Chapter 23 – The Man in the Mirror

The fluorescent lights in the precinct hallway flickered with a mechanical hum, casting elongated shadows that danced with each of Hiroshi's steps. He moved like a man tethered by invisible strings, the polished soles of his shoes whispering against the sterile floor. Inside, however, his thoughts thrashed like beasts trapped in a cage too small.

He stopped before the restroom mirror.

There he was—same tired eyes, same barely-perceptible smirk, same blood beneath the fingernails he had scrubbed for nearly ten minutes earlier. But just as he turned away, a voice crawled out from the glass like a crack in his mind.

“So this is what you've become, Hiroshi?”

His breath caught in his throat.

The man in the mirror was still him—but not. The eyes burned with mockery, the grin wider, teeth showing. The reflection leaned closer, though Hiroshi had not moved.

“You were sharper when we started,” the reflection whispered. “More... elegant.”

“No,” Hiroshi muttered under his breath, glancing over his shoulder. The restroom was empty. He turned back to the mirror—normal. Nothing unusual.

But the voice lingered in his head like smoke clinging to his lungs.

He returned to his desk, surrounded by papers, suspect lists, and cups of long-cooled coffee. Emiko stood nearby, watching him carefully. She tilted her head.

“You’re not sleeping, are you?”

“I don’t need sleep,” Hiroshi replied, fingers dancing over a case file, “when I'm this close to catching him.”

Emiko frowned. “Catching who?”

Hiroshi looked up, his pupils dilated, his smile just a bit too slow.

“The ghost who plays chess with corpses.”

She didn’t understand. Of course she didn’t. She hadn’t seen the signs—hadn’t heard the mirror whispering strategies at midnight, or noticed how the pieces moved themselves in his dreams.

He could still smell the perfume of the last victim.

Her name was Rina. She had fought back. Left a message on his coat with her blood, a half-written letter that said: "I forgive..."

Forgive? Why? For what? He had given her a performance worthy of applause.

Yet he couldn’t stop hearing her voice in the echo of certain words, couldn’t stop seeing her face when Emiko smiled kindly.

The lines between victims, memories, and illusions blurred.

Later that night, when everyone else had left, Hiroshi returned to the mirror.

“She forgave me,” he said.

The reflection chuckled darkly. “No one forgave you. You just want them to.”

He stared. “You’re not real.”

“I’m the only real thing you’ve got left.”

And for a moment—just a flicker—Hiroshi laughed. A deep, hollow laugh that sounded like it came from someone else entirely.