Lena gasped awake.
She was lying on a bed.
The sheets were crisp, untouched. The scent of lavender and starch hung in the air. A soft hum surrounded her, like white noise filtered through silk.
She sat up too fast. The room spun.
Where was she?
It looked… normal. Tastefully decorated. A high-rise suite with sprawling views of a city skyline. But not her city. This wasn't Chicago. Or New York. Or anything she recognized. There were no buildings — only tall, glowing obelisks of light piercing through gray mist.
She staggered toward the window, placing a trembling hand on the glass.
Her reflection stared back.
And it wasn't her face.
It was close — eerily close — but not quite. Her eyes were the same color, but wider. Her hair was longer, pulled back into a sleek braid. No bruises. No dust. No blood.
And then she realized.
The room reflected a version of her that hadn't gone through the hotel yet.
A pre-loop Lena.
Someone knocked.
She turned as the door opened, and a man stepped inside, dressed in a pale gray suit. No name tag. No smile.
"I'm sorry to intrude, Ms. Marris. Your orientation begins in ten minutes."
"Orientation?" Her voice cracked.
"Yes," he said smoothly. "For your assignment. Memory journalism. You've been selected for Trial Entry Cohort 44."
Her stomach dropped.
Trial. Forty-four.
This wasn't just a room. It was the beginning of the loop — again. A fabricated normal to reset her, reassign her, reinsert her.
She tried to keep her voice calm. "What city is this?"
The man smiled, but his eyes didn't. "You'll learn more in your intake briefing. Please dress accordingly. Your key will arrive shortly."
With that, he left.
Lena's hands shook as she opened the closet. Everything was prepared — a coat that looked identical to hers, a notebook, a black box with a familiar silver key inside.
But something was different this time.
A note.
Tucked inside the box.
In her own handwriting.
"Don't trust the mirrors. The Lena in the red coat is not you. She never was."
She backed away, heartbeat slamming against her ribs.
What Lena in the red coat?
Then she saw it — from the corner of her eye.
Across the room stood a full-length mirror. It had been angled toward the corner, barely noticeable before.
She stepped closer.
In the reflection… she saw her room.
Empty.
Except for one thing.
A woman in a red coat.
Standing behind her.
Lena spun, ready to scream.
Nothing. No one.
She turned back toward the mirror.
Now her reflection was gone entirely — replaced by the woman in red.
The woman's face was partially shadowed, but her grin was unmistakable. Cold. Familiar.
And then the glass cracked.
Not a little — fully shattered — from the inside.
The woman reached through the jagged hole and pointed at her.
And whispered, though Lena couldn't hear her lips move:
"You're not Lena anymore."