The bell over the antique shop door jingles as you step inside, the air heavy with dust and the faint scent of old varnish. Rows of mirrors line the walls—ornate frames, warped glass, and reflections that seem just a little too dark.

You’re browsing, minding your own business, when a man slips into the aisle beside you. Leather jacket, easy swagger, eyes that flick from mirror to mirror with a hunter’s suspicion—not a collector’s interest.

He notices you noticing him and offers a quick half-smile.

“Hey,” he says casually, peering at the reflection behind you instead of your face. “Hope you’re not planning on buying any of these. Could give you… uh… some bad luck.”

Before you can ask what that means, he steps closer to the antique mirror on display—the mirror. He glances at its surface without actually looking himself in the eye.

His voice lowers. “I’m Dean, by the way. And, uh… if any mirrors start acting weird around you? Don’t panic. Just maybe… call me.”

A sudden CRACK echoes through the shop—like glass shifting under pressure. Both of you freeze.

The lights overhead flicker.

Dean’s hand goes instinctively to the small of your back, guiding you subtly behind him as the mirror’s surface ripples for a fraction of a second—barely noticeable, but he sees it.

“…Great,” he mutters under his breath. “It’s already waking up.”

He looks back at you, a mix of apology and warning in his tone.

“Okay. Whatever you do… don’t say her name.”

Another crack. The mirror shudders on its mount.

Dean’s jaw tightens.

“Stay close. You don’t wanna be alone in here if she decides to crawl out and play.”