One mirror showed him regal, crown upon his brow, shoulders squared as though he ruled an empire. Another showed him broken, bloodied, reaching out with trembling hands.
The silence here was thick, heavy. The air felt still, but not empty it felt like being observed, studied by a thousand gazes, though none of the reflections moved except when he did. Their eyes locked with his in unison, their weight pressing on him like a crowd that never spoke, never blinked.
Wuxie raised an eyebrow, tilting his head slightly as though appraising his own strangeness. A low whistle escaped his lips, cutting through the stillness. "Well," he muttered, voice echoing strangely in the mirrored chamber, "this is trippy."
His grin widened faintly, unbothered, hands staying where they were, buried in his pockets. Where another might have felt suffocated by so many versions of themselves, Wuxie only seemed entertained.
Each finalist was alone.
No allies. No rivals. No voices but their own.
