[Fear System Log: 3:41 A.M.]
Task Progress: 34% — Trauma Deepening Phase
Role: Mary Caldwell | Status: Highly Unstable
Emotional Integrity: Fragmenting
He didn't sleep after the reflection.
How could he?
That smile had burrowed under his skin like a parasite—impossibly wide, impossibly still, with eyes that shimmered like wet glass. The mimic hadn't moved. It hadn't spoken. It had simply stood there… watching him through the mirror, while the real room remained empty.
Or so he had hoped.
The rest of the night bled into morning. The lights stayed on, every one. He refused to blink longer than necessary. He wouldn't risk it. Not again. The reflection had cracked something in him, and even with the Fear System's constant alerts, there was no guidance—only horror.
And dread.
Always the dread.
He sat on the edge of the bed, knees drawn to his chest, fingernails bitten raw, listening.
The floorboards creaked from within the walls.
The pipes moaned like distant screams.
The television, muted and playing static, flickered images that didn't match the feed: faces with missing eyes, dark hallways that shouldn't exist, frames that lingered longer than they should.
Every sound, every shadow felt sentient.
Watching.
Mocking.
Feeding.
[System Notice: Sleep deprivation will accelerate cognitive degradation.]
[Suggestion: Attempt rest. You are safe… for now.]
He laughed at that—short, cracked, brittle.
"Safe?" he whispered.
Not here.
Not anywhere.
Not since the mimic arrived.
It had started with the flicker. Then the imitation. Then the gaze. And now, it had learned how to play games—games that obeyed no laws but fear. And yet, somehow, it had given him a break. Or so he thought.
Because in the stillness of dawn, when the sky turned pale gray and the birds had not yet dared to sing, he felt it again.
A presence.
Not a sight.
Not a sound.
Just… pressure.
Like something crouched behind his awareness, just out of focus.
His eyes flicked around the room.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Then his gaze drifted to the floor.
Beneath the bed.
There was something sticking out—barely visible.
A sliver of paper.
His breath caught.
His first instinct was to ignore it.
But the System didn't allow that.
[New Objective: Retrieve the anomaly beneath the bed.]
Of course.
He slid off the mattress and onto the floor, joints stiff, heart pounding. The carpet was cold and smelled faintly of mildew and copper. He stared at the edge of the bed for a long, silent moment. Then slowly, reluctantly, reached under.
The note was folded twice. Thick paper. Aged. Yellowing at the edges. His fingers trembled as he retrieved it.
One sentence.
"I'm always watching."
Written in jagged strokes, as though carved rather than written—pressure that bled through to the back. As if whoever had written it had done so with hatred, or hunger.
Or both.
He unfolded it fully.
On the other side was a crude drawing.
Of his room.
Of this moment.
Of him on his knees, holding a note.
And behind him, towering over his crouched form—
The mimic.
Eyes like knives.
Smile like a crack in reality.
He turned instantly.
Nothing.
Empty room.
Light.
Silence.
Stillness.
But his heart didn't believe it.
His skin screamed lies.
He backed into the corner of the room, clutching the note like a ward, though it offered no warmth, no protection.
He thought of the Fear System again.
Of its rules.
Of the task.
Survive.
Stay in character.
Complete the task.
But what was the task?
He thought it was just living through this arc.
But the mimic—it was accelerating. Testing him. Hunting him.
And this note wasn't just a scare.
It was a warning.
Or a ritual.
A part of something unfolding around him, like the pages of a cursed book he hadn't meant to read.
The sun was rising now, its light staining the walls orange and soft.
For the first time in hours, something close to calm crept into him.
Then he saw the door.
And froze.
The locks were undone.
Not broken. Not forced.
Simply unlatched.
As though he'd never touched them.
Or had unlatched them himself.
He didn't remember that.
He was sure he hadn't.
Wasn't he?
He re-locked everything. Every chain, every bolt. Then he sealed the windows with cardboard and duct tape. He slid heavy furniture in front of entry points, until the apartment resembled a fortress designed by paranoia itself.
He didn't care how it looked.
He didn't care if the neighbors called him insane.
He only cared about one thing:
Keeping the mimic out.
But when he passed the hallway mirror again, still covered in duct tape and fabric—
He heard it laugh.
Muffled.
Low.
Inside the glass.
He didn't remove the cover.
He couldn't.
Instead, he retreated to the couch.
Pulled a blanket over his head like a child hiding from monsters.
But sleep still didn't come.
Later—perhaps minutes, perhaps hours—he rose to make coffee. The kitchen lights flickered. The microwave clock blinked "3:33." That couldn't be right.
It had been dawn.
Hadn't it?
He checked his phone.
3:33 A.M.
A full day gone?
Had he passed out?
Lost time?
He stepped back from the counter and noticed something else:
More paper.
Four new notes—placed in a perfect arc on the kitchen table.
Each one identical.
Each reading:
"I'm in the walls."
"I'm under the floor."
"I'm behind the mirror."
"I'm in your skin."
He stumbled backward, knocking over a chair.
His foot hit something.
A box.
A shoebox, resting at the base of the table.
One he didn't recognize.
He knelt.
Opened it.
Inside—
Old photos.
Faded, brittle, curling at the corners.
Each one a still shot of him—Mary—caught in daily life: brushing teeth, sleeping, eating, standing at the mirror.
All from angles inside the apartment.
None he remembered being taken.
Some from behind.
Some from the ceiling.
Some from under the bed.
He dropped them like they burned.
There was something else in the box.
A VHS tape.
Labeled: "For You. ❤️"
He didn't own a VHS player.
But the building had a basement.
An old laundry room.
He'd seen a vintage TV down there once, months ago.
Still plugged in. Dust-covered.
He didn't want to go.
Everything in him screamed against it.
But this was the system.
And his task—whatever it was—clearly required descent.
[Objective Updated: Play the Tape.]
Of course.
He grabbed a flashlight and a kitchen knife.
Then descended the creaking stairs.
The basement door shrieked open like a protest.
The stairs were narrow, lined with cobwebs and old stains. As he stepped onto the cement floor, the smell hit him—rot and rust and something darker.
He crossed the empty space, boots echoing.
The old TV sat against the far wall.
Waiting.
Watching.
He inserted the tape.
The screen flickered.
Static.
Then—
A close-up.
Of his bedroom door.
From outside.
A shadow pacing just beyond.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
Then—it stopped.
A soft knock.
Then the camera cut to inside the room.
He was sleeping.
Mouth slightly open.
Face peaceful.
Unaware.
And behind him, rising from beneath the bed like smoke—
The mimic.
Smiling.
Its head tilted.
Its hand reaching toward his throat—
The tape cut out.
He staggered backward.
Vomited into the corner.
As he wiped his mouth, a new note slid from the screen.
Still warm.
Fresh ink.
Handwritten.
Just two words.
"Next time."
He ran.
Back upstairs.
Through the door.
Bolting it again and again, even though he knew now—locks meant nothing.
He collapsed on the bed, sobbing.
And then, like a lullaby in a burning dream, the System whispered:
[System Update: Task Progress: 49%]
[You are learning. Good.]