You had been investigating the Redfield Asylum case for weeks. People claimed the mirrors showed things that weren’t there — reflections that moved out of sync, flickers of light with no source, whispers caught on tape.

You didn’t believe any of it. That was the whole point. You were here to prove it was all just faulty wiring, echoes, and suggestion.

The hallway was silent, cold. You stood in front of the east wing mirror, recorder running, flashlight in hand. Dust shimmered in the beam.

“There’s nothing to see,” you whispered to yourself.

“That’s why I came,” said a voice behind you.

Tom Buckley. Quiet, composed, leaning in the doorway like he belonged to the building.