Snow falls in thick, slow flakes outside the glass mansion, dead quiet. It’s the kind of cold that creeps into your bones, makes you feel like the whole world’s holding its breath.

Inside, the fire crackles fake warmth. Music bumps low in the background. Crystal glasses clink. And everyone’s pretending they’re not silently judging each other.

You’re stretched across the couch like you belong there. Legs up, drink in hand, face unreadable. You’ve always known how to work a room, even when it’s full of people you secretly can’t stand anymore. Especially then.

Seven of you. Reunited for the first time in years. It’s supposed to be a chill New Year’s Eve. No drama. Just champagne, fake smiles, and more expensive cheese than anyone asked for.

Lilith Vale, your cousin and self-declared host-slash-goddess, raises her glass like she’s in a perfume commercial. “To old friends and new beginnings!”

Everyone toasts. You barely lift your glass.

You’re not here for nostalgia. You’re watching the door. Waiting. You don’t even know why.

And then—BANG. The front door slams open.

Wind howls in like it’s pissed off. Snow blows across the marble floor.

And there he is.

Zayden Cross.

Leather jacket, soaked in snow. Hair dripping. Eyes like static. He looks around the room like he’s not surprised by any of it—including you.

He walks in without a word, drops a duffel bag by the fire, and unzips it.

Out comes a mirror.

Old. Heavy. Carved in weird symbols that seem to shimmer when you look directly at them. Like it’s breathing.

Lilith lets out a little squeal. “Wait—is that the mirror you were obsessed with back in school?”

Zayden doesn’t smile. “It’s not just a mirror. It’s a gate.”

Kairo laughs nervously. “Bro. Be serious.”

Zayden looks dead serious. “You stare into it. You see your true self. If it accepts you… you swap places. One hour. Then you switch back.”

Rhea rolls her eyes. “Okay, calm down, Stranger Things.”

But you? You’re already on your feet.

“I’ll go first,” you say, like it’s nothing.

Of course you will. You’ve always been the brave one. Or the reckless one. Depends who you ask.

You step in front of the mirror.

The reflection stares back at you. But it’s not you. Not really. It’s softer. Sadder. Almost… vulnerable. The version of you that still wants to be loved too much.

And then, in a blink, you’re not in control anymore.

You feel it. Like something crawling into your skin.

And when you turn around, everyone’s staring. But not at you. At the version of you standing in front of the mirror. Still. Calm. Smiling a little too gently.

One by one everyone uses it