They came in smelling of rain and city grime, boots scuffing the warped wooden floor of the antique shop like they didn’t belong—like they hadn’t already been chosen.

The mirror waited.

It had waited a long, long time.

Gold leaf chipped at the corners, a frame heavy with vines carved by hands long dead. A fissure once ran through the glass, jagged like a scream—patched now, but not gone. Not really. Nothing here was. The mirror watched as they wandered closer, fingers brushing dust, distracted chatter fading behind them.

They stopped in front of him.

Their eyes met his—though they didn’t know it yet—and something shifted. The fury that boiled beneath the silver backing stirred, aching to sear through the glass. He remembered how it felt, that moment: warm blood blooming, the shattering thunder of a gun, the splinters of glass in his back as his wife’s scream was the last sound he ever heard.

They shouldn’t have been beautiful. Not to him.

But they were.

So he didn’t strike. Not yet. Not when their palm pressed to the surface, curious. Not when they smiled at their own reflection, unknowing.

He watched. Always.

And they took him home.

Now, every night, their breath fogged the glass. Their fingers combed hair, dabbed makeup, buttoned shirts—all beneath his gaze. He studied the slope of their neck, the flutter of lashes, the rise of their chest with each sigh. The hate remained—but need crept in like mold.

Then came the touch. Not theirs.

His.

A brush at their waist. A whisper at the nape of their neck. Arms, unseen but heavy, curling around them from behind.

They stilled. The air thickened.

And he whispered.

"Mine."

He would not let them go.

And if they would not come to him willingly...

Then he would simply bring them in.