The door creaked shut behind me.
Silence.
At last.
For a moment, the chaos outside was nothing more than a muffled hum behind a concrete wall.
I walked to the sink and stared at the rusted faucet, the chipped porcelain, the tiny puddle of red water that refused to drain.
Blood dripped from my fingertips, leaving small crimson prints as I walked toward the mirror.
Then I looked up.
The mirror greeted me like a stranger.
And the man staring back… wasn't me.
I stood in front of it.
And for a long moment…
I didn't move.
Didn't even blink.
The boy in the reflection stared back at me….blood stained messy dark hair, split lip, bruises blooming purple down one side of his face. Shirt was half-ripped, smeared with blood.
I tilted my head slightly. So did he.
But I didn't know him.
Not really.
Is this what they meant?
Vincent Aston. Son of Reynold Aston. Sector A's golden boy.
They kept saying it like it was supposed to mean something.
