The mirrors pulsed.
Soft at first—like a polite notification ping.
Then faster. Louder. Overlapping, until the air throbbed with identity crises.
Each skeleton stared, motionless.
Then the first one… shivered.
In its mirror, it saw itself as a grand warlord crowned in obsidian—then as a lonely broom in a forgotten closet—then as a disco ball, spinning over a dance floor made of human regret.
It dropped its scythe.
The second skeleton watched itself as a beloved poet, then as a chair, then as a mistake someone almost made.
It gently sat down on nothing and didn't move again.
Vex didn't speak.
It didn't need to.
New words coalesced above its flaming head, each letter dripping smug inevitability:
"YOU ARE THE LEAST INTERESTING VERSION OF YOURSELF."
Thirty skulls cracked in silent existential gasps.
One skeleton lunged forward in denial—
—but its mirror-self lunged back, scythe-first, and erased it like an embarrassing résumé bullet point.
The others panicked.
