Georgina pressed her back harder against the cold concrete wall, eyes darting between the two Ethans.
The one in front of her—bleeding, frantic—took another cautious step forward. His hands trembled, palms up as if surrendering. "Please, Georgina. Look at me. You know me. I was with you when we first touched the mirror. I told you it felt like being dragged underwater. Remember?"
Her heart clenched. She did remember. He had whispered that when they first swapped, his voice shaking, trying to make sense of it.
But before she could move, the door behind her banged open again. The second Ethan—the impostor—entered the basement, footsteps echoing. His smile stretched too wide across his face. "Don't listen to him. He's still trapped. He's just a shadow."
The real Ethan—if that's who he was—snapped his head toward the voice. His eyes widened. "You."
The two of them faced each other now, the air between them charged. It was like watching a reflection crawl out of a mirror to confront its original. Every movement mirrored—posture, breathing, even the tilt of their heads.
Georgina whispered, "Which one of you…?"
Neither answered. Both spoke at once:
"Me."
And then they lunged.
Georgina screamed as the two Ethans collided, fists swinging, bodies slamming into the pipes above. Sparks showered where metal tore. The air filled with grunts, crashes, the sound of flesh on flesh.
But the more she watched, the less sure she was which one to root for. They moved almost identically. Each cry of pain sounded like Ethan's. Each curse came in his voice.
Then—blood splattered across the concrete. One of them staggered, clutching his side.
The other straightened, eyes flashing dark.
Georgina's stomach dropped.
The impostor was winning.
Upstairs, Madison stood in the apartment doorway, clutching her purse like a shield. She had run the moment the mirror cracked, but now she couldn't stay away. Something about the photograph, about the whispers, about Georgina's panic—it all pulled her back.
She whispered to herself, "What did Dad do…?"
And then she heard it.
A woman's voice. Soft. Familiar.
"Madison."
She froze. Her mother's voice. But that was impossible—her mother was alive, sipping wine in Paris somewhere. She turned slowly toward the mirror.
It shimmered.
And there, staring back at her, was herself. Not Georgina. Not Ethan. Herself.
The reflection smiled.
And Madison realized, too late, that she hadn't left the danger behind at all.
Back in the basement, Georgina backed away, her throat raw from screaming.
One Ethan collapsed to the floor, groaning. The other straightened slowly, breathing heavy. He turned his head toward her, eyes glinting in the dim light.
"See?" he rasped. "I told you. I'm real. It's me."
He held out his hand.
"Now come with me."
Georgina froze, shaking so hard the photograph slipped from her fingers.
Because on the ground, the fallen Ethan's lips moved. Weak, almost voiceless.
"Don't… trust him."
Her choice was seconds away.
And either way, it could kill her.