The antique shop smelled of dust and aging wood, but Isaac smelled something else—the sharp tang of old blood. He ignored it. His collection needed one last piece, and the ivory-handled razor gleamed beneath the glass. The shopkeeper’s fingers lingered too long when handing it over, his gaze resting on Isaac’s own reflection in the blade.
That night, Isaac admired himself in the mirror, tilting the razor back and forth. He had always prided himself on his face—the sharp angles, the smooth skin. A perfect shave mattered.
He lathered up, pressed the blade to his throat. A flicker of movement behind him. His pulse quickened, but when he turned, nothing. Just his reflection, watching.
The first pass was smooth. Relief bloomed. Then, another shimmer—his reflection did not stop shaving when he did. Instead, it grinned, and the razor in the glass sank deep.
Hot blood spilled down Isaac’s throat as steel met flesh—on the wrong side of the mirror.
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