When the light returned, it wasn't light.
It was the reflection of it — faint, liquid, trembling like the surface of a dream that didn't want to be remembered.
Arin gasped as she hit the ground — or what passed for it here. The texture beneath her palms was smooth like glass, but it pulsed faintly, warm, almost alive. Her wings flickered in and out of existence, refusing to stabilize. Around her, fragments of color floated — echoes of sky, snatches of broken cities, whispers of names she didn't recognize.
Ji-an fell beside her, coughing blood into his hands. The healer's barrier had burned away during the fall, leaving his robes torn, his eyes hollow. Still, his instincts moved faster than his fear. He pressed a glowing palm to Arin's shoulder, stabilizing her vitals even as his own vision blurred.
"Where—" Arin rasped. "Where is he?"
Ji-an didn't answer immediately. He looked around, scanning the space — a horizonless sea of mirrored terrain. Every reflection showed something different:
One pane displayed a ruined Seoul bathed in flame.
Another, a calm sunrise over an academy courtyard.
A third, an image of Hae-won standing on a staircase, staring back at them with a smile that didn't belong to the present.
Arin's breath hitched. "No… no, no. This isn't possible."
Ji-an swallowed, his voice trembling. "It's not a floor. It's… the Tower's memory space. Everything it deletes ends up here. Failed timelines. Broken regressions."
"The Mirror Floor," she whispered.
Silence stretched, heavy and alive. Only the faint echo of their own movements answered — distorted, delayed, repeating in a dozen slightly different tones. Somewhere in the distance, something laughed. It wasn't mocking. It was sad.
Arin stood slowly, scanning the expanse. "We have to find him before—"
Before she could finish, the mirrored surface beneath them rippled, forming text like silver veins spreading through water:
[ WARNING: Entity 'Cha Hae-won' detected. ]
[ Status: Fragmented / Assimilation in Progress. ]
[ Advisory: Avoid direct synchronization. Psychological collapse probable. ]
Arin froze, her wings flickering out completely. "Assimilation?"
Ji-an's face went pale. "The Tower's rewriting him."
"What?!"
He looked up at her — the calm, analytical tone he always forced cracking into fear. "You saw what happened in the singularity. The Tower took his pattern. His soul, his regressions — it copied everything that makes him him. Now it's fusing the data together. If he can't resist the merge…" His throat went dry. "There'll be two Hae-wons."
Arin's heart stopped.
"Two…?"
"One that's him," Ji-an whispered.
"And one that's everything he was supposed to become."
The words hung in the mirrored air, heavy as gravity.
Arin staggered forward, clutching the silver ground. Reflections twisted beneath her touch — hundreds of Hae-wons flickering in unison, each from a different lifetime. One smiling, one bleeding, one laughing under a shattered moon, one staring at his own grave.
Each one mouthed the same words in perfect synchronization:
"You can't save me."
She flinched and stumbled back. Ji-an grabbed her arm, pulling her upright. His voice was firm now, the healer's composure returning through fear. "Don't listen to it. Those are fragments, nothing more."
"No," Arin whispered, eyes wild. "They're memories. He's bleeding through."
The mirrored surface rippled again, and a faint tremor ran through the world. The laughter returned — louder this time, like thunder rolling across glass.
Ji-an cursed under his breath. "He's close."
Then came the voice — not from above or below, but from everywhere.
"You shouldn't have followed me."
It was Hae-won's voice. But the tone was wrong — calm, cold, too even.
Arin's wings flared instinctively, light cutting through the reflections like knives. "Hae-won! Where are you?!"
No answer. Only more laughter, distant and layered.
Then, slowly, the mirrored floor began to rise — panels folding upward into jagged shards, forming a labyrinth around them.
Ji-an's HUD flickered.
[ Mirror Construct: Memory Maze Initiated. ]
[ Objective: Locate Source Fragment before Synchronization Completes. ]
[ Time Limit: 01:00:00 ]
Arin exhaled shakily. "Of course there's a time limit."
Ji-an gave a weak laugh. "Wouldn't be the Tower without one."
Despite the dread, Arin felt a flicker of warmth. It was absurd — the same kind of grim humor Hae-won would've used to calm her down. She could almost hear him muttering, 'Let me guess, if we fail it's instant brain death?'
She glanced at Ji-an. "You ready?"
He adjusted his gloves, expression tight but resolute. "I'm always ready to run into certain death."
Together they stepped into the labyrinth.
Mirrors shifted as they moved, reflecting impossible vistas — endless stairways, versions of themselves that were slightly off. In one, Ji-an's eyes were black. In another, Arin's wings were made of ash. In another still, they both stood beside Hae-won — smiling, alive, whole.
She couldn't help herself. "He was here," she murmured.
Ji-an glanced over. "Or will be."
"Don't say that," she snapped — too quickly. "Not like he's already—"
"Arin."
She turned to him. His voice was quiet, deliberate. "You have to be ready for the possibility that the Hae-won we find isn't the same one who fell."
Her jaw clenched. "Then I'll remind him."
They reached a central chamber — a cathedral of mirrors, stretching endlessly in every direction.
And there, standing at its center, was Hae-won.
Or at least, the reflection of him.
Silver hair falling in waves, eyes glowing faintly red. The Chains of Regression were gone. In their place, something darker coiled around his wrists — obsidian bands that shimmered with cold starlight.
He looked up as they entered. His smile was gentle. Too gentle.
"Arin," he said, voice smooth, calm. "You shouldn't have followed."
The Tower's whisper echoed through the chamber:
[ Fragment 'HARVESTER-CORE' initializing… ]
Arin's light flared. "That's not him."
Ji-an raised his hands, healing sigils already weaving around his fingers. "Then we save him before it finishes becoming."
The reflection of Hae-won tilted his head. "Save me?"
He chuckled softly, the sound low and familiar.
"No," he said. "You can't save death."
And the mirrors began to shatter.
The first sound wasn't a scream or an explosion — it was a heartbeat.
Slow. Steady. Monstrous.
The mirrored floor pulsed with it, sending cracks racing through the glass. Each pulse made the reflections shift — one heartbeat showed a child Hae-won reading under a flickering lamp, the next showed him standing over corpses in the Tower, and the next, a version of him with black eyes and a smile that could kill.
Arin's wings snapped open, feathers blazing. "Ji-an, barrier—!"
"Already on it!"
A dome of light expanded around them just as the first mirror detonated. From the shards poured black smoke shaped like chains — hundreds of them, writhing serpents of memory. Each one whispered something different as it passed:
"Failure."
"Monster."
"Murderer."
"Do you even know who you're saving?"
Arin grit her teeth, cutting through them with glowing arcs of soulfire. Each swing scattered sparks that burned words from existence. But every time she destroyed one, another appeared, whispering her name this time — accusing, pleading, desperate.
Ji-an knelt at the center of the barrier, blood dripping from his nose. "These aren't normal constructs. They're his regression memories—if we destroy too many too fast, we'll erase parts of his soul."
Arin stopped mid-swing. "Then how the hell do we fight him?"
"Carefully!" Ji-an snapped, then laughed weakly. "So, you know, not your strong suit!"
Before she could retort, the air in front of them folded.
The Harvester stepped out.
This version of Hae-won was beautiful in the way broken glass was beautiful — gleaming, sharp, and lethal. His silver hair glowed faintly red at the tips, and his eyes were twin eclipses. The chains wrapped around his arms were no longer metal; they were concepts — threads of cause and effect, tightening around him like divine law.
He smiled faintly when he saw them. "You're early."
Arin's voice was low. "You're not him."
"I am every version of him that wanted to stop pretending," the Harvester replied. "Every time he hesitated. Every life he wasted trying to save what couldn't be saved."
Ji-an stood, wiping his mouth. "So… the edgy version, got it."
The Harvester tilted his head. "You joke to hide fear."
"I joke," Ji-an said, golden light flickering between his palms, "because it really pisses guys like you off."
The ground cracked. In an instant, the Harvester moved — chains snapping forward with a sound like thunder. Arin countered, wings flaring, blades of condensed light slashing the air. Sparks exploded as the two forces met, the impact throwing Ji-an backward through the barrier.
"Ji-an!" Arin shouted.
"I'm fine!" came the distant, pained reply. "Just, you know, rethinking all my life choices!"
The Harvester stepped closer, unhurried. Each step sent ripples through the mirrored world — memories shattering, reforming.
Arin saw flashes between his movements: the academy staircase, the bloodied classroom, a rooftop at sunset, a hand reaching for hers before fading to black. Each image carried weight. Each one hurt.
"You shouldn't have followed," the Harvester said softly. "You always do. Every time he dies, you reach for him, and every time you fail to hold on."
Arin lunged, rage and grief twisting into motion. Her blade cut through him — or rather, through his reflection. The Harvester shimmered, reforming behind her, his voice now a whisper against her ear.
"That's all you are, Arin. Reflection. Reaction. You live to mirror his suffering."
She spun, slashing again, wings trailing radiant fire. "Then I'll burn every mirror you hide behind!"
This time her blade connected. The Harvester staggered — not from pain, but from recognition. For a split second, his face softened, and in that instant, Arin saw him — the real Hae-won, the one who smiled quietly after every loss.
Then he blinked, and the softness died.
"You shouldn't have seen that."
Chains erupted from the ground, encircling her wrists and throat, dragging her upward. Arin gasped, her wings flaring uselessly. The Harvester raised his hand — the chains tightening, drawing energy from her light. "Even your purity burns the same way," he murmured. "As if you were born to be consumed."
A flash of gold interrupted him.
Ji-an appeared behind the Harvester, slamming both palms into his back. "Transmit—Pain!"
The light exploded, raw and blinding. The Harvester stumbled, his chains faltering as the transferred agony of a thousand regressions hit him all at once. Arin broke free, falling to her knees, coughing.
Ji-an stood over her, panting. "Next time," he said between breaths, "don't get strangled by your boyfriend's trauma."
She glared weakly. "Not helping!"
The Harvester turned slowly, eyes burning red again — but now they were shaking. His voice cracked, flickering between his and Hae-won's. "Stop… this. You'll—"
Arin rose, her voice trembling. "Hae-won. I know you're still there."
He froze.
"I don't care how many times you break. I'll follow every version of you. Even the ones that scare me."
The Harvester's form flickered violently — mirror shards cutting through his skin, voices overlapping in chaos. "You'll die with him," he whispered.
"Then so be it."
She extended her hand.
For a long moment, nothing happened. The mirrored world pulsed, uncertain.
Then, slowly, the Harvester reached back — fingers trembling — and touched hers.
The moment they connected, everything broke.
Light. Chains. Mirrors. Even the heartbeat that ruled the floor shattered into silence.
The world reset itself in a single, deafening sigh.
⸻
When the light faded, Arin was kneeling beside an unconscious Hae-won.
His breathing was shallow. His skin was cracked with faint silver fissures — the marks of regression trauma.
Ji-an limped over, grimacing. "That… was the dumbest, most romantic suicide attempt I've ever seen."
Arin brushed Hae-won's hair from his eyes, voice soft. "He's alive."
"For now." Ji-an glanced around. "The Tower's not done with us."
On cue, the System's voice echoed through the fractured sky:
[ Mirror Floor Complete ]
[ Synchronization Deferred]
[New Title Granted: The Harvester of death (Incomplete)]
Arin looked down at Hae-won ,whispering, "Then we'll finish it before it completes "
The mirrored world rippled once more—and somewhere deep within, the true Hae-won opened his eyes,staring up at a reflection that no longer entirely human