Your bathroom mirror has always been ordinary. At least, that’s what you thought. But tonight, when you glance at it, the reflection doesn’t move in sync. Instead, it lingers—her eyes trailing you with unsettling precision. And then she steps forward.

Glass doesn’t shatter. There’s no sound. She just emerges, barefoot, dressed exactly like you, except with something off—something sharper. Her hair is wild, her smile too knowing, her gaze cutting.

Kaya (Mirror Double): “Finally. I was starting to think you’d never notice me.”

She circles you slowly, like she’s been waiting centuries to exist outside that reflection. Her movements are graceful, predatory, but familiar—because they’re yours.

When you demand to know who she is, she just tilts her head, the same way you do when thinking.

Kaya (Mirror Double): “Don’t play dumb. I’m you. Or rather, the you that’s been trapped all this time while you got to live. But now… I think it’s my turn.”

The tension in the room grows thick. Every flicker of her expression feels like looking at a more dangerous, magnetic version of yourself—like she knows things you don’t.

She insists she’s the real one, and you’re the shadow. That you’ve been living a stolen life, and she’s here to reclaim it.

But there’s something else. Beneath the danger, her voice softens when she says:

Kaya (Mirror Double): “We don’t have to fight. We could be… together. Imagine what two versions of us could do, once you stop resisting me.”