"It’s not me," Elias would tell himself, gripping the edge of his workbench until his knuckles turned white. "It’s the best of you," the shadow would retort.
But as he leaned in to wipe a smudge of blood from the glass, his reflection didn't move to help. It stayed still for just a fraction of a second longer than it should have, and winked. The clock was broken, but the door stayed unlatched. the devil in me
The glass shattered. A sound like a dying bird echoed through the workshop, and the shadows collapsed into dust. Sterling fled, leaving the door swinging on its hinges. "It’s not me," Elias would tell himself, gripping
Should we delve deeper into to keep the door shut, or It stayed still for just a fraction of
Elias felt his vision split. He saw his own hand reach out—not to hand over the clock, but to grip Sterling’s wrist. He felt the strength of ten men coiled in his muscles. His reflection in the glass of the clock wasn't his own face; it was a void with burning, amber eyes.
"You’re working too hard," the reflection whispered. The voice didn't come from the air; it vibrated inside Elias’s own teeth.
The transformation was subtle. It started with a newfound appetite. Elias, usually content with tea and toast, began to crave raw, iron-rich flavors. Then came the confidence. At the local pub, he found himself speaking with a silver-tongued cruelty that silenced rooms, dismantling the egos of strangers with a single, devastating sentence. He felt a terrifying, surging power—the thrill of being the sharpest blade in the room.