Weaver of fates

The surface of the mirror quivers.

And her mother's face begins to crack.

Not like aging skin.

But like a plaster mask smashed against the cold stone of a forgotten cathedral.

The fractures crawl, branching along the cheeks, up to the temples, all the way to the dulled roots of her hair.

And behind it...

Nothing.

No flesh.

No bone.

Just a black, viscous substance — something between tar and dried blood, pulsing faintly beneath the light of a mirror with no source.

A light too pale to be real, too precise to be natural.

The eyes go dark.

Two tungsten bulbs groaning before implosion.

But the voice remains.

Soft.

Warm.

Lethal.

« Послушайся свою мать и садись… »

Russian.

Not the kind found in official documents. The kind from rotted dreams, memories sealed in formaldehyde. The kind that smells of Sunday cooking, of lips dry with fever, of promises too old to be kept.

The whisper slices through the musty air.

Sharp. Commanding.

Jinra doesn't move.

Her breath is suspended.

Her heart grows heavy — as if the voice alone, through sheer vibration, awakened some guilt inside her that is too old, too essential.

« Нет. »

A single syllable.

Stripped of will.

Not defiance.

Failure.

And yet, the word has weight.

Something cracks, somewhere.

A second Phantom enters the mirror. Larger. Compact frame, shoulders weighed with silence.

He walks the way her father used to — economical, dense in every step.

His face fades too, slowly, as though some invisible fire were melting it away.

But his voice remains.

Calm.

Crushing.

« Мы не слушаемся нашу мать. »

Not an accusation.

Not a threat.

A fact. A sentence.

Jinra steps back.

Just once.

And it's enough.

She understands.

They don't steal faces.

They steal voices.

She remembers.

Another Phantom, older.

The one with the whip — its lashes made of worms. Pale. Gnarled. Pulsing.

He didn't punish. He carved.

He shaped imitations from raw memory until they became weapons.

The floor tilts beneath her.

The tiles slip like a bottomless sea.

She turns on her heels.

She runs.

And the impact.

A dull blow.

Invisible.

Crushing.

She crashes down. Her chin strikes the filthy floor — the sound of cracking bone.

A flash of pain scorches her spine. Every vertebra vibrates, as if her skeleton is ready to shatter from within.

The taste of blood. Iron. Fear. Memory.

She groans.

Her fingernails scrape the tiles. An animal spasm.

She tries to turn. But the Phantoms are closing in.

Silent.

But the world grows heavier with each step.

The air thickens. Time slows.

As if their presence bends the very laws of gravity.

There are four.

Maybe more.

And they all speak in the voices of those she loves.

— "Will you listen to your mother this time, Jinra?"

— "If you loved us, you wouldn't be here."

— "Why do you always go against us?"

— "Come back, my daughter. Come home."

She doesn't cry.

But the tears fall anyway, without her consent.

Each sentence is a scalpel.

And her heart, a gaping wound that never quite closes.

Her fists clench.

Her breath shortens.

Her heartbeat pounds in her temples like dark, panting war drums.

This is it.

There's nothing left to wait for.

No one left.

Then — the Voice.

Not the Phantoms.

Not the memories.

The System.

— "You are displaying behavior inappropriate for a candidate."

Surgical voice. Coldly neutral.

Like a scalpel forgotten inside a ribcage.

— "I don't give a damn!" she spits.

A hoarse cry.

Dry.

Almost broken.

— "If you die, another will take your place. Get up."

— "I WANT TO!" she screams.

— "But I can't..."

She pounds the floor. Again. Again.

Her palms bleed. Her forehead strikes the tile.

Each blow an offering.

To what? To whom? She no longer knows.

A Phantom steps closer.

Her mother's voice:

— "Всё это твоя вина… If you'd only obeyed, we'd still be a family."

A cold breath brushes her neck.

A mouthless exhale.

— "If you'd just been a normal daughter..."

She shuts her eyes.

Blood fills her mouth.

Her tongue bitten. The taste of iron.

The taste of before.

And then—

Another voice.

Not the System.

Not an illusion.

Something older.

Deeper.

A memory never lived.

— "If you reach the end of this mirror, you'll learn the truth about your parents. The whole truth."

Silence.

Then a heartbeat.

Another.

Dull. Slow. Like the ticking of a forgotten clock in a crypt.

She opens her eyes.

There.

That's it.

The reason.

⸻

The Resolve

She wipes her tears.

Not out of pride.

Out of necessity.

Her arm trembles. The fabric sticks to her skin, soaked in blood and salt.

But she rises.

Stands.

Broken.

But standing.

And she runs.

Not to survive.

To understand.

The whip snaps behind her. Again. Again.

Each strike sears her back. A scripture of fire etched in flesh.

Blood marks her path. Red-black.

A line of fate.

An inverted Ariadne's thread.

Her sword. Broken.

She snaps off a piece. A twisted shard. Sharp.

She keeps it.

A Phantom appears.

She strikes.

But nothing.

The blade slices through air. As if he only exists in thought.

— "Why can't I touch you...?" she whispers.

She stumbles. Nearly crawling.

Takes shelter behind a shattered cabinet.

Her breath rasps through her throat like shards of glass.

Her heart beats out of sync.

They're closing in.

But something has changed.

The air vibrates. Tastes metallic.

The pressure is crushing, suffocating.

As if the very atmosphere is ready to explode.

At her feet:

A short spear.

Three arrows.

No bow.

She rises.

Every motion agony.

She hurls the arrows.

One. Two. Three.

None strike.

Pushed back.

As if the rules are rigged.

Only a shard remains.

She grips it.

— "I've given everything!" she screams.

— "I'm bleeding out! I'm lost! And I understand nothing!"

Silence.

Then the Voice.

— "Look them in the eyes. Without fear."

— "A damn proverb won't save me!"

Nothing.

But a Phantom approaches.

It extends a hand.

In its palm: a bracelet.

The real one.

Her mother's. Hers.

And everything freezes.

⸻

Climax

Jinra understands.

They don't just feed on fear.

They feed on love.

The real kind. The deep kind. The kind that wounds beyond repair.

But she can choose.

What she believes.

What she keeps.

She grips the shard.

The metal bites into her palm. She doesn't let go.

She strikes.

A cry.

Not of pain.

Of resolve.

She plunges the blade into the Phantom's eye.

And this time — it screams.

Real. Human.

It bleeds.

It dies.

The others freeze.

Step back.

Jinra gasps for breath.

Her back is a map of fire.

But she smiles.

A fractured smile.

But true.

— "You almost got me."

She walks forward.

Limping.

But alive.

— "Almost isn't enough."