Tyler woke with blood on his hands.
It was dried into the cracks of his knuckles, flaking against the sheets, smudged across his pillow like fingerprints from someone else. His breath caught, a tight vise closing around his ribs.
He scanned the room. His desk chair was overturned; papers scattered like a storm had passed through. The lamp lay on its side, bulb shattered. In the corner, his journal sat open again—more words written in the jagged hand that wasn't his.
This time it wasn't just a demand.
I AM HERE.
I AM STRONGER.
YOU ARE NOTHING WITHOUT ME.
Tyler's stomach lurched. He stumbled toward the bathroom, scrubbing his hands under scalding water, the sting grounding him but not washing away the shame. His reflection hovered in the steam-streaked glass, darker around the edges, features just slightly off—as though Tyler was the ghost, and it were the real one.
"Stop," Tyler croaked. "Stop using me."
The reflection tilted its head, lips curling.
No. We are using each other.
The voice wasn't a whisper anymore. It had grown teeth. Every word was a bite against Tyler's sanity.
---
That day, he barely left his room. Jackson knocked, checked in, asked if he wanted food. Tyler mumbled excuses, heart pounding every time he heard Jackson's voice.
The warmth of it was unbearable now. Dangerous. A reminder of everything he couldn't afford to hold onto. If Jackson saw what was happening—if he saw the cracks, the blood, the words—he'd leave. Worse, the thing inside Tyler might hurt him.
By evening, Tyler sat against his wall, knees pulled to his chest, staring at the cracked mirror. The fracture had spread, running down the glass like a scar.
The reflection smiled wider.
And for the first time, Tyler wasn't sure it was trapped anymore.