"I don’t care what you are."

  My voice cracked like frost underfoot.

  "I’m not asking who you are. I’m asking why. Why did you kill them?"

  The Reflection didn’t flinch. He didn’t blink. Just stood there, hands folded behind his back like a soldier awaiting judgment.

  "I did what you couldn’t," he said softly. "What had to be done."

  "No," I snapped. "That’s not an answer. That's an excuse."

  "You saw some of the memories," he replied, stepping closer. "But only pieces. Half-formed, stitched together by panic and guilt. You don’t know what happened."

  "I saw enough."

  "And what did you see?" he asked, almost gently. "Blood? Screams? My face smiling in a mirror?"

  I said nothing.

  "That wasn’t me. Not completely. You were hallucinating—an anxiety attack, fueled by what your mind thought I would sound like. But you never actually heard me. Until now."

  I looked up.

  He was right.

  The voice in the void... it wasn’t the same. It lacked the venom. The sadism. This one didn’t drip with malice—it sounded tired.

  "You think I’m a monster," he said. "But if you're going to damn me, at least know what you’re damning."

  "I don’t want to know."

  "You need to know."

  "I want to die."

  "I won’t stop you," the Reflection said, stepping aside. “But if you're going to end your life, at least understand what kind of world you’re leaving behind. What kind of people you spared.”

  I shook my head, fists clenched, trembling. “You don’t get it. You think this is about justifying what we did?”

  “It’s not about justifying,” he said. “It’s about the truth. Watch. And remember. All of it.”

  The void bent. The memories surged forward like a tide.

  Meanwhile, on the street—

  “HEY! YOU TWO—STOP!”

  A police siren wailed as Hana and Ren skidded across a busy intersection, nearly clipping a taxi. Horns blared. Someone yelled something obscene.

  A cruiser screeched to a halt behind them. A cop stepped out, hand on his holster.

  “You almost caused three collisions! What the hell are you doing—?”

  “We don’t have time—!” Hana began.

  Ren raised both hands. “I’m ex-military. Medical emergency.”

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  “Sir, that’s not—”

  Ren shoved a battered ID into the cop’s hand. “Check the seal. Unit 3-7-Beta. Clearance on disaster response teams.”

  The officer scanned it, frowning. “Still doesn’t explain why—”

  “He’s dying,” Ren said, voice calm but sharp. “And if we don’t find him soon, more people will.”

  The cop stared for a second longer, then stepped back. “You’ve got five minutes before I call this in. Go.”

  “Thank you,” Hana breathed.

  But by the time they got back on the move, the signal on Karen’s tracker had stopped pulsing.

  “Dammit,” Ren muttered, flooring the gas. “We lost time.”

  Back in the alley—

  “He’s not moving.”

  “Shut up, man, he’s just unconscious.”

  “What if we killed him? What if—shit—what if this is murder now?”

  “You scared, you little pussy?” one of them snarled. “You gonna cry to your mommy?”

  The leader gritted his teeth. Something in his eyes twitched—panic giving way to something worse.

  “Fuck it,” he growled, pulling a rusted knife from his jacket. “No witnesses.”

  The blade glinted.

  “You’re insane!” one of them said.

  But he was already kneeling down over my broken body, the tip of the blade hovering above my chest.

  “Let’s see how soft you really are.”

  I opened my eyes—if you could call it that. There was no light in this space, no wind, no scent. Just sensation. Like watching your own soul unzip itself.

  And there I was.

  Back at the Yamazaki Estate.

  I kicked the front door open, splinters flying like shrapnel. The family scrambled to their feet in the living room—mother, father, two boys. A third child peeked out from behind a curtain. Their eyes, wide with terror.

  They screamed.

  I didn’t.

  I moved.

  My coat billowed behind me as I crossed the room in a blur. My elbow shattered the father’s jaw—his body flung back into a bookshelf. The mother screamed, tried to run—my boot hit her side, she tumbled over a glass table.

  The kids bolted toward the hallway. I was faster.

  One swipe—just enough pressure to slash the back of the elder boy’s calf. He collapsed, shrieking. The younger froze. I was crouched in front of him before he could blink.

  Scalpel drawn.

  Hand steady.

  Blade at his throat.

  My own reflection stared back from the child’s tearful eyes.

  I stayed there, hand trembling. One second. Two. Ten.

  I couldn’t do it.

  My fingers curled tighter around the scalpel’s grip.

  Do it.

  I couldn’t.

  My hand dropped. I turned away, breath ragged. My pulse thundered in my ears. The urge was still there—twisting, writhing—but something stronger had overpowered it.

  I started walking toward the door.

  Then—

  A scream.

  No—a chorus of screams. Faint, muffled, but unmistakably human. From below.

  Basement.

  I turned.

  “...What did you do?”

  No one answered.

  I took a step forward, fury and dread pumping like venom through my veins.

  “What did you do?”

  Still nothing. The wife just whispered over and over: “Please don’t hurt us, please don’t hurt us, please…”

  “WHAT DID YOU DO?!”

  They flinched as I roared.

  I grabbed a length of extension cord, looped it around the whole family—shoulders pressed, necks bent together like cattle. They struggled, but I didn’t care.

  They were coming with me.

  I dragged them down the stairs, each thud of their feet on the steps like a war drum.

  At the bottom—

  Hell.

  The air was heavy with rot and copper. Every breath choked with mold and feces and dried blood.

  There were cages. And slabs. And tables covered in rusted restraints.

  Humans.

  Some were little more than bones, their skin sagging over twisted frames. Others had stumps where arms or legs had been—sawn off crudely, cauterized with kitchen torches.

  One girl stared at me with sewn-shut eyes. Her lips were stitched too, a trail of infected pus leaking from the corners of her mouth.

  Another man lay motionless, his arms flayed open, wires dug into his tendons—plugged into a nearby machine that buzzed every few seconds. Every buzz made his body jolt. A small screen beside him recorded every muscle contraction with morbid precision.

  Several captives had their tongues cut out, their faces covered with sacks, their hands clasped in desperate prayer.

  And everywhere—cameras.

  Mounted. Wired. Streaming.

  Recording everything.

  I stepped back, bile rising in my throat.

  “You…” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “You did this.”

  The husband whimpered. The wife sobbed louder.

  I drew my scalpel.

  But not for the victims.

  Not this time.

  END OF CHAPTER 11

  TO BE CONTINUED