The button glows brighter the instant your fingertip grazes its surface—you didn’t press it, not really, but it’s reacting before you’ve fully decided. A deep hum resonates from within the console, vibrating through your hand.
Every mirror ripples like mercury. Even the walls lose their solidity, turning into what can only be described as clay. You brace yourself as reflections begin stepping out from the liquid silver and into your shrinking private space—they're no longer confined to their frames but free to walk into your reality.
The first one approaches cautiously, its slick wire-like hair crackling with static. Its eyes are so dark the pupils are indistinguishable. It raises a hand to yours—the palm clammy and cold—and you feel a pulse of connection as it melts into your skin. Pain blooms sharply in your temples; memories of anguish not yours—as far as you know—are now inseparable. Another version follows, hand dripping a black ink-like substance from wounded palms. Your body abso…
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