The fluorescent lights above the sinks buzzed once—sharply—then steadied, but the sound felt wrong, like static crawling under Isla’s skin. She pressed her back harder against the tiled wall, palms flat, nails digging into the grout lines as if she could claw her way through to the other side of reality.
The mirror rippled again.
Not like water this time. Like something breathing against the glass from the inside.
Isla’s reflection—no longer quite her—tilted its head, the movement too fluid, too slow. The pink smoothie still streaked down its cheeks, but in the mirror it looked darker, thicker, almost like blood that refused to dry. The mascara tracks were perfect black rivers, framing eyes that were too large, too dark, too knowing.
“Let me out,” the reflection whispered.
Its voice w
