The rain hadn’t stopped in seven days. Seven bodies. Seven crime scenes. No forced entry, no wounds—just the same frozen expression of terror on each victim’s face. Detective Elias Crowe stood over the latest one, cigarette smoke curling between his fingers, his head pounding with a familiar migraine. Claire Voss exhaled beside him. “Same message,” she muttered, pointing to the wall. "REMEMBER WHO YOU ARE." Smeared in blood. Crowe’s stomach twisted. That message had appeared at every scene. It clawed at something buried deep in his mind. His gaze drifted to the nightstand. A Polaroid. His breath hitched. The victim stood in this very room, but she wasn’t alone. A shadowed figure loomed behind her. A man. His face was blurred. Crowe reached out—but pain exploded through his skull.
The room flickered. A film skipping frames. Voices whispered in the back of his mind. "How many times have we had this conversation, Elias?" A mirror. Cracked and waiting. His fingers closed around the Polaroid—but when he looked down, he wasn’t holding a photo. He was holding his badge. His pulse spiked. “Voss,” he rasped, turning to her. “I just—” But Voss was staring at his hands. And then—she reached for her gun. “Elias,” she said carefully, “put it down.”
Something was wrong.
The whispering grew louder. A sickening déjà vu crawled under his skin. The room rippled, like the world itself was rejecting him. Then—his gaze landed on the mirror. His reflection wasn’t mirroring him. It was watching him.
And then, slowly, it smiled.
Nausea rolled through him. His head throbbed. His heartbeat thundered. Seven bodies. Seven dreams. The memories slammed into him like a freight train. This wasn’t an investigation. It was a cycle. The first victim—he had been here before. The second. The third. The seventh. Every time, the same room. The same message. The same mirror. His breath came in short, sharp bursts.
"Wake up, Elias."
Voss took a slow step back. “Elias,” she said, voice tight. “Put your gun down.”
Gun?
He looked down.
His hand was wrapped around his pistol.
Voss’s expression was no longer cautious. It was sad. “You’ve done this before,” she whispered. “You just don’t remember.”
The world collapsed.
And then—
He opened his eyes.
Not in a hospital. Not in a bed.
In a chair.
Dim fluorescent lights hummed overhead. A cold, metal desk. A clipboard resting in his lap.
A nameplate sat in front of him.
DR. NATHANIEL KERR.
His own breath hitched in his throat.
His fingers curled.
A voice across from him: “You’re awake.”
Crowe—no, Kerr—looked up.
A man sat strapped to the bed across from him. Wild-eyed. Mouth slightly open in terror.
It was Elias Crowe.
No.
No, this wasn’t right.
Crowe tried to stand, but he couldn’t move. His body wasn’t his. His own voice betrayed him:
"You almost broke through that time," he heard himself say. "Impressive."
His fingers twitched. The whispering was back.
"You're not the first Elias."
Kerr’s—no, Crowe’s—body moved without his command.
A mirror sat on the desk.
His breath hitched.
His reflection was already smiling.
But this time, there were others behind it.
Dozens of them. Shifting, overlapping. Some were screaming. Some were laughing. Some—were dead.
And then—
They all turned to look at him.
The lights flickered. The world blurred.
And this time—
Something was watching from the other side.
The glass cracked.
A hand pressed against the mirror.
"Your turn now."
And then—
The cycle began again.
