She stepped into a world of reflections.
Not a room.
Not a hall.
Not a building.
A **labyrinth of mirrors**, stretching into infinite regression — each glass reflecting another, and another, and another, until reality fractured into endless repetitions of the same impossible space.
The air was cold, not with winter, but with *absence* — as if warmth, breath, life itself had been leeched from the air long ago. The floor was black glass, smooth as frozen ink, reflecting not her feet, but *shadows* that moved a heartbeat behind her.
Above, no ceiling — only a sky of shattered mirrors, suspended in void, each one showing a different moment:
- A woman painting with blood.
- A poet writing with a pen of bone.
- A musician playing a violin made of hair.
- And always, in the corner of each reflection —
— a dancer in red.
Aya.
But not her.
*Her*.
The one who had already forgotten.
She turned.
And there he stood.
**Ren**.
Not emerging from a mirror.
Not stepping from shadows.
Simply *there* — as if he had always been watching.
He wore the black kimono lined with red, the fabric rippling like liquid shadow. His face was beautiful, but wrong — like a Noh mask carved from living skin. His eyes were storm-gray, depthless, filled with centuries of silence.
He did not smile.
He did not bow.
He only said:
> "You're late."
Aya's breath fogged in the cold.
The red kimono clung to her, tighter than ever — not constricting.
*Celebrating*.
"I came," she said.
"But not to stay."
Ren tilted his head.
A gesture too precise.
Too inhuman.
"You already have," he said.
"You've been here since the first note.
Since the first step.
Since the first memory you lost."
He stepped forward.
Not on the glass.
*On* it — as if gravity obeyed him.
"You don't belong to the world of breath and blood," he said.
"You belong to the world of *perfection*.
Of stillness.
Of eternal motion."
He reached out.
Traced a finger down her cheek.
It was cold.
Not like skin.
Like polished stone.
"You're becoming beautiful," he whispered.
"Not in the way mortals mean it.
Not in the way they *see* it.
But in the way art should be —
untouched.
unbroken.
*unforgotten*."
Aya stepped back.
"I don't want to be art," she said.
"I want to be *remembered*."
Ren's expression didn't change.
But the mirrors *shivered*.
"Memory is decay," he said.
"It fades.
It lies.
It dies.
But *this* —"
He swept his arm across the infinite hall —
"— this is forever.
No one will ever forget you here.
Because here, forgetting is impossible.
There is no time.
No change.
Only the dance."
From the edges of the labyrinth —
— movement.
Figures emerged from the mirrors.
Twelve of them.
All dancers.
All in kimonos of deep red.
But their faces…
*Blank*.
No eyes.
No mouths.
No features.
Just smooth, pale skin — like masks carved from wax.
They moved in perfect unison, arms arcing, feet gliding, spinning in silence.
The **Twelve Crimson Dancers**.
The ones who came before.
The ones who forgot.
The ones who *became* the dance.
Aya's breath caught.
One of them turned toward her.
Slowly, it raised a hand — not to attack.
Not to beckon.
To *mirror* her.
And as it did, Aya felt it —
a pull in her chest.
A *hollowing*.
Like something inside her was being *copied*.
Ren watched.
"They were like you," he said.
"Desperate.
Talented.
*Hungry* for meaning."
He stepped beside her.
"But meaning fades.
Fame dies.
Love decays."
His voice softened.
"Only beauty remains.
And I gave it to them."
Aya looked at the dancers.
At their empty faces.
At their endless, flawless motion.
And for a heartbeat —
— she *envied* them.
No pain.
No loss.
No fear.
Just the dance.
Just the art.
Just *eternity*.
The red kimono *purred* against her skin.
The counter-thread in her stomach burned — a tiny ember in the dark.
She closed her eyes.
And saw:
> *Kaito's smile.*
> *Haru's laughter.*
> *Yumi pressing a flower into her palm.*
> *Her grandmother's voice: "Dance for the unseen."*
She opened her eyes.
And whispered:
> "I don't want your eternity."
Ren didn't move.
But the entire theater *stilled*.
The Twelve Dancers froze mid-motion.
The mirrors stopped breathing.
Even the air seemed to hold its breath.
Then —
Ren smiled.
Not in anger.
In *sorrow*.
"You already have it," he said.
"You just don't know it yet."
He turned.
Gestured to a stage in the center of the labyrinth —
a circle of black glass, floating in the void, surrounded by rings of fire that cast no heat.
"The first dance was a gift," he said.
"The second was a test."
"This one… is a *choice*."
He stepped onto the stage.
"Dance with me," he said.
"Not as a mortal.
Not as a victim.
But as my equal."
He extended his hand.
"Dance with the devil in a red kimono."
Aya looked at the stage.
At the fire.
At the man who was once a dancer, like her.
She stepped forward.
Not to flee.
Not to fight.
But to *understand*.
Because she knew now —
this was not just a battle of wills.
It was a **duel of souls**.
And the only way to break the chain…
was to dance to the end.
She stepped onto the stage.
The fire rose.
The mirrors sang.
And the first note began —
not from an instrument,
but from the *silence between heartbeats*.
Ren smiled.
And they began to dance.