The girl wakes in a city made of mirrors.
Not literal ones—no sharp glass or silver backing.
But every surface reflects.
Every building gleams like polished memory.
Every person stares just a beat too long, like they're not sure if she's real or a trick of the light.
She's wearing a dress she didn't choose.
A smile she didn't earn.
And a name she doesn't remember choosing, but everyone around her insists is hers:
"Elle."
---
She is Elle now.
Elle who works at the tallest tower, pouring drinks at a lounge no one can afford.
Elle who never blinks when the regulars call her a dream or a ghost.
Elle who walks home alone past billboards that sometimes whisper when she's too tired to ignore them.
> "You're not supposed to be here."
> "She didn't mean for this."
> "What did you take, pretty girl?"
---
There's a mirror above her bed.
It never shows her sleeping.
Only standing.
Only watching.
---
She dreams of heat and fire and a girl with lips like wine and knives for words.
She dreams of someone named Irlenne, though the face blurs when she reaches for it.
She dreams of a kiss that didn't belong to her—but felt like it did.
---
One night, she cuts her palm on a broken wine glass at work.
The blood drips slowly.
Silver.
Her coworkers don't notice.
They only murmur about how graceful she looks, even bleeding.
---
She leans into the bathroom mirror, shaking, holding her silver-blooded hand beneath the faucet.
The reflection leans back.
But it smiles when she doesn't.
> "You're one of the ones she left behind," the mirror says. "A sliver."
> "I don't understand," Elle whispers.
> "You don't need to," the reflection says. "You only need to survive."
> "Who is she?"
> "You are."
---
The next morning, her eyes are gold.
Just for a moment.
The mirror flickers.
Then she's just Elle again.
---
But she feels it.
The crack inside.
A spiderweb fracture running through her ribs.
Something beneath her skin beginning to pulse.
Calling.
Not home, because she doesn't know where that is.
But back.
To something unfinished.
---
At work that night, a man walks in.
Tall. Handsome. Wrong.
His shadow trails behind him like smoke. His suit is pressed like he belongs in this world—but his eyes linger on Elle too long.
Like he knows what she is.
Like he's seen another version of her before.
> "You look like someone I used to know," he says, voice soft.
> "Lots of people say that," she answers. She doesn't smile.
> "No," he says, tilting his head. "You look like someone I tried to forget."
She turns away to serve another drink.
But she feels him watching her all night.
And when she looks back at the mirror over the bar, her reflection has stopped pretending.
---
It grins.
Wide. Hungry. Familiar.
---
That night, she runs.
She doesn't take anything with her.
She doesn't know what she's running toward.
Only that something is waking up inside her bones.
A memory.
A weapon.
---
She passes a storefront and sees a television flicker.
The news is reporting something strange: a mansion burned to the ground outside of Selverra. A girl who used to be someone else seen stepping into the woods and never stepping back out.
---
She presses her hand to the glass.
The screen warps.
Just for a moment.
And behind the reflection, she sees Irlenne.
Smiling.
Not mocking.
Not scared.
Just whole.
---
The glass cracks beneath Elle's palm.
Silver bleeds down the window.
No one else notices.
But Elle turns.
And walks into the night.
---
There are more of her.
She can feel them now.
Waking up in other cities. Other dreams. Other names.
Mara didn't die.
She divided.
And every shard is hungry.
Some want revenge.
Some want love.
And some… want Irlenne back.
---
But Elle?
She wants to know who she was before wanting made her dangerous.
And whether redemption is possible for a reflection that never asked to be born.