THE BLACK MARK

Volume 1, Section 4 : Lysia

Volume 1, Section 4 : Lysia

In the mirror, that hand extended with a sinister grace, not as if to shatter the glass but to caress, with a perverse tenderness, some slumbering soul on the other side. Its fingertips were bone-white, nails sharp as blades, glowing with an eerie phosphorescence, like tendrils crawling from an abyss, probing the edges of reality.

Illya held his breath, his gaze locked on the tarnished old mirror. In the darkness, the mirror’s surface rippled like a pool of tainted liquid, unnatural waves spreading across it. The lingering heat from the shattered bulb coiled around the frame’s edges, and the air was thick with the acrid tang of scorched metal, as if the room were bound by an invisible current. Shadows writhed in the corners, whispering like living things, while faint *creaks* rose from beneath the floorboards, as if some decayed entity stirred in the dark. The room’s moldy stench grew heavier, laced with a sickly sweetness, like blood evaporating into the air.

Norhira stepped back, her movements light as a specter’s. She raised a hand, placing the obsidian cross before her chest, the pendant resting against her pale collarbone, trembling faintly as if echoing a heartbeat. Her firm breasts were faintly outlined beneath the oversized gray sweatshirt, their delicate curves casting a forbidden allure. The burn scar below her collarbone snaked downward, vanishing into the neckline, tracing a suffocating shadow. Her thighs, visible through the loose pants, were slender yet taut, muscles subtly defined, exuding a latent power, like a caged beast ready to break free.

She murmured a prayer buried deep in her memory, her voice like a chill wind over a graveyard: “*Dominus, si audi me, claude speculum. Non per me, sed pro eo.*” — “Lord, if you hear me, seal this mirror. Not for me, but for him.”

The mirror shuddered, ripples spreading like waves. The emerging hand froze, its fingertips halted against the glass’s inner surface, as if bound by unseen chains. Illya swallowed a breath of icy air, his heart pounding. He could feel a malevolent presence staring through the mirror—not at Norhira, but at him. Its gaze was a needle, piercing his soul with a sickening intimacy, as if appraising a long-lost treasure.

“She’s marked you,” Norhira’s voice rasped in his ear, heavy with mournful finality, as if grieving his fate. “You’re no longer a bystander, Illya. You’re the new vessel.”

“Why doesn’t she come directly?” Illya’s voice was low, his Adam’s apple bobbing as sweat slid from his temple, soaking into the collar of his black T-shirt. The shirt clung to his broad chest, muscles faintly visible in the dim light, radiating restrained power. His thighs, taut beneath tight jeans, were long and powerful, poised as if ready to lunge at prey or flee an abyss.

“Because she needs the part of you that ‘sees’ her as a conduit,” Norhira said, stepping closer, her breath cold and heavy, her voice a whisper. “The mirror is her language. The more you recall her, the more you forge a door for her.” Her body was nearly pressed against his, the sleeve of her sweatshirt slipping to reveal a gaunt arm, veins faintly visible beneath her pale skin. Her thighs, subtly outlined by the loose pants, were lean yet firm, muscles coiled with explosive strength, like a trapped predator poised to escape.

Illya closed his eyes, trying to block out the face forming in the mirror—a face he hadn’t fully seen but glimpsed in the cracks of childhood memory. A “kindly neighbor aunt,” someone who taught him prayers while planting the “Seal of Silence” in his soul… A wave of pain crashed through his skull, as if someone tore a forgotten canvas from the depths of his mind. He staggered back, gripping the bookshelf, his body trembling. Sweat soaked his back, his shirt clinging to his spine, outlining his solid back muscles, a sculpture compressed by darkness.

Norhira stepped closer, standing at his side, her hand resting gently on his shoulder. Her palm was cold as frost, yet it carried a strange stability, as if forming a spiritual barrier against the encroaching malice. She was so close that Illya could smell her ancient scent—damp wood, the chill of obsidian, the char of ash, mingled with the faint, unique musk of her skin. It held no artificial sweetness, yet it exuded a primal intimacy that stirred an instinctive urge to draw nearer, a call from the depths of the soul.

“Your head’s spinning, isn’t it?” she whispered near his ear, her voice low and supple, her breath grazing his neck, sending a shiver through him. He nodded, his throat too dry for words.

“It’s the ‘Echo of Reflection’ taking hold,” she said, her hand sliding to his cheek, her palm covering his face, her thumb brushing his temple with a touch as gentle as if soothing a wounded beast. “She’s using the images you’ve seen of her to fold back into your mind.”

“How do you know this?” Illya’s voice was hoarse, his gaze locked on her face. Her features were stark in the dimness—straight nose, razor-sharp cheekbones, high brow, thin lips pressed tight, forged in the fires of hell. Her eyes were abyssal, lashes casting long shadows, concealing untold wounds.

She turned his face gently toward her, her gaze iron-hard, her voice a low curse: “Because I, too, was folded by her. I… loved her.”

Illya froze. The word “love” detonated like a bomb, fracturing the dark narrative. He’d never imagined Norhira would utter it, let alone for Lysia. Her voice trembled, but her eyes were unyielding, blazing with defiant resolve.

“You don’t understand,” she said softly, her chest rising slightly, the faint outline of her breasts clearer beneath the sweatshirt, their delicate allure laced with taboo. “She doesn’t control us with fear. She uses—desire.”

“Desire to be seen. To be needed. To be the ‘only’ name in the dark.” Her fingers brushed the scar on her neck, trembling faintly, as if touching a forbidden memory. Her collarbone peeked from the oversized sweatshirt, the burn scar snaking from her throat to her chest, a dark river luring one to ruin.

In the mirror, the hand slowly withdrew. But before it vanished, five knuckles tapped the glass’s inner surface, leaving a trail of crimson marks—five bloodstains, aligned vertically, like an evil rune seeping across the surface, exuding a sickly-sweet rot.

“She left her mark,” Norhira murmured, her voice rising from an abyss. “She won’t descend tonight. She wants you to summon her.”

Illya stared at the floor. In the corner, scattered clippings fluttered in an eerie breeze—a case he’d investigated three years ago, a missing girl, the photo showing a woman in a maroon turtleneck, her smile gentle. Now, her face merged with the mirror’s silhouette, a ghost crawling from the depths of memory. His heart clenched, sweat sliding from his brow to the floor with a faint *tap*.

“She planted seeds in your childhood,” Norhira said slowly, her voice a blade. “She didn’t find you today. Since you were eight, she’s lingered at the edges of your memory… waiting for you to grow, waiting for you to open that USB.”

*Snap*—the desk lamp flared, its harsh light tearing through the darkness. The mirror was empty, the five bloodstains gone, not even a fingerprint remaining. But they both knew: she had been here.

Norhira released him, stepping back. The moment their skin parted, a profound emptiness rippled through the air—not the regret of broken intimacy, but the quiet severance of two crumbling souls after a fleeting union. She bent down, retrieving the obsidian cross and hanging it back around her neck. The pendant swayed against her collarbone, a faint echo of a heartbeat. Her chest rose subtly beneath the sweatshirt, its slender curves exuding a deadly charm, like a fallen angel risen from hell.

“You must decide now,” she said, her gaze cold as frost, her voice calm. “To keep recording, or to become a witness.”

Illya drew a deep breath. His shirt, soaked with night’s dampness and nervous sweat, clung to his back, outlining his broad shoulders and solid waist, muscles faintly visible, radiating restrained power. His thighs, taut in jeans, were long and strong, a warrior poised to break through the dark. A bead of sweat slid from his brow, tracing his angular cheek, glinting in the yellow light.

“I was just a journalist,” he said, his voice low, tinged with self-mockery.

“Not anymore,” Norhira replied, her tone final.

Their eyes met, the air falling silent, suffocatingly so. The distant rumble of the first morning bus echoed from the street, a cold world stirring awake. But in this room, the shadows of night lingered like ink, unyielding. The corners whispered, the floorboards’ *creaks* grew more frequent, as if some malevolent spirit gnashed its teeth in the dark.

“From now on,” Norhira said softly, her voice slicing the air like a blade, “prepare to face her. Next time, she won’t come through the mirror.”

“Then where?” Illya’s gaze was sharp, his throat dry.

Norhira’s eyes were icy blades, piercing his soul.

“From within you.”