The rain had slowed to a steady whisper against the city’s windows, washing the neon lights into blurred streaks across the glass. Inside Lyos’s apartment, the air was thick with the scent of burnt coffee and the faint, metallic tang of fear. The four of them-Lyos, Liora, Soren, and the newcomer, Elias-sat in a loose circle, the battered Architect’s journal and a scattering of old foundation files between them.

  Elias looked out of place in the cramped room. He was older than Lyos had first guessed, his hair streaked with gray, his hands marked by old scars. He sat with his back straight, as if bracing himself against some invisible weight. For a long moment, no one spoke.

  Finally, Liora broke the silence. “You said you’ve been through this before. That you’re a watcher. What does that mean?”

  Elias’s eyes flicked to her, then back to the rain-smeared window. “It means I survived. Most don’t.”

  He reached into his coat and pulled out a small, cracked mirror. He turned it over in his palm, the glass catching the candlelight and scattering it in jagged shards across the walls.

  “I was a researcher here, twenty years ago,” he said. “Back when the foundation was still new, when the Architect was alive. I believed in the work. We all did. We thought we were on the verge of something miraculous-a way to heal the mind, to erase trauma, to make people whole.”

  He paused, his jaw tightening. “But the Architect… he was obsessed. He didn’t want to heal the mind. He wanted to split it. To create a second self-a shadow-that could bear all the pain, all the darkness, so the original could be pure.”

  Soren frowned. “But it didn’t work.”

  Elias shook his head. “No. It worked too well. The shadow selves became real. Hungry. They wanted more than pain-they wanted life. They learned to move on their own. To feed.”

  Lyos felt a chill crawl up his spine. “What happened to the others?”

  Elias’s gaze was haunted. “Most vanished. Some went mad. A few… a very few… learned to resist. We called ourselves watchers. We learned to see the signs-the flicker in the mirror, the wrong smile, the voice that isn’t quite your own. We learned that the only way to survive was to stay connected. To never face the shadow alone.”

  He looked at each of them in turn. “That’s why I came. I saw the pattern starting again. The disappearances. The blackouts. The smiles.”

  Liora leaned forward, her voice trembling. “How did you escape it?”

  Elias hesitated, then placed the cracked mirror on the table. “I didn’t. Not completely. The shadow is still with me. It always will be. But I learned to live with it. To keep it at bay.”

  He tapped the mirror. “This was my anchor. Every time I felt it getting stronger, I forced myself to look. To remember who I am. To reach out to others. The shadow feeds on isolation, on secrets. When you share your truth, when you let others see you-really see you-it loses its grip.”

  Soren’s eyes narrowed. “But it’s getting stronger, isn’t it? Not just for Lyos. For all of us.”

  Elias nodded. “The Architect’s ritual was never truly stopped. The cradle was sealed, but the pattern-the hunger-remains. Every few years, it finds a new host. Someone vulnerable. Someone fractured.”

  Lyos swallowed, his hands shaking. “Why me?”

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Elias’s voice softened. “You’re not weak, Lyos. You’re human. We all have cracks. The shadow just finds the ones who are willing to look.”

  A heavy silence settled over the room. Outside, the rain intensified, drumming against the glass like impatient fingers.

  Liora broke the silence. “If the shadow is spreading, we have to warn people. We have to stop it.”

  Elias looked at her, admiration flickering in his eyes. “You’re right. But it won’t be easy. The foundation has buried the truth for decades. Most people won’t believe us until it’s too late.”

  Soren stood and began pacing, running a hand through his hair. “There’s got to be something in the Architect’s notes. Some way to end this for good.”

  Lyos opened the journal, flipping through the brittle pages. The Architect’s handwriting was cramped and feverish, the margins filled with symbols and numbers. Again and again, the number 26 appeared-circled, underlined, sometimes scrawled so hard the pen had torn the paper.

  He stopped at a page near the back. “Here. Listen to this.”

  He read aloud:

  The shadow cannot create. It can only reflect what it is given. To starve it is to deny it secrets. To destroy it is to show it the light of truth. But the shadow is cunning. It will try to divide the host from the world, to convince them they are alone. The host must remember: the self is not a single thing, but a chorus. Only together can they sing the shadow away.

  Elias smiled faintly. “He understood, in the end. But too late.”

  Liora squeezed Lyos’s hand. “We’re not alone. Not anymore.”

  They spent the next hour sharing their stories-each blackout, each vision, each moment when the shadow had tried to worm its way into their minds. The act of speaking, of laying bare their fears, seemed to lighten the air, to push back the darkness pressing in from the corners of the room.

  Elias told them about the early days of the foundation-the experiments, the betrayals, the night the cradle was sealed. He spoke of friends lost to the shadow, of nights spent staring into mirrors, daring his reflection to blink first.

  “I was ready to give up,” he admitted, voice raw. “But then I found others. People like me. We formed a network, passing on what we learned. Most didn’t make it. But a few did. Enough to keep the pattern from spreading too fast.”

  Soren leaned forward. “Is there a way to break the cycle? For good?”

  Elias hesitated. “Maybe. There’s a ritual-older than the Architect’s. It was whispered about in the early days, before the foundation was even formed. It’s dangerous. But if it works, it could seal the shadow away. Or destroy it.”

  Lyos’s heart pounded. “What do we have to do?”

  Elias met his gaze, eyes dark and steady. “We have to return to the cradle. All of us. We have to face the shadow together. No secrets. No lies. Only truth.”

  A sense of purpose settled over the group. For the first time since the nightmare began, Lyos felt hope-a fragile, flickering thing, but hope nonetheless.

  The rain eased, and the city outside seemed to breathe again. But inside the apartment, the four of them prepared for the final confrontation.

  Elias stood, gathering his coat. “We leave at dawn. Get some rest. You’ll need it.”

  Liora lingered by the window, watching the rain. Soren sat cross-legged on the floor, poring over the journal. Lyos stared at his reflection in the darkened glass, searching for any sign of the shadow.

  For once, his reflection only looked tired.

  He turned away, joining the others. Together, they mapped out their plan-how they would enter the foundation, what they would bring, how they would anchor each other when the ritual began.

  As the night wore on, Lyos found himself drifting between exhaustion and anticipation. He thought of the people lost to the shadow-the child in the hospital, the vanished researchers, the faces in the mirrors. He thought of the Architect, driven mad by his own creation.

  He thought of the promise he’d made to himself: I will not face this alone.

  When sleep finally came, it was dreamless-a rare mercy.

  The next morning, the city was washed clean by the rain. The four of them met at the edge of the old foundation grounds, backpacks loaded with supplies, nerves stretched taut.

  Elias led the way, his steps sure despite the years. The building loomed ahead, its windows dark, its doors chained. Soren broke the lock, and they slipped inside, flashlights cutting through the gloom.

  The halls were silent, the air thick with dust and memory. They moved quickly, retracing the path to the cradle.

  At the door, Lyos paused, heart pounding. He looked at Liora, at Soren, at Elias. “Whatever happens in there,” he said, voice steady, “we face it together.”

  They nodded, a silent pact.

  Elias pushed open the door. The cradle waited, unchanged-a room of mirrors, a chair in the center, the air colder than the rest of the building.

  They stepped inside, the door closing behind them with a final, echoing thud.