That night, Hale couldn't sleep.
Not because of fear—but because the mark on his chest pulsed like a second heart.
He stood shirtless in front of the mirror, bathed in the blue light of his desk lamp. The design had changed.
No longer an abstract smear of lines.
It had become perfect.
Intricate. Circular. Alive with symbols that looked more like language than art—etched with such precision, it could never have been made by a human hand. The skin wasn't broken, yet the shape looked carved, sunk just beneath the surface like a memory refusing to fade.
Then it happened.
Another line appeared.
Not scratched. Not drawn. It carved itself in as he watched—quietly, smoothly. Like the mirror was instructing his body. Like it was always meant to happen.
It didn't hurt.
It welcomed him.
And then—
His reflection blinked. But he hadn't.
He leaned forward.
The eyes in the mirror were wrong.
Too dark. Not in color, but in weight. As if they held depth where there should be surface. No light reflected in them. No human trace.
Just void.
He stumbled back, breath caught in his throat.
Something had shifted.
Not just around him.
Inside him.
The mark had changed again. Not just in form… but in purpose.
It wasn't a warning anymore.
It was a summons.