Ty raged. He clawed his arms bloody. He screamed until his voice collapsed.
But the reflection never wavered.
It watched him with calm, infuriating patience. It smiled softly when Ty wept into his sheets. It studied him like one might study a storm—dangerous, yes, but temporary.
The staff began calling it progress. "He's changing," they said.
Ty knew the truth. He wasn't changing. He was dying. Piece by piece.
The other boy was stealing him.
One night, Ty leaned into the glass, breath fogging the surface. "Get out of my head," he snarled.
The reflection only smiled.
And Ty—Ty screamed, not in rage, but in terror.