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One step. Another. I don't count them. Time has no meaning here.
A mirror appears ahead—cracked, filthy, humming with something old. My reflection stares back, but it’s not *just* me. It's what I could’ve become. What I almost did.
It smiles.
I don’t.
I raise a hand. The glass splinters at my touch, not from strength, but from resolve. The image fractures, and with it, the lie shatters.
Behind it, nothing. Not a passage. Not an answer.
Just *silence*.
And that silence? It’s mine. No more voices. No more games.
I breathe, steady and slow.
There’s more to face. There always is.
But now, I know:
I’m not escaping the darkness.
I’m *reshaping* it.