Lyos Lever’s dreams were a tangle of shadows and echoes. He wandered endless hallways, doors slamming shut behind him, voices whispering his name from rooms he could never reach. When he woke, the taste of fear lingered on his tongue.

  He lay in bed, blinking at the ceiling, trying to steady his breathing. The city’s morning light crept through the blinds, painting pale stripes across the floor. For a moment, he felt almost normal-until he noticed the unfamiliar shirt draped over the back of his chair. It was his size, his style, but he didn’t remember buying it. He didn’t remember much at all.

  He sat up, rubbing his face. The bruise on his jaw ached dully. He prodded it, wincing, and tried to reconstruct the night before. Fragments surfaced: Liora’s warning, Soren’s haunted eyes, the cryptic texts, the feeling of being watched. And always, the mirrors-catching glimpses of himself that didn’t quite belong.

  He dressed and made coffee, each movement deliberate, as if routine could anchor him. The news played in the background: another assassination, another twenty-six-minute gap in security footage. The anchor’s voice was tight with fear. Lyos turned the volume down, unable to listen.

  His phone buzzed. A new message from the unknown number:

  You’re not alone.

  He stared at the words, a chill crawling up his spine. He typed a reply-Who are you? What do you want?-but the message failed to send.

  He left his apartment, taking the stairs instead of the elevator. Each step echoed, loud and solitary. On the landing, he paused by a window, watching raindrops snake down the glass. For a moment, his reflection lingered, lips curled in a faint, mocking smile. Lyos turned away before it could move again.

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  At the foundation office, the tension was worse. Liora avoided his eyes, her posture rigid. Soren was nowhere to be seen. The staff whispered, their conversations falling silent when Lyos passed by. He felt like a ghost, haunting his own life.

  He retreated to his office, closing the door behind him. The silence pressed in. He sat at his desk, staring at the notepad where he’d doodled intersecting lines the day before. He traced them with his finger, trying to remember why they felt important.

  A knock at the door startled him. Liora entered, her face pale.

  “Lyos, there’s something you need to see.”

  She handed him a photograph. It showed him-standing in a dark alley, staring straight at the camera. His eyes were empty, his mouth twisted into a smile that wasn’t his.

  Lyos’s hands shook. “When was this taken?”

  “Last night,” Liora said quietly. “Near the scene of the attack.”

  He searched his memory, desperate for an anchor, but there was only fog. “I don’t remember being there.”

  Liora hesitated. “There’s more.” She handed him a second photo: the same alley, the same time, but this time Lyos’s face was blurred, as if he’d moved too fast for the camera to catch.

  Lyos stared at the images, his heart pounding. “What’s happening to me?”

  Liora’s voice was gentle, but firm. “We’ll figure it out. But you need to trust me. And you need to trust yourself.”

  After she left, Lyos sat in silence, the photos trembling in his hands. He felt the urge to smash every mirror in the building, to run until the city was nothing but a memory. Instead, he forced himself to breathe, to focus on the facts.

  He opened his laptop and searched for news on the assassinations. Each article mentioned the same detail: a twenty-six-minute blackout, no witnesses, no evidence except for a single, blurry figure caught on camera. Him.

  He scrolled through his emails, hoping for something-anything-that made sense. Buried among the spam was a message with no sender, no subject. He opened it.

  You’ll understand soon. Look in the glass.

  Lyos’s skin prickled. He turned in his chair, meeting his own gaze in the window. For a heartbeat, his reflection grinned.

  He spun around, heart racing, but the office was empty.

  He pressed his palms to his eyes, fighting the rising panic. He needed answers. He needed Soren.

  That evening, Lyos walked the city’s streets, searching for Soren in every shadow. The rain had stopped, but the air was thick with electricity. He passed a shop window and forced himself to look. His reflection stared back, eyes dark and knowing.

  He whispered, “Who are you?”

  The glass offered no reply.

  As he turned away, his phone buzzed one last time.

  Twenty-six minutes. That’s all it takes.

  Lyos’s breath caught. He looked back at the window, but his reflection was gone.

  He hurried into the night, the city’s lights flickering behind him, and knew that whatever was haunting him was growing stronger-and that time was running out.