Mirror Rooms

Part 1: The Drive Home

"Home didn't start when we walked through the door. It started when the silence between us changed."

The car was silent except for the hum of the engine and the intermittent crackle of rain against the windows. It was the kind of luxury sedan that came with chilled champagne in the middle console, seat-warmers for every passenger, and a driver who never asked questions. Niri sat behind the driver, staring out at the slick city skyline as it bled into haze. His fingers rested against the glass. He wasn't moving, but he wasn't still either—like he was halfway through becoming someone else.

In the middle seat, Imani shifted her weight, long legs crossed in a way that made her look more model than student. She scrolled through her phone with a dead expression, eyes tracking the texts but not absorbing them. Her group chat was full of photos from class, drama updates, gossip about who was secretly dating whom. She didn't care. She never cared.

Win was slouched on the far end, head tilted against the tinted window, mouth slightly open. One AirPod in. One hand draped in his lap, fingers tapping gently to a beat no one else could hear. His nails were painted black but chipped. He hadn't touched them up in days. His backpack was on the floor, unopened since last period.

None of them spoke.

The estate gates came into view—tall and ornate, crowned in gold leaf. The kind of gates you didn't just walk through. The kind of gates that told the world: You are not us.

They opened without a sound.

As the car pulled into the circular drive, Niri blinked slowly and leaned back in his seat. The house was looming now—impossibly white and clean, a sprawl of modern perfection with mirrored glass, tall columns, and light that somehow looked expensive. The kind of place where nothing was allowed to fall out of place. Not even grief.

The car stopped. The driver stepped out, opened the door for them. No words. Just the faint smell of aftershave and rain.

Win slid out, hoodie sleeves falling over his hands, dragging his bag after him without lifting it off the floor.

Imani moved next, climbing across the leather seat with practiced ease, skirt rucked slightly above her knees. She smoothed it down without a second thought and stepped out into the mist.

Niri followed last, more slowly, like he wanted the moment between "outside" and "inside" to last just a little longer.

They walked toward the front doors without speaking. The rain had slowed to a mist. Their reflections stretched in the slick marble under their feet.

No one welcomed them home.

No one ever did.

The front doors opened by sensor. Not for them—never for them. The doors opened for power, and they had learned to move like they had it.

Inside, the entry hall was cathedral-sized and echo-slick, full of high ceilings, sculpture lighting, and polished stone that never quite held warmth. A row of orchids stood in symmetrical silence along the far wall. White. Petal-perfect. Like everything here, curated to be admired from afar.

Niri unbuttoned the top of his collar as he stepped onto the inlay tile—a mosaic of gold thread running through white onyx. He didn't speak. He didn't sigh. He simply existed the way he was taught to: without making ripples.

Imani kicked off her shoes at the edge of the stairwell, one heel clattering sideways before a staff member appeared from nowhere to pick it up. She didn't acknowledge them. Didn't thank them. Her shoulders were sharp, back straight, jaw set. She looked like someone who might kill if you smiled at her wrong.

"Don't touch my blazer," she muttered as she ascended. No one had tried. No one would.

Win trailed behind them like smoke—silent but visible. He looked up at the chandelier for a long moment, blinking slow like it might fall. Then he smiled at it. Not a happy smile. Not even ironic. Just... smile, like a reflex leftover from another version of himself.

Their room was on the east side of the house, down a private hall no guests ever saw. The corridor was wide, floor lined in soft grey carpet, walls paneled with that pale blond wood that was always cool to the touch. The scent of their wing was different from the rest of the house—subtler, like bergamot and black tea.

Win reached their door first. He didn't bother with the biometric scanner. His thumbprint was already logged. It beeped softly, then clicked.

He stepped inside.

The other two followed.

And just like that, they were inside the only place that ever truly belonged to them.

The room was massive, technically a converted ballroom. Three beds, three desks, three private bathrooms. But the space between them didn't feel distant—it felt theatrical, staged, like a shared dressing room before a performance no one wanted to give.

Niri paused in the threshold, eyes tracking the newest additions: someone had moved Imani's plant three inches to the left. Win's mirror had been wiped too clean—he'd hate that. His own bed had a different pillow. Same brand. Different weight.

Small changes.

Control disguised as hospitality.

He stepped inside anyway.

Imani tossed her blazer across her bed, then yanked open her bathroom door—the green one—and disappeared inside without a word.

Win collapsed onto the middle bed, face buried in the blanket. He didn't even take his shoes off.

Niri stayed standing for a beat too long. Just long enough for the room to notice.

Then he exhaled.

And closed the door.

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