It’s not the first time breakfast has arrived late.
You’ve stopped expecting it to be on time.
But this morning, something’s different.
The tray slides in nine minutes past the usual cue. You count it out. You always do now.
But this time, there’s something else.
You don’t drink it right away. You just stare at it. The color’s right. The smell’s right. And when you lift it to your mouth, it’s steeped the way you always make it for yourself.
Three minutes. Just a hint of honey. No lemon.
You never told anyone that.
You set it down slowly. Hands steady even though your stomach isn’t.
You turn—and see it waiting.
Open. Already powered. Not blinking or locked. No login screen. Just there.
And under the usual folders—REFLECTION LOGS, SYSTEM RECORDINGS, OBSERVER NOTES—you see a fourth one.
What You Weren’t Supposed to Know
A list loads. Clean. Tidy. Clinical.
You scroll slowly at first. Then faster.
Observer M22 – Room Temperature Adjustment – UNAUTHORIZED
Observer M22 – Tray Delay Approved – UNAUTHORIZED
Observer M22 – Viewer Reassignment – UNAUTHORIZED
Observer M22 – Subject Access Override – UNAUTHORIZED
Observer M22 – Noncompliant Review Flag – PENDING ESCALATION
Each one feels like a thread tightening around your ribs.
You back out. Open Personnel Assignments.
You were never assigned an observer.
You were supposed to be unmonitored.
You just walk to the mirror like it might break if you breathe wrong.
You touch the glass with your fingers.
“You weren’t supposed to see me.”
The red light above the mirror blinks once.
A flicker. Barely perceptible.
“You weren’t assigned to me. You chose me.”
No knock. No message. Just the light. Watching.
And that’s somehow worse.
Because it means he knows.
They take you to the corridor again.
You don't ask why. You don't talk. You just walk, eyes forward, mind spinning.
He's already there - the other subject.
The one with the too-watchful eyes.
He doesn't smirk this time. Doesn't say anything at first.
But as you pass him, he leans in just enough to whisper:
“He’s not supposed to care about you.”
He looks straight ahead. His voice is quieter now.
“You know that, right? That they don’t assign… feelings.
You sleep closer to the mirror now.”
You stare at him. Something’s wrong in his expression—too still.
He glances at you, but only briefly. His expression is unreadable.
“You lean into it when you talk. Like it’s a person. Not glass.”
“Has it answered you yet?”
Your voice is low. Guarded.
“Don’t play dumb,” he says. “You’re different now. Look at you.”
He pushes off the wall and walks past you—but as he passes, his voice drops to almost a whisper:
“Just be careful. That’s how it starts.”
He stops. Doesn’t look at you.
“You stop being scared of it. And start wanting it to see you.”
His gaze flicks to the mirror.
“That’s when they stop protecting you.”
A bitter half-smile curves across his face.
“You think there’s only one of them watching?”
“Why are you telling me this?”
He doesn’t answer. Not directly.
“I had one too. A long time ago. She used to leave me notes.”
He smiles. It's small. Empty.
“I stopped getting them.”
You look down at your feet.
You’re not sure if your chest aches from the warning…
or the suggestion of what it might mean.
The mask is under your pillow again.
You don’t remember putting it there. You don’t even remember falling asleep.
You pull it out slowly. Unwrap it. Press your forehead to it for a second—just one.
Then you rise. Walk to the mirror.
You don’t sit in the chair.
You stand in front of the mirror, hands gripping the frame like you could tear it from the wall if you just pulled hard enough.
No knock. No blink. No breath.
“How many of you are watching me?”
“Is it just you, or do they all see me the way you do?”
Your voice rises. It shakes. It dares.
“Or am I the only one you’ve broken the rules for?”
“You weren’t supposed to be here. I wasn’t supposed to be watched.”
Your palm hits the mirror—louder this time. Not violent. Just done pretending.
“But you watched me anyway.”
You press your forehead to the cool surface.
“You’ve changed everything. You know that, right?”
Your reflection looks tired. Like it’s been awake for days. Like it’s someone else now—someone softer, someone haunted.
“I used to want to leave.”
You slide down the wall until your back hits the floor, knees pulled to your chest.
“Now I just want to know if you’ll still be here when they take that choice away.”
The light above the mirror doesn’t flicker.
It just glows. Constant. Steady.
You bring it to your lap. Let it rest there. You trace the edge with your thumb, slow and gentle like you’re afraid it might feel you back.
“I don’t know what you look like.”
Your voice is quiet now. Raw.
“But I think if I saw you… I’d still recognize you.”
The mirror doesn’t blink.
You hesitate, then look back toward the glass.
“There was someone else. The boy. The one in the corridor.”
You hold the mask a little tighter.
“He said he used to have someone, too. Someone who left him notes. Then one day they just stopped.”
You let the words sink in—his and yours.
“He told me to ask my mirror what happened to her.”
You lift your chin, eyes locking with the red light like it’s watching more than your face.
Then—finally—a single, slow knock.
You tilt your head, forehead resting lightly on the shell of it.
“I’m scared of what this is.”
“But I’m more scared of what it means if it stops.”
You look up. Into the glass. Not at your reflection.
“Don’t stop choosing me.”
But the red light blinks—
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