Chapter Sixteen: The Shattered Mirror
"When you stare into the mirror for too long,
you may not see yourself…
but what has been watching you all along."
— Edgar Wilmore
Edgar chose the place carefully.
An old abandoned theater near the Thames.
Rotting wood.
Empty seats.
And a stage that still carried the scent of long-forgotten applause.
Here, people once played roles that weren't truly theirs…
the perfect place to meet an imitator.
He sat in the front row,
placed his hat beside him,
and waited.
At the same time,
Eliza turned the cryptic message over in her hands.
"Don't trust him."
She didn't know—
Did it mean Edgar?
The imitator?
Or both?
One thing was clear:
This night would not end quietly.
She put on her coat
and followed her instinct… not her reason.
No one entered through the door.
The voice came from behind:
"You chose a theater…
because you love an audience, don't you?"
Edgar didn't turn around.
"I chose it because whoever stands on the stage
cannot see himself…
unless the mirror is broken."
A short, tense laugh.
"You talk as if you're different."
Edgar replied with lethal calm:
"I know why I do what I do.
Do you?"
The man stepped out of the shadows.
Not a stranger.
But terrifyingly familiar.
His voice.
His tone.
Even the way he stood.
He said:
"I learned from you."
Edgar finally looked at him.
"No.
You read me…
and didn't understand me."
The imitator stepped closer.
"You turned killing into art.
I only… made it easier."
And then,
Edgar realized the horrifying truth:
This man isn't searching for meaning…
he's searching for permission.
Edgar asked:
"Why now?"
The answer came quickly:
"Because you stopped."
Silence.
"When you went quiet…
I felt the idea was about to die."
Edgar laughed bitterly.
"Ideas don't die…
they get infected."
Then he added:
"And you are the disease."
Eliza stood behind one of the pillars.
She saw the man.
She heard everything.
And the shock?
His face was familiar.
Not from a crime scene…
but from the margins.
A person who appeared once or twice.
Unimportant.
Unnoticed.
Always there…
without ever being seen.
A chill ran through her—the chill of a journalist realizing she had ignored the clearest clue.
The imitator suddenly said:
"Do you want me to prove I'm like you?"
He pulled out a knife.
But Edgar didn't move.
"If you do…
you'll be nothing.
Just a shadow."
The man hesitated.
One second.
That was enough.
Slow applause echoed.
From behind.
"Excellent performance…
but the ending is incomplete."
Howard.
Weapon raised.
Eyes steady.
Everyone froze.