Caleb stepped into the abandoned theater, his footsteps echoing dully over a dust-covered floor, as distorted vintage music seeped from an unknown source. The scent of burning wax mingled with that of aged wood... and the only source of light was a chandelier slowly swaying above the stage, as if breathing.
> "This isn't a theater..." he murmured, his eyes fixed on the crimson curtains drawing shut behind him of their own accord.
At that moment, the walls trembled with the sound of giant gears, and the floor cracked open to reveal a maze of mirrors pulsing with light. Caleb's reflections began to distort: in one mirror, he smiled; in another, he screamed; and in a third… his eyes bled black.
> "Welcome to the final performance, Mr. Caleb."
The voice came from above, where a massive Crawford puppet slowly spun atop a director's platform.
From one of the side doors, Douglas stumbled in, as if his body was rejecting its own weight.
> "Douglas? What happened to you?"
"No time… follow me if you want to live."
But with each step deeper into the maze, the reflections consumed them further. In one mirror, Caleb saw himself stabbing Anna. In another, his corpse was shredded by violin strings. The voices echoed, their faces multiplied… and the mirrors whispered in languages they had never learned.
> "Something is reshaping reality from memory..." Caleb whispered, pressing his fingers to his temples.
Suddenly… Douglas froze. His reflection didn't move.
Then he slowly turned to Caleb, a cracked smile spreading across his face.
> "Caleb… there's something you need to know."
"What is it?"
"I'm… not who you think I am."
"What do you mean?"
He extended his right hand… from his wrist emerged small copper connectors, and a split in his skin revealed a blend of mechanical bone and synthetic flesh.
> "I'm a puppet, Caleb. A puppet… carrying the memories of a man who died years ago."
The light from the mirrors flickered upon hearing Douglas's confession, as if the very walls of the maze were shocked. Caleb stepped back, staring at the copper connectors jutting from the inspector's wrist, his heart pounding—but there was no escape... the mirrors had sealed every way out.
> "No..." Caleb muttered. "That's not possible... you were there with me, solving puzzles, saving me again and again!"
Douglas gave a faint smile, as if it no longer belonged to him.
> "The memories are real, but they're not mine. They were implanted in me… seeded like crops in foreign soil."
He raised his other hand, revealing something new. One mirror shifted to unveil a completely different scene: a dark room filled with old electrical equipment, a leather chair hanging with wires, and old photos on the wall… one showing Douglas strapped to that chair, his face half-burned.
> "Is that... the real me?" Caleb asked, voice trembling.
> "No, that's me. Before I became just a puppet moved by a program Crawford designed."
At the mention of the director's name, the central mirror shook and shattered on its own, revealing a theater drowned in darkness… only a red spotlight lit a child-sized puppet seated on a chair in the smoke… smiling.
> "Hello, Caleb… are you enjoying the show so far?"
This time, the voice came from everywhere and nowhere. From the puppet, the mirrors, inside Caleb's own mind.
> "Crawford? You're dead!" Caleb shouted.
> "Death is an old concept, my dear. As for me… I chose immortality within my art."
The voice laughed, and the mirrors laughed with it, every puppet in the maze began to move—some crawling, some clapping, some whispering incomprehensible words.
Douglas bowed slightly, as though his memory was beginning to collapse, or perhaps new commands were already activating.
> "Caleb..." he said hoarsely. "If I'm no longer myself… you have to stop me. End the game."
The mirrors began to shatter one by one, each shard revealing a new face of Caleb… distorted, terrified, a killer, or even… a puppet. At the maze's heart, Douglas stood between Caleb and the child puppet—the digital version of Crawford—waving a small knife with a fixed grin.
> "Leave him!" Caleb shouted, but Douglas didn't move.
The glassy eyes that were once human filled with tears that wouldn't fall. Douglas drew a gun from his coat, his hand trembling as though something inside him was resisting.
> "I've been more human than you, Crawford…" he said, aiming the gun at the puppet, "...even when I wasn't human."
He fired.
The bullet hit the front of the mechanical chair, shaking the ground beneath them. Machines around them trembled. Fire erupted from below, flames devouring the theater's cables. The puppets' cries rose—a mix of laughter, sobbing, and screams. The curtains fell, and the piano swelled with a closing melody, a tragic piece that choked Caleb's breath.
Douglas turned to him.
> "Go! This isn't your stage… it's my final performance."
Caleb hesitated for a moment, but the sight of blood pouring from Douglas's neck—or what was left of it—was enough to make him run. The iron door opened on its own, leading into a dark rear tunnel.
And before it shut, he heard a whisper from behind…
> "Act One is over, Caleb… the real play hasn't even begun."
The door slammed shut.
And the darkness began.