"Why didn’t you ask them?"My voice trembled, not from fear, but confusion. "Why didn’t you ask the family why they did it? Why they tortured those people?"

  The Reflection didn’t look at me.For once, it didn’t sound cold or distant. It just… paused. Then, in a quiet tone that felt older than the void around us, it said:

  "Because I already knew."

  "What?" I blinked. "What do you mean you knew? You didn’t even ask them—"

  "Because she told me," he cut in. "The girl."He turned to face me, but didn’t meet my eyes."She told me things, things I didn’t show you. Things I thought you couldn’t handle. That no one should have to handle."

  My heart slowed.The air got heavier.Even worse?"Worse than everything I just saw?"

  He finally looked at me."You’re sure you want to see it?"

  I nodded.I wasn’t sure. Not really. But I nodded anyway.

  The memory bled into existence.

  The girl—limbless, trembling, pale—spoke between the machine-controlled breaths that kept her alive.

  "They… they took our pencils from school... and they—"

  Her voice cracked, but the machines wouldn’t let her fall unconscious.

  "They… heated them... like on a gas stove. Real hot... and then..."She started shaking violently, like her mind was trying to force the memory back down."And then they made us hold our eyes open... and they..."

  My breath stopped.

  "They drew inside our eyes. They burned drawings inside. Like we were... notebooks. They said they were making us into art."

  The Reflection didn’t say anything at first.He stood, walked to the father, and tossed the same red pencil—freshly scorched—into the air and caught it.

  "Tell me why.""Tell me why you did it, and I’ll make your death quick. I’ll spare your kids."

  The father’s mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for water.

  "I SAID TELL ME WHY."

  Nothing. Only trembling.The fear in their eyes was more than fear of death. It was fear of truth.

  "Fine."He jammed the pencil in the flame again. Waited. Until it glowed.

  And then—

  He grabbed the boy.

  "No! No! Please! He’s just a child!"

  The Reflection didn’t hesitate.

  He pulled the eyelid open.

  "I’ll make art too," he said coldly. "We’ll call this one Redemption in Red."

  He etched lines, one after another. The smell of burning eye tissue was suffocating. The screams were no longer human.

  And still—the parents refused to talk.

  When he finished, he stabbed the pencil straight into the eye.

  "Art class is over."

  I didn’t think it could get worse.

  But then... the girl spoke again.

  "They made us play games," she said. "Games where we killed each other. They’d bet on who would win... and if we didn’t fight, they’d make us watch someone else die instead. Slowly."

  The Reflection said nothing.He just walked to the father and handed him a scalpel.

  "Here’s your game.""Skin your daughter. Take two pounds of flesh. If you do it, you live."

  "What...?""If you don’t, I kill all of you. If you do, maybe one of you makes it. Deal?"

  The mother screamed, trying to move, but the ropes were too tight.

  The father looked at the blade.Then at his daughter.

  He fell to his knees.And started to slice.

  The child’s screams were so sharp, they didn’t echo—they just hung in the air, vibrating the void itself.

  The mother vomited halfway through.The Reflection forced her to continue.

  "Two pounds. Or you all die."

  It was rigged. It was impossible.But hope made them try.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  They peeled their own child like fruit, desperately trying to carve out a chance at survival.

  And when the final ounce was weighed—short by a sliver—

  The Reflection slit their throats.

  Every single one of them.

  "You think I’m cruel," the Reflection whispered, watching the blood pool around him. "But I’m not half as cruel as they were."

  I said nothing.

  I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t breathe.

  "They skinned children alive for fun, Shinra. They made us animals. I just played by their rules."

  Then the girl—barely conscious—lifted her head.

  "You’ll bury them... right?"

  The Reflection stared at her.

  "I mean... the others. The ones they killed. Please… don’t let them suffer anymore. Don’t leave them like that. They deserve to sleep."

  He nodded.

  He granted her that wish.

  He gave every single corpse the mercy they had been denied in life.

  Their mouths sewn shut. Their limbs arranged properly. Their bodies washed. Their names whispered into the dark.

  And only then did he light the fire.

  "Did I kill her?"

  Shinra’s voice wasn’t shaking.It wasn’t heavy with guilt or trembling with fear.

  It was filled with something far more fragile.

  Hope.

  "The pregnant woman... the one with the unborn child… please tell me I didn’t..."

  The Reflection didn’t respond right away.

  It just looked at him.

  For a second, the world around them was completely still. Frozen in the silence of a single moment stretched thin by grief.

  Then the Reflection said it.

  "You did."

  That was it.

  No explanation.No apology.Just the truth.

  Shinra didn’t speak.Didn’t cry.Didn’t scream or break down.

  He just looked down at his hands.

  Then the world began to rebuild itself around him.

  The walls rose first.

  Polished concrete. Marble textures. Clean, sharp edges.

  The smell of citrus and disinfectant entered his nose. Cold. Sterile.

  He was standing inside a luxury flat—no, a penthouse. A two-story apartment with five bedrooms, floor-length windows, soft golden lights hanging from curved metal beams in the ceiling.

  This was the Wei residence.

  And at the center of it—hidden in silence—was the memory of what had happened that night.

  Shinra followed his other self.The Reflection, cloaked in shadows, slinked through the front door, lock already picked.

  The flat was eerily quiet.

  Too quiet.

  It didn’t feel like someone lived here.

  It felt like someone ran something from here.

  The Reflection didn’t waste time.

  It moved like a phantom—checking rooms, scanning drawers, shelves, cabinets. There were pictures of the woman all over: awards, articles, credentials.

  Dr. Mira Wei, world-renowned neurosurgeon. Pioneer in brain-computer interface technology. A celebrity in medical circles.

  Everything about her life screamed perfection.

  Until the Reflection reached the study.

  A glass desk. Mahogany shelves. A sculpture of a brain on display.

  The Reflection traced a finger along the wall behind the shelves.

  Then—click.

  The back wall split open.

  A false partition creaked aside, revealing a spiral staircase leading down.

  Way down.

  Below the apartment.

  "No one builds this unless they have something to hide," Shinra muttered, even though he already knew.

  He followed the memory.

  And the further down they went, the colder it got.

  The basement wasn’t a room.

  It was a facility.

  And it was hell.

  Rows of metal tables, each one strapped with bodies—some screaming, some long dead. Blood still warm in the air. Tubes going into skulls. Machines drilling. Muscles twitching.

  One man had wires plugged into the base of his neck and fingers. Every time he blinked, his body jolted like he was being reprogrammed.

  Another woman’s jaw had been torn off and replaced with a mechanical jaw that was wired to her nerves. Every time she tried to scream, the jaw clamped shut—choking her instead.

  In one corner, a child’s head was cut open—brain exposed, pulsing. A machine nearby monitored his thoughts.He wasn’t unconscious.

  He was awake.

  A monitor showed his nightmares playing in real-time on screen.

  Another body was covered in medical ink—dotted lines marking "experimental zones." Skin peeled back. Organs replaced with synthetic ones. Half-living, half-prototype.

  The Reflection stepped forward slowly.

  Even he hesitated.

  This wasn’t torture.

  This was testing.

  A lab. A slaughterhouse disguised as science.

  Then—footsteps.

  Delicate. Heeled. Confident.

  She was home.

  Dr. Mira Wei.

  The Reflection vanished behind a corner, crouched in the shadows, not breathing.

  She descended the stairs like it was normal—like this was just another day at the office.

  She wore a pristine white coat, despite the blood on her hands.She hummed. A soft, melodic tune. Almost motherly.

  She walked past the twitching bodies like they weren’t even there.

  She stopped in front of one of the women—no legs, metal rods embedded into her spine.

  "Vitals still strong?" she whispered softly to no one.

  Then she smiled.

  "Perfect. We can start the consciousness mapping tonight. I want to test if she can retain her memories even if we remove the language center. If not, we’ll try again with Subject 43."

  She made a note on a clipboard. Her tone was light. Casual. Not cruel. Clinical.

  Like she was making soup.

  The Reflection’s fists clenched.

  Shinra, standing inside the memory, couldn’t breathe.

  There was a glowing blue tank at the far end of the room. Inside, floating in fluid, were heads—severed, kept alive through electrodes and machines.

  They blinked.

  They were aware.

  This woman was pregnant.She was going to bring life into this world.

  And yet—she created hell in her own home.

  Shinra fell to his knees as the memory froze around him.

  His hands were shaking now—not from anger, or fear—but because he understood.

  The Reflection hadn’t murdered a mother.

  He’d executed a god of cruelty masquerading as one.

  And somehow… somehow…

  He still felt hollow.

  End of chapter 15

  To be Continued