The thing wearing my face stepped forward, and I realized something immediately:
It wasn't copying me.
It was remembering me.
That smirk, the slight cant of the head, the way it tapped its fingers against the spine of a book that didn't exist—those were all Allen Cross's old habits. Not Lucian's. Not anymore.
"…Who are you supposed to be?" I asked, keeping my tone flat. Calm. My fingers itched toward my satchel. The Grimoire inside pulsed with agitation, like it was itching to write something. Or scream.
My reflection shrugged. "Call me… Echo. It's easier than explaining."
"Echo, huh." I stared at it. Him. Me. "You a glitch? An AI? Some kind of manifestation?"
It—he—smiled wider. "I'm what's left when you break the rules too often. When you dive too deep. When you treat this world like a game, even when it's trying to forget it ever was one."
