He turned to leave, his voice low. "Be careful, Miss Emily. This city doesn't forgive those who pretend to be ordinary."
When the door closed behind him, Emily let out a slow breath.
Outside, in the distance, thunder rolled across the horizon.
And somewhere in the school's old west wing — beneath layers of forgotten dust — a mirror cracked by itself.
The sky outside was a tapestry of silver and ink. Clouds drifted lazily across the moon, and the campus lay half-asleep under its pale glow.
Emily sat by the window of her dorm room, notebook open, untouched. The rhythmic ticking of the wall clock filled the quiet, blending with the faint hum that had begun again beneath her bracelet.
She could feel it — a presence just beyond sight, pressing against the edges of reality. Not close enough to strike, but close enough to watch.
Her phone buzzed. A new message blinked across the screen:
> Clara: You're being too distant, sister. People are starting to notice.
It doesn't look good for the family.
Emily's lips curved into a faint smile. "Of course," she murmured, slipping the phone aside. Clara always knew how to sound caring while twisting the knife.
---
The next morning arrived crisp and bright, but the whispers in the hall were darker than ever.
> "Did you hear? Emily was seen talking to Perry Lang last night."
"Really? I thought he only met with Clara."
"Maybe she's trying to get attention."
Clara's voice carried clearly through the chatter. "Please don't spread rumors," she said sweetly, but the faint curve of her mouth told a different story. "Emily isn't that kind of person."
The room tittered with quiet laughter.
Emily walked past them without slowing, her gaze serene, her aura untouchable. She'd learned long ago that silence could cut deeper than anger.
---
By evening, the corridors had emptied. Only the soft hum of the cleaning lights remained.
Emily returned to her locker, the sound of her footsteps echoing against the marble floor. When she opened it, a folded piece of paper fluttered out — no signature, only four words written in precise ink:
> Don't look in mirrors.
A chill ran through her fingers.
Before she could react, the lights above flickered. The air thickened. From the end of the corridor came a faint, scraping sound — metal against tile, slow and deliberate.
Emily turned, her movements smooth, unhurried.
A figure stepped out of the shadows — tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a black hoodie. She caught the glint of something sharp in his hand.
"Are you lost?" she asked softly.
He didn't answer. The knife gleamed once, then lunged forward.
Her body moved before thought. A twist, a shift of balance — his arm bent sharply at the elbow, the weapon clattering to the floor. In the same breath, she pressed two fingers to the side of his neck. He collapsed soundlessly.
A low whistle sounded from the far end of the corridor.
Perry leaned against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, eyes half-lidded. "Efficient," he said. "But maybe next time, call for help instead of breaking someone's shoulder."
"I didn't break it," Emily replied calmly, wiping her fingers on a handkerchief. "He'll wake up in a few minutes."
Perry walked closer, studying her face in the flickering light. "You've seen things like this before, haven't you?"
She met his gaze evenly. "You ask too many questions."
"And you answer too few." His lips curved slightly. "We'll call it balance."