The silence in the corridor was deafening. Behind me, Hoai Trach stood frozen, his hand still half-raised as if to stop me. In front of me was the mirror—ornate, ancient, its glass shimmering faintly as if it were alive. And then, within its surface, I saw her. She looked exactly like me—same features, same scar above the brow—but there was something else in her eyes. Coldness. Timelessness. She tilted her head slightly, lips curled in a smile that was both amused and pitying.
"You came back faster this time," she said. Her voice was faint, distant, yet somehow vibrated through the glass like a current in the air.
I stared, breath caught in my throat. This wasn't a hallucination. It wasn't a dream. She was real. "You're Lam Hoa Tu," I whispered.
"No," she replied simply. "You are. I gave that name away to you."
My heart pounded. "Then… who are you?"
"I'm the first," she said. "The one who chose Project Ouroboros. I scattered myself through the timelines. You were the only one who made it here."
The truth hit me like a wave. She wasn't just a memory. She was the origin. The architect. I was only a fragment of her, a version shaped by love, pain, and choices she never had the courage to make.
"Why me?" I asked.
She studied me with something close to warmth. "Because you felt. You loved. The rest of us just endured. That's why you're different."
"Loved who?" I asked.
Her gaze drifted past me. "Hoai Trach."
A chill ran down my spine. "He hates me."
"He doesn't," she said. "He fears what loving you might make him lose."
I turned to glance at him—still standing there, watching, waiting, unaware of the conversation unraveling within this ghostly mirror. "What happens if I go through with this?"
"You become me," she answered.
"And if I refuse?"
"The loop begins again. Another version will rise. She may not be as kind as you."
I hesitated, staring at the mirror. "So I'm a key."
"No. You're the author now. You decide the ending."
Then the mirror cracked. A thin line spidered out from the center, followed by another, and then the entire thing shattered—not with sound, but with a silence so loud it made my ears ring. The shards hovered in the air like frozen stars, then dissolved into light and vanished.
All that remained was one word etched into the floor where the mirror had been: Decide.
That night, Hoai Trach didn't ask questions. He didn't press me to explain. He just brewed tea, handed me a blanket, and sat beside me while the silence filled the space between us—not heavy, not cold, just quiet. When he finally spoke, it was soft. "You saw something."
I nodded. "Myself. But different. The first version."
He leaned closer. "Did she tell you what to do?"
"She told me I have to choose—whether to finish what she started, or let it all collapse."
He didn't look away. "Then stay yourself. Don't become her."
"What if that breaks everything?"
He shrugged slightly. "Then let it break. But don't lose you."
The next morning, I packed only what mattered—the journal, the drawing, the shard from the mirror, and the photo from the lab. "I have to go back," I said. "To where this began."
"The Gate?" he asked.
I nodded.
"I'm going with you," he said immediately.
"You don't have to—"
"I do," he cut me off. "If this ends in fire, I want to be there with you."
I stared at him. "What if I don't come back the same?"
"Then I'll learn to love whoever you become."
My chest tightened. "Do you love me now?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he stepped closer, placed a hand on my cheek, and kissed me—soft, deliberate, like he meant it. No promises. No explanations. Just him, just me, just this moment.
At dawn, we arrived at the cliffs. The wind whipped through my hair as I stood at the edge, staring at the shimmering air before me—the Gate, a tear in reality, humming like a song only I could hear.
"I'll go first," I said.
He gripped my wrist. "You might not come back."
"I was never meant to stay here," I whispered, and stepped into the light.
It felt like falling. Like burning. Like remembering everything all at once. A flood of lives. Choices. Regrets. A voice echoed in the void. "You're early."
When I opened my eyes, I was in the lab again—but not the ruined version. This one was whole, bright, cold with clinical perfection. A girl stood in front of me. She looked like me. Only younger. Stronger.
"Subject 07," she said, smiling faintly. "Welcome home."
And for the first time, I smiled back.
Because now, I knew: I was no longer the experiment. I was the one rewriting the script.