direction, muttering to himself. "This is performance art. It has to be. Hidden cameras. Live audience."
"No one is filming this," Kemi snapped.
"How do you know?"
"Because nothing's reacting. There's no system response. No environmental shift. It's too controlled."
"She's right," Elara said. "It's… calculated. Deliberate."
Dr. Coyle sat calmly in the corner, fingers steepled under his chin. Observing. Listening. Not speaking.
Too calm.
"You know something," Elara said, approaching him.
His eyes twinkled, faintly amused. "I know enough not to speak without evidence."
"But you do know something," she pressed. "This isn't random. None of us are."
His silence said more than words.
Dorian stood suddenly. "This is a test," he growled. "We're being watched. Evaluated."
"For what?" Harper asked, her voice small.
No one answered.
Then the chair — the one Elara had seen — was gone.
In its place, now rested a small box.
Silver. Unlabeled.
Elara took a cautious step toward it.
"Don't touch it yet," Kemi warned.
Elara nodded, crouched, and opened the lid with deliberate care.
Inside lay a single item.
A white card.
She held it up.
TELL THE TRUTH. OR DISAPPEAR.
Then — a mechanical ding.
A disembodied voice — genderless, toneless, synthetic — spoke:
"Trial begins in five minutes. One of you is a liar. Identify the lie. Or someone vanishes."
The card dissolved into dust in her hands.
Panic erupted.
"What kind of bullshit is this!?" Jace shouted.
"A trial? We don't even know each other!" Harper cried.
"What if we all lie?" Teo asked.
"Then more vanish?" Elara whispered, horrified.
"Assuming any of this is real," Kemi added. "This could all be psychological manipulation. Gaslighting. Induced mass hysteria."
"Still think it's an art film?" Dorian snapped at Jace.
Coyle stood slowly. "I suggest we each say one thing about ourselves. Something verifiable. Let the group decide."
"Truth or dare," Jace muttered. "Except the dare is death."
"One minute," the voice intoned.
Harper panicked. "I—I was a teacher. Kindergarten. In Phoenix. I have a cat named Momo."
Teo: "I'm Teo Reyes. I did murals in L.A. before the city tore them down."
Dorian: "Served in the army. Discharged seven years ago. Afghanistan."
Kemi: "Systems engineer. Cybernetics division. I worked on grid compression algorithms."
Jace: "I'm an actor. Off-Broadway, mostly. I played Hamlet three summers ago."
Coyle: "Psychiatrist. Private practice. Trauma specialization."
They all turned to Elara.
She swallowed. "Journalist. Freelance. I write exposés. Recently… memory experiments."
Her voice faltered.
Coyle's eyes sharpened.
"Elara Vane," he said softly. "Interesting."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Time's up," the voice cut in.
The lights dimmed.
Then — CRACK.
A jagged spiderweb fractured across one of the mirrored walls.
Everyone froze.
"Who lied?" Harper whimpered.
No one answered.
No one knew.
Then the floor beneath Teo shimmered.
And without warning — he vanished.
Gone.
No scream. No fall. Just a flicker of light — and then nothing.
"Elara!" Harper screamed.
But Elara was already running to the spot.
It was smooth mirror again.
No sign of him.
No trace.
Just silence.
Coyle's voice was calm. "That was our warning."
When they finally stopped shouting, the mirrors remained still.
The crack had not vanished. A spiderweb of fracture stretched across one mirrored wall, catching the light in jagged angles.
"Elara," Kemi whispered, crouched near the spot where Teo had been, "You said memory experiments. What kind of experiments?"
Elara hesitated.
She could lie.
She wanted to.
But she felt every mirror watching.
"I uncovered a secret project two years ago," she admitted. "An institute. They were trying to suppress traumatic memories. Rewire the mind."
"And?" Dorian asked.
"My sister was a test subject."
The silence was thick.
"She drowned," Elara finished. "Or… that's what I was told."
Coyle didn't look surprised.
She turned to him. "You worked at that institute."
"Possibly," he said. "I've worked many places."
That wasn't a denial.
Jace exhaled shakily. "So… this isn't random. We're connected. All of us."
Kemi added, "Teo's murals. They used a mirror motif. Years before this."
Harper hugged herself. "I once had a student. Bright, imaginative. She said her dreams had reflections that weren't hers."
"She was part of it," Coyle said.
Elara stared at him. "How do you know that?"
The mirrors began to hum.
Faint. Subsonic. Like pressure rising in the walls.
Then a voice, distorted and quiet, whispered from nowhere — or everywhere.
"Lie again…"
The message trailed off.
They stood in that mirrored box, the fractured truth bleeding across the glass, and realized:
This was only the beginning.
And someone — maybe all of them — was already doomed.