Chapter 10 — The Monster in Her Image
1090 Words
Camille didn’t sleep.
She couldn’t.
The face haunted her — not just because it resembled her, but because it wasn’t her.
It was older.
Sharper.
Eyes that had seen worse than betrayal and survived it.
Eyes that weren’t afraid to watch.
And now they were everywhere she turned.
---
The wax seal burned in her palm.
Serpent eating its own tail.
She knew the symbol.
Not just from the mirror.
But from her father’s journals.
The ones he used to scribble in when he thought she wasn’t looking.
He used to talk about “circles of control.”
Power in symmetry. Surveillance.
Justice by recursion.
“You only see the truth,” he once said, “when you stop pretending you aren’t the one who caused it.”
She thought he was mad.
Now she wasn’t so sure.
---
By 3 a.m., she had hacked the motel’s camera feed.
The woman — the one who looked like her — had never entered through the front.
She wasn’t on any tape.
She wasn’t real.
Or she was too real.
Camille packed up.
And made a decision.
She wasn’t going to run anymore.
She was going to find her.
And then?
She would end it.
---
She started with the bookstore.
The one below Julian’s studio.
Mrs. Thatcher still worked the counter. Sweet. Slightly nosy. Remembered Camille by name.
“Back for more of the classics?” the old woman asked.
Camille smiled. “Actually, I need to ask you something.”
“Of course, dear.”
“Have you seen anyone come or go from the upstairs loft? Not Julian. Someone else. A woman. Tall. Dark braid. Pale.”
Mrs. Thatcher hesitated.
Then nodded.
“She came in last week. Asked for old maps. Said she used to rent the loft years ago. I told her it wasn’t available anymore, that Julian—”
“Did she say her name?”
“No. But she left a card.”
Mrs. Thatcher fished in her drawer and handed Camille a business card.
Black.
Unmarked, except for one thing.
A symbol.
The serpent.
Again.
But on the back?
An address.
No name. Just a street Camille hadn’t seen in years.
She froze.
It was her father’s.
The house had been abandoned after the fire.
After the accident.
After everything burned except her.
---
The drive out was quiet.
Too quiet.
The roads were the same.
The trees just as gnarled.
The silence thicker.
By the time she pulled up to the old manor, her fingers trembled on the wheel.
It was still standing.
Barely.
The windows were cracked.
The porch sagging.
The paint peeled like skin.
But the front door?
Wide open.
As if it had been waiting.
---
She stepped inside.
The air was thick with dust and memory.
The walls whispered things she couldn’t unhear.
“Camille…”
She spun.
Nothing.
A trick.
Or a warning.
Either way, she moved forward.
Step by step.
Room by room.
Until she reached his study.
The books were still there.
The journals.
And on the desk—
A mirror.
Her mirror.
The one she’d broken.
But whole again.
And this time, when she looked into it—
She saw her.
The woman.
Standing behind her.
Smiling.
---
Camille turned.
The room was empty.
She stared at the glass.
Then saw the note tucked in the corner.
It read:
“Face me. Or become me.”
---
The back of the mirror held another card.
Another address.
This one led her to an abandoned train station in the city.
She went.
Because of course she did.
She’d already fallen too far to turn back now.
---
The station was hollow.
Dark.
The perfect place to be watched.
To vanish.
But Camille didn’t hesitate.
She walked straight through the rusted turnstiles.
Down the crumbling stairs.
To the platform below.
And there—
She saw her.
In the flesh.
The woman.
Not a reflection.
Not a ghost.
Not a figment.
But real.
Standing at the edge of the tracks.
Smiling.
“You came,” the woman said.
Camille didn’t flinch. “Who are you?”
“You know who I am.”
“No, I don’t.”
“You will.”
Camille stepped forward.
The woman didn’t move.
“You’ve been watching me,” Camille said.
“Yes.”
“You planted the camera.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The woman tilted her head.
“Because I needed you to see.”
“See what?”
“Yourself.”
Camille’s heart thudded.
“This isn’t a game.”
“It never was.”
“Then what is it?”
The woman’s smile dropped.
“It’s your legacy.”
---
A train screeched past.
Wind rushed through the tunnel.
And when it cleared—
The woman was gone.
---
Camille stood there for minutes.
Maybe hours.
Staring at the tracks.
At nothing.
And in her chest?
A storm.
She didn’t know what game this was anymore.
But she knew how to play it.
By her own rules.
---
She called Archer first.
No answer.
Then Julian.
Voicemail.
She texted Damien: “I need the full file. Tonight. No more lies.”
He replied two words:
“Come alone.”
---
He chose the rooftop of the old Bell Tower on 7th.
Because of course he did.
Dramatic bastard.
Camille arrived at midnight.
Damien was already there, coat whipping in the wind, file in hand.
He handed it to her without a word.
She opened it.
Photos.
Documents.
Notes.
And on the last page?
A picture.
Of her.
And the woman.
Side by side.
Identical.
Except for the eyes.
Her mouth went dry.
“This isn’t possible.”
“It is,” Damien said softly.
“That’s not me.”
“No. It’s who you become.”
She looked at him. “What?”
“Project Seraphim. It was an experiment. Started by your father.”
“No.”
“You were the prototype.”
“Stop—”
“She was the final model. You… and her… are the same.”
Camille dropped the file.
Stepped back.
“No.”
“She’s not watching you, Camille. She’s protecting you.”
“From what?”
“From the truth.”
He stepped closer.
Lowered his voice.
“You’re not the victim.”
His hand brushed her cheek.
“You’re the reason this started.”
And with that—
He turned and walked away.
Leaving her with the wind.
The file.
And a truth she never asked for.
- Writer
