"When you stare long enough into desire, it begins to speak back in your own voice."
— Unknown
The city no longer belonged to itself.
At first it was whispers—anonymous posts, fragments of my old manifesto stitched with new scripture that none of us had written.
Then came the gatherings: faces hidden behind mirrored masks, candles burning in abandoned subway tunnels, reciting our words as prayer.
Lilith watched them with the serenity of a queen and the suspicion of a scientist.
"They believe faster than they think," she said.
"They always have," I replied. "Faith travels quicker than truth."
By midnight the rain had turned the streets into rivers of light. People followed the reflections, not the road. Every screen flickered with our symbols—serpents, glass, the letter A carved into flame.
I began to hear my own voice everywhere.
In cafés, in alleyways, even through the static of the city's failing radio towers.
"To be free is to unmake what made you."
The line was mine, years ago, but now it sounded like prophecy.
Lilith leaned against the window, her eyes alive with awe and something darker.
"Do you feel it?" she asked. "They're breathing with us."
I nodded. "They think they've found meaning. What they've really found is permission."
That night we walked through the streets disguised among them.
Posters bled from the walls—our faces half-erased, half-divine.
A preacher on a corner shouted our doctrine, voice trembling with ecstasy.
Behind him, two men fought over a shard of mirror as if it could save them.
Lilith took my hand, cold and steady.
"This is what creation feels like," she said.
"No," I answered. "This is what hunger looks like when it wears a halo."
The wind carried sirens, screams, laughter. The city had become a living organism, devouring its own reflection.
Every action echoed us; every sin asked our blessing.
Back home, I watched the skyline flicker and thought of all the names whispered in devotion.
Aurelius Kael. Prophet. Architect. Monster.
In the glass I saw Lilith behind me, her reflection smiling when she wasn't.
"Do you regret it?" she asked.
"Regret is for the dead," I said. "We've already become legend."
She touched the mirror, and our faces blurred together.
Outside, the chants rose higher—our names dissolving into thunder.
The world was devouring itself, and every bite tasted like us.