There were no walls.
No door.
No ceiling.
I was standing on nothing, but not falling. My feet pressed against a smooth, colorless surface that didn't reflect light—or maybe there was no light at all.
Only a dull, humming silence.
The mirror was gone. The room gone with it.
But the feeling—the presence—remained.
I wasn't alone.
I turned.
Ten steps away stood a figure.
Still. Pale. Familiar.
It was me.
Same clothes. Same body.
But her head was lowered, chin tucked into her chest like she was asleep standing up.
I whispered, "Hello?"
The sound didn't echo. It was swallowed.
I took one step forward.
The figure raised her head.
Her face was mine, but too smooth, like molded wax trying to imitate a memory. Her lips twitched upward—more spasm than smile.
And then she spoke.
"You still think you're the first?"
My knees buckled. I didn't fall, but it felt like the space around me shifted—like I was suddenly closer.
She stared at me, eyes milky white, and reached toward her own face.
In one slow motion, she peeled the skin off.
Not blood. Not flesh.
Just paper. Crumpling like old receipts, layer by layer.
Beneath her face was another one.
Also mine.
She said nothing more.
But I understood.
I wasn't the first to be copied.
The realization didn't bring clarity. Only fear.