Room 304 was a chamber of mirrors. Not made of glass, but of people. Failed clones. Twisted bodies. Each one mirrored a member of the Unaligned 5.
Derek stared into the eyes of a man who looked just like him—except the left side of his face was stitched backward, and his chain weapon grew from his spine.
"Derek of Vengeance," the clone hissed.
Cam's double looked like a rusted android. A failed version of the Ranger suit fused to flesh. It screamed in binary.
Speen's shadow counterpart was bloated, gurgling, filled with dozens of whispering souls.
John's mimic was crystalline and beautiful—a perfect diamond copy—but it moved like a spider, slashing with razor limbs.
They fought themselves.
Blades against memory.
Fists against shame.
Cam's android copy mocked him, "You could've been someone. You could've made it if you sold out."
"I didn't want fame," Cam growled. "I wanted friends."
He fried the clone with an overload pulse.
Speen unleashed the full force of his shadow—every pain he'd bottled, every voice he had silenced.
John crushed his copy under a tree-arm made of pure mahogany.
Derek's battle was personal.
The stitched version fought with her voice. His wife's voice.
He took the hit. Let it stab him. Let it whisper. But when it went for his throat, he whispered back:
"You're not her. You're just what he made you."
And then he cut its head off with one clean swing.