The hum of the machine echoes louder now, but the sound is so familiar I barely notice it anymore. The lights flicker around me, casting jagged shadows against the walls—like memories I can’t quite grasp, slipping through the cracks of my mind. I stand here, holding the vial, its contents swirling like a storm trapped behind glass. There’s something about it, something I should know. But I don’t.
Not yet.
I glance at the mirror across the room, half-covered in dust, its surface cracked down the center. My reflection stares back, slightly off. It’s me, but not me. A jagged distortion where my face should be whole. I don’t remember when the crack appeared, but I’m certain it wasn’t always there.
The hum rises, vibrating through the floor beneath my feet. I tighten my grip on the vial, feeling the cold glass bite into my palm. I have no idea how long I’ve been standing here, waiting—waiting for what, I can’t say. Maybe for the machine to stop. Maybe for the fracture in the mirror to close.
But neither happens.
Instead, a memory creeps into my mind, or what I think is a memory. It’s fractured, like everything else now. But I can see it—the polished floors, the dim lighting, the cold, sterile air of the Council chambers. I’m standing in the center, among the others, their faces impassive, cloaked in shadows.
“The experiment is progressing,” one of them says, voice devoid of emotion, like they’ve drained it out of themselves. “We’ll begin with Fear. It’s the easiest to control. The others—love, joy—those will take time to erase.”
Erase. That word sends a chill through me. But I remain silent. That’s how we were trained—silent, complicit. Never question, only obey.
My eyes drift to the mirror hanging on the far wall, gleaming under the chamber lights. It’s flawless, reflecting the cold room with precise clarity. But then I notice something. A crack. Tiny at first, almost invisible, but there. It runs across the surface, jagged and unhealed.
The crack shouldn’t be there. I blink, but it doesn’t disappear.
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The memory slips away, back into the fog, leaving me stranded in the present. I’m still holding the vial, my knuckles white around it. I glance again at the mirror, at the crack that’s no longer just in my memory but here, in front of me, right now. Has it always been there, or is this new?
The line between past and present blurs. Between what I know and what I can’t trust.
“Was that even real?” I mutter, barely aware of my own voice. The vial hums in my hand, its contents shifting restlessly.
Behind me, the door creaks open. Footsteps. Slow, deliberate. I don’t turn yet. Whoever it is, I already know they’ve been waiting, too. Waiting for this moment.
Who sent them? The Council? The rebels?
I take a breath, feeling the weight of the air pressing down on me, heavy with something I can’t name. The footsteps draw closer. I glance one last time at the mirror, at the distorted reflection staring back at me, and wonder if I’ll ever know the truth.
The footsteps stop just behind me, and I turn to face the figure stepping out of the shadows.
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Classified Document: Council Directive 431-2
Subject: Emotional Suppression Protocol—Progress Report
Summary: Testing on Subject 431 has yielded preliminary results. Introduction of non-catalogued emotions has caused unexpected reactions. Subject exhibits signs of memory fracture, identity dissociation, and emotional instability. Further monitoring required.
Current Stage: Fear fully operational. Additional emotions under development.
Classification: Restricted. Access limited to Level 5 clearance.
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The figure steps into the dim light, their face still half-shrouded in shadow. For a moment, I can’t tell if I’m looking at a stranger or a ghost, someone from a time I barely remember. My grip tightens on the vial again, the glass slick with sweat.
The figure speaks, voice low, almost familiar.
“It’s time, Aren.”
That name, my name, feels foreign now, like something out of someone else’s mouth, someone else’s life. I don’t move. I’m not sure if I can trust this person, or even myself.
“Time for what?” I ask, though I’m not certain I want the answer.
The figure takes another step forward, and the shadows seem to shift around them. I can’t see their face, but I can feel their eyes on me, watching, waiting.
“To remember,” they say softly, almost like a command. “You need to remember.”
Remember. The word echoes in my mind, clashing against the fracture. But I’m not sure I want to remember. I’m not sure I’m ready for what I’ll find.
The vial hums again in my hand, and this time, I feel something shift inside me. A ripple, subtle but undeniable, like the first crack in a dam before the flood. I glance at the mirror one last time, at the fracture that now seems larger, spreading like a spider’s web across the glass.
What happens when it breaks?
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