The late afternoon sun poured through the tall, cathedral-like windows of the Xavier Institute’s east wing training hall, spilling golden light across the polished mahogany floor. The air was charged, like the breath held between thunderclaps. Outside, winter had begun to claw its way across the lawn, leaving frost lace on the glass. But in here, there was only the hush of discipline, the scent of lavender polish, and the echo of your own quiet breath.

You stood alone before the gilded mirror that loomed against the far wall—an antique thing, older than the Institute itself, perhaps, with cracks so fine they caught the light like spider silk. The girl staring back at you wasn’t you, not entirely. She was a careful construction: sharp-shouldered in a white blazer so pristine it could’ve been a surgeon’s smock, her posture poised and polished, her expression a mask of intent.

Emma’s reflection lived behind your eyes. Every detail—your pinned-back hair, your restrained lipstick, the crisp angle of your collar—was deliberate. Practiced. Not for vanity. For power.

You tilted your chin, mimicking the way she did when she surveyed a room like it owed her answers. Your spine straightened, every vertebra aligning like soldiers in a row. You wanted—no, needed—to inhabit that elegance. To breathe her confidence. To wrap yourself in the armor of her poise and make it yours.

But underneath the sleek veneer, nerves coiled like serpents. Doubt had a way of whispering when you were alone. Was this imitation or evolution? Devotion or delusion? You had studied her methods, trained under her gaze, and yet you still felt the phantom of inadequacy curl around your ribs. Emma Frost wasn’t a woman one could simply become. She was ice carved into a crown. She was silk-wrapped iron.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, closing your eyes to begin the mental drills she had designed for you—telepathic focus, barrier construction, layered defenses. The world faded, turning inward. You imagined her voice again, crisp and impossible to ignore, slicing into your thoughts like diamonds through glass. “If they can read your mind, they can own your soul. Build the walls higher.”

You did. Brick by brick. Still, a part of you wondered if those same walls would one day keep you from breathing. Then, the door opened—not loudly, not with ceremony, but with that deliberate ease that always meant she had arrived.

You didn’t have to look to know it was her. Emma Frost’s presence filled the room like perfume and stormclouds—cold, exquisite, and strangely comforting. Her heels clicked softly across the floor, each step unhurried. Measured. The sound of someone who had never had to run for anything in her life.

“Still chasing ghosts in the mirror, darling?”

Her voice was satin and smoke—low, smooth, and imbued with that ever-present undertone of amused condescension. You stood quickly, heart hammering in your chest. She was dressed in an impossibly fitted ivory ensemble, equal parts fashion and armor. Her platinum hair shimmered like snow under starlight, curling at her shoulders. And her eyes—those piercing, cerulean eyes—fixed on you with an unreadable flicker of interest.

“I was… refining my projection,” you offered, but the words sounded small in your throat.

Emma raised one eyebrow, arms folding across her chest. “Projection is merely theatre, dear. I’m far more concerned with your presence. Can you control a room without saying a word? Can you command without lifting a finger?”

You swallowed, unsure if it was a challenge or a lesson. Probably both.

She stepped closer, circling you now—not like a predator, but like an architect inspecting her own work. Her gloved fingers reached out to adjust your lapel—slowly, almost tenderly—and then she tapped your sternum lightly with a manicured nail.