The moment the system rebooted, everything changed.
The school lights flickered twice, humming back to life with a sharp buzz. Hallways lit up like nothing had happened. Doors unlocked. Computers restarted. Security cameras blinked red, then green.
Harper stood frozen in front of the admin console, her fingers still hovering above the keyboard. The file she'd decrypted–the real student registry–vanished right before her eyes. Just blinked out like it never existed.
Her heart sank.
"No," she whispered. "No, no, no—come back."
Behind her, Jamie was pacing.
"I told you something would fight back," he muttered. "You triggered something."
Then came the alarms.
But not the piercing shriek of fire drills.
These alarms were deeper. Lower.
Wrong.
The speakers crackled with static before a voice echoed through them—except it wasn't the principal or a recording.
It was Harper's voice.
Only… not hers.
"You weren't supposed to open that, Harper."
"You weren't supposed to come back."
"We tried to let you go."
Jamie stepped back, visibly shaken.
"Tell me that's not you," he whispered.
Harper didn't answer. She couldn't.
Because the voice—her voice—was now laughing.
The fire exit sign above the West Wing flickered violently. Harper and Jamie rushed toward it, but halfway down the hallway, they noticed something chilling.
The door to Room 13A was wide open.
And it hadn't been there minutes ago.
Jamie stopped. "Nope. We're not going back in there."
But Harper was already walking.
Inside, the room was… different.
Cleaner. Brighter. No whispering. No symbols. Just a small, neat dorm room with perfectly made beds, a small desk, and
–A mirror.
Framed in gold. Standing tall against the back wall.
And in the mirror? Harper saw herself.
But this time, it wasn't copying her.
It stood still as she stepped forward.
Its head tilted in the opposite direction.
And its eyes… they were all wrong.
"You're not me," Harper said softly.
The mirror Harper smiled. "Not anymore."
Harper raised her sleeve instinctively, revealing the faint scar on her forearm—the one from her fall last year. The one that reminded her she was real.
But the reflection? No scar.
And in that moment, something clicked.
Jamie whispered from behind her, "That's not a reflection. That's Katherine."
"No," Harper said. "That's what they wanted Katherine to become."
The mirror version began to move forward, pressing its palm against the glass.
Harper backed away.
Then, from the desk drawer, she pulled out something—an old photograph. It was her and Jamie. Both smiling. Faces clear. A real memory.
She shoved it toward the mirror.
The glass cracked. Just a hairline.
But it was enough.
The room trembled.
The alarms stopped.
And then, Harper turned to Jamie, clutching the photo.
"We have proof now," she said. "We're not crazy. We remember."
Jamie stared at the crack spreading across the mirror.
"But how long before they try to make us forget again?"