The preparation

On a night, the darkness was cut only by the furious flashes of lightning, sporadically illuminating the glassy facade of a building that seemed to absorb the whims of the sky. Rain punished the windows, the wind howled through the cracks, and every drop that fell composed a symphony with the storm, an orchestra that masked screams of despair and the horrendous sound of blades tearing flesh. "Stay away from—" A man's plea was terribly interrupted; his warning was incomplete, replaced by the macabre echo of his end, signaled by a wet sound followed by the dead weight of his body against the marble floor.

In a corridor plunged into the shadows, only fragments of the moon dared to penetrate through the spaced windows, the silver glow weak but enough to make visible the contours of an unspeakable horror. A middle-aged man, his face crumpled by anguish and irregular breathing betraying the panic that took his being, threw himself frantically through the mirrored corridor. His steps were a desperate crescendo, the only soundtrack among the occasional thundering of the thunder.

At the end of the corridor, like a grotesque vision, a silent figure emerged; a teenage girl with hair of a sterile white and eyes of the same absence of color, beings that seemed to suck all the light from their surroundings. Dressed in a cloak as black as the night, she was an omen of fatality. The man, seeing her, registered on his face the purest horror, and in an instinctive attempt to survive, he spun on his heels to flee in the opposite direction.

It was an instinctive and futile act. As he turned, the unbelievable happened; the same girl was now in front of him, barring his escape. "How is this possible? She was on the other side! There is no way she could have gotten around!" He babbled to himself, his mind refusing to accept that the reality in front of him was distorted in such impossible parameters.

The atmosphere of the corridor became a macabre theater, a staging of hunt and prey where fear played the main role. The distant echoes of footsteps and whispers of the storm outside were the backdrop for the sudden show that unfolded.

In the midst of this enclosed stage, the girl of immaculate whiteness revealed a dagger that seemed to be made of the same void that filled her eyes. The ghostly blade danced in the faint light, reflecting a trembling lunar glow that seemed as sharp as its edge.

With a smile that was the prelude to something terrible, she advanced, measured and accurate steps towards the man. He, consumed by the primal instinct of survival of a trapped prey, threw himself into flight again. But as he turned, a replica of the threat awaited him, an exact copy of the imminent death, blocking his escape route with the same mortal gift in hand.

The poor man found himself in a maze of mirrors without the hope of an exit. His gaze swept frantically from side to side, confronted by the duplicate of his executioner who surrounded him without haste, a silent double siege. On one side, the threat advanced. On the other, equally, death approached.

And then, with a twist of the camera, the perspective changed, revealing the full extent of the narrow and claustrophobic corridor. On both sides, the twin figures moved in sinister harmony, like a pair of spectrally synchronized predators, converging towards their central point — the terrified man, who now occupied the exact space between the approaching incarnations of his imminent end.

"Stay away from me you freaks!" the man's voice broke the torturous silence of the corridor, a desperate attempt to assert his existence against the unfathomable. "Do you want money? I'll give it to you! Just stay away from me!" But his offer fell on ears that seemed deaf to the value of the material, his appeals ignored by the figures of relentless advance.

As the two look-alikes approached, the understanding that no earthly value would interrupt that siege, hit the man with the force of a fatal blow. Fear took control, pure adrenaline dictating a last desperate move. Driven by the instinct of escape that overcame reason, he threw himself frantically against the glass walls that delimited the corridor.

His body, driven by the irrepressible terror, collided violently with the glass that, unable to withstand the impact, shattered in a chorus of destruction. The sharp sound of the glass breaking filled the gaps between the thunder, and the man, released from the heights by his own act of despair, plummeted in a fatal fall. The screams were lost in the night, diluted by the wind and the rain, until a dull and definitive sound announced his end as he crashed against the ground below.

The two figures, indifferent and imperturbable, walked to the dizzying opening created by the man's escape. They peered at the shattered body with looks as cold and impenetrable as the storm that surrounded them. There were no expressions, no speeches — just a silent observation to check that life had completely extinguished.

Once confirmed the consummation of the man's fate, the gloomy sentinels moved away from the gap, uninterested and detached. The camera then moved away, retreating to reveal the extent of the bloodstained facade of the mirrored building. It was a scene of pure terror, a macabre mural eternized by violence. The body of another man, now a grotesque and final stain, was stuck among the sharp shards of glass, his empty gaze directed outward, as if witnessing his own soul leaving the known world. The vision was of a poignant horror, the epilogue of a human tragedy and the specter of death preserved by the incessant rain and the impassive looks of the girls in black cloaks.

---

As I sipped my breakfast — a simple plate of toast with jam accompanied by the infallible cup of coffee, the kind of breakfast that could wake up even the sleepiest of my neurons —, I let the sound of the television blend into the environment. The nibbling of the toast and the noise of my chewing were a kind of metronome for the chaos of the morning, and I watched, half entertained, half disconnected, the urgent news parading on the illuminated screen.

"Last night, Wednesday night, was marked by a tragedy," the journalist recited with that somewhat robotic tone that they all seem to have. And I thought, "Well, at least she's not bored." In the famous international prison L&S, where the big thinkers of the pharmaceutical company play God — or rather, pharmacists for 'awakened' — a terror party took place. "Last night, a massacre that left 65 dead happened," she continued, and I couldn't help but be curious. "These guys know how to throw a party."

The main partners now lay in a more permanent sleep than that of my last business meetings, and the main suspects of the slaughter? Ah, that was the fun part, they were still playing hide and seek with the authorities, who thought the crime had been planned for ages. "The criminals had completely cut off the power in the neighborhood," she said, apparently impressed by the intelligence of the perpetrators, "and made sure to take care of the 'awakened' first, who were acting as security for the place."

"So they finally showed up, huh?" I muttered with an arched eyebrow, taking a thoughtful bite of the toast. I knew who the authors of that slow-motion tragedy were, even the motivations behind that night-time clowning. But honestly? It didn't move a hair on me. They can go to hell. As long as the mess didn't disturb my routine or affect my little world directly — which frankly boiled down to choosing between strawberry or grape jam —, they could very well stab each other at will.

"Are they going to pay a visit to Sam, huh?" I hissed with a tone laden with irony to the mute screen, which now displayed the channel symbol in a commercial break. "Well, all I need is to keep my distance and everything will be as serene as my breakfast." Ah, ignorance is a blessing, especially when accompanied by a perfectly crispy toast. Thus, I finished my humble morning feast, turned off the TV and prepared myself for another day. After all, someone still needs to be the spectator in this theater of the absurd that is life. And me? Well, I always preferred to follow the synopsis rather than the whole play.

---

Less than twenty-four hours after the mess that would give to write a book — or at least a very dramatic pamphlet — and everything was already running at the usual pace. Even Blake seemed to have taken only a pinch, if it weren't for the detail of the missing arm. It must be something in the water here; the speed with which these guys recover would make me jealous if I weren't so busy being awesome.

At nine in the morning, there I was, wearing the uniform that, I have to admit, fit me like a glove — adjusted in the right places, if you know what I mean. I took those steps full of charm towards the exit of the room. But what a thing… An obstacle strategically placed in my way: a full-length mirror. I stopped, almost as if it were one of those movie moments, you know? I looked at myself and thought, "Wow, what do we have here? A runaway model from some magazine cover?" Hard not to be impressed.

With only one of the straps of the black backpack resting casually on one shoulder, I fingered the strands of my hair that, I must say, were smooth, silky and fell perfectly, without any stubborn ones daring to get out of place. With some strategic adjustments, I achieved the look that satisfied me. "I think that's good," I said, with that smile of "after all, who can do more?" I admired myself for a second — or two — and mocked my own arrogance.

And with that self-inflicted sense of duty, I proclaimed, kind of like who doesn't care, "Extra with free will 2.0, let's go."

[...]

Author's notes:

Remember to leave feedback on the story and on the chapter.