Chapter Text
You finish showering with the vague sense that you’ve forgotten something important.
The bathroom is warm and fogged, steam clinging to the mirror in a soft, uneven veil. You towel off slowly, more out of nerves than comfort, and step onto the cold tile with a quiet hiss between your teeth. Somewhere beyond the door, the city noise continues,distant traffic, a siren far enough away to not ring in your ears, like many would when passing right by your building. Normal sounds. Anchors that keep you in reality. You tell yourself you’re fine.
You catch your reflection as you pull on clean clothes. Damp hair clings to your neck; droplets trace paths down your shoulders and collarbone. You reach up, combing your fingers through your hair, straightening it where it sticks out at the odd angle from toweling off. The mirror clears where you wipe it with your palm, skin squeaking faintly against glass.
You pause. Because it isn’t just tonight. It hasn’t been, for a while now.
Bright gold eyes, where there shouldn’t be any. Reflections that linger half a second longer than they should when you turn away. Movement in polished windows, chrome fixtures, dark phone screens, always gone the moment you look straight at it. You’d chalked it up to stress. Long work hours. City living doing what it does best: making you paranoid.
Still, you’d started avoiding mirrors when you could.
You lean closer now, studying your face as if looking hard enough might shake the feeling loose and bring you back to the real world. You tilt your head. Touch your cheek. You look… normal. Tired, maybe. A little stressed out. Nothing that explains the crawling sensation along your spine.
You wipe another streak of condensation from the glass. And this time, your reflection doesn’t copy you. There’s someone else there.
He stands just behind where your image should be, filling the mirror’s frame. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Masked. His eyes, too bright, unmistakably gold, are locked on yours with a focus that feels intimate in the worst possible way.
Your breath leaves you in a sharp, panicked sound. You stumble backward, heel catching on the bathmat as you fall hard onto the floor. The impact rattles your teeth, and immediately aches in your rear and back. Your heart slams against your ribs, wild and useless.
“No-” you start, not even sure what you’re saying no to. No to the realization that this is reality? No to whoever this man was?
The mirror ripples.
No cracks appear, no glass shatters. It ripples, like the surface of a lake disturbed by a thrown stone. The man lifts a hand from the other side, palm pressing outward. The glass bends around it, distorting his fingers, swallowing them inch by inch. He steps forward with deliberate ease, pushing through as though the mirror is nothing more than a curtain of water. Of course, the bathroom mirror only reaches the waist, and some horrified part of your brain thinks half of him may only come out. But, he crawls onto the sink, then pulls each leg free.
When he emerges fully, droplets slide off him that aren’t water at all. Light, maybe, or something colder. The mirror smooths behind him, intact. He straightens, boots settling onto tile.
You scramble back until your shoulders hit the wall, lungs burning. Every instinct in your body screams to run, but your legs refuse to cooperate.
He looks around your bathroom with mild curiosity, as if taking in a hotel room he’d just arrived to. Or inspecting a new home. Then his gaze returns to you. It doesn’t waver.
“Ah,” he says, voice low and calm, touched with something like amusement. “There you are.”
Your mouth opens. Closes. Your pulse roars in your ears. “Who- what are you?”
His head tilts, just slightly. “That’s not very polite.” He takes a step closer. Not rushed. Not cautious. Heavy Boot treads thumping against tile and rug. “You’ve been seeing me for weeks. I was starting to think you’d never put it together.”
You shake your head, breath coming too fast. “You’re not real. I’m- this is- ”
“- a dream?” he finishes for you. “No, unfortunately not.” He smiles beneath the mask. You can hear it in his voice.
The space between you feels suddenly too small, like the walls have closed in with the size of the man. He stops a few feet away, close enough that you can see fine details now—the scuffs on his boots, the way his coat hangs heavy on his frame, the absence of a rise and fall of his chest.
“My name’s Dante,” he says, almost conversational. “And, yes. I came here to kill you.”
Your stomach drops. You feel your blood freeze.
He watches your reaction closely, eyes tracking every hitch of breath, every tightening muscle. When you don’t scream, when fear freezes you instead, his shoulders relax, just a fraction. He chuckles, smile widening.
A lie, then. Or something like a joke.
“…Kidding,” he adds lightly.
Your hands curl against the tile. “Why are you here, then?” you whisper.
Dante’s gaze drifts over you, not hurried, not leering. Appraising. As if you’re a reflection he’s been adjusting for a long time and finally decided to step closer to inspect. “Because,” he says, “you finally noticed.”
Your brain finally catches up to your body. You’re still damp. Bare in places you absolutely did not plan on being bare in front of a stranger who just crawled out of your mirror. Heat floods your face as you glance down at yourself, then back at him.
“Turn around!” you blurt.
Dante looks delighted.
“Why?” he asks mildly, eyes flicking down and back up again with zero shame. “You look fine.”
You grab a towel and clutch it to yourself, scrambling upright. “Because I didn’t invite you in here to- to-” You trail off, gesturing vaguely at him. At everything.
He hums, seeming unsure, but he does turn, pivoting with exaggerated patience as you edge past him into the hallway. You half expect him to vanish the second you break eye contact, but his footsteps follow you, unhurried and deliberate.
“So,” he says, as if you’re walking together under perfectly normal circumstances, “this is where you live.”
You hurry into your bedroom and start pulling on clothes with stiff, embarrassed movements. “You don’t get to comment on my apartment.”
“I do,” Dante replies easily. “I’ve been in it plenty.”
You freeze. “What.”
“Not like this,” he clarifies. “Reflections. Windows. Dark screens. You’d be surprised how many surfaces count.” A pause. “Actually, you wouldn’t be surprised, would you? You noticed.”
“You’ve been following me,” you say, a shiver sent down your spine.
“For months,” he agrees. No hesitation. No apology.
You shoot him a look over your shoulder. “That’s called stalking.”
Dante leans against your doorframe, arms crossing loosely. “Yes.”
The casual acceptance of it does more damage than denial ever could. You button your shirt with shaking fingers. “Why?” you ask. “Why me? Why show up now?”
He watches you closely, eyes sharp but not unkind. For the first time since he appeared, something like restraint creeps into his posture. Almost embarrassment.
“I wasn’t supposed to come out yet,” he admits. “Mirrors are… thinner when you’re emotional. Excited.” His gaze drags back to yours. “I lost focus.”
You swallow. “You lost focus and broke into my bathroom… because you saw me showering.”
“Mm.” A corner of his mouth lifts. “You looked good. Caught me off guard.”
You snort despite yourself, nerves fraying. “You said you wanted to kill me.”
He shrugs. “I wanted to see what you’d do. How you'd react. I like seeing people’s emotions. How their body will react in the most lizard-brained way.”
“That’s not a good reason. Worse than ‘for fun’, actually.”
“I know.”
Silence stretches between you, thick with things unsaid. Finally, you cross your arms and face him fully. “So what do you want?”
Dante pushes off the frame and steps closer. Not crowding, just enough to make his presence larger, more imposing. “A date.”
You blink. “…A what?”
“A date,” he repeats patiently. “Dinner. Somewhere I’ll take you. Somewhere nice.”
You stare at him, incredulous. “You stalked me. You terrorized me. You emerged from a mirror, and terrorized me, and now you think I’ll go on a date-”
“And,” he adds gently, lifting a hand to brush his fingers over your shoulder, light as can be for a large hand covered by cloth gloves, “I noticed you. When no one else did. I know you know that no one else has noticed.”
The touch is brief. Gone almost as soon as it lands. But it leaves heat in its wake, your skin buzzing where he passed.
“I’d take you somewhere good,” he continues, voice low. “Not loud. Not crowded. Somewhere you won’t have to pretend your loneliness doesn’t bother you.”
You open your mouth to refuse. You really do. But the words snag. Because he’s not wrong. Your phone has been quiet for a long time. Dates fizzled out before they ever sparked. People looked through you lately, like you were part of the scenery. Forgettable.
Dante didn’t forget you. He watches your hesitation like it’s the answer he was waiting for. “Think about it,” he says softly. “You can say no. I won’t make you.”
You don’t believe that entirely. But you believe him, at this moment, at least. Your pulse thrums, half fear, half something dangerously close to anticipation. “You’re insane,” you mutter.
His eyes gleam. “And yet.”
You exhale, long and slow, then look back up at him. “Somewhere public.”
A smile curves under the mask, unmistakable this time.
“Of course,” Dante says. “I’m not a monster.”
You hesitate longer than you mean to. Then, with a sigh that sounds like resignation and maybe some curiosity, you nod. “Fine. One date.” You lift a finger, warning. “But if you try anything weird, I call the police.”
Dante’s eyes brighten in a way you immediately regret.
“The police,” he repeats thoughtfully. “That’s cute.”
Before you can ask what he means by that, the space between you disappears.
One moment he’s standing a careful distance away, hands relaxed at his sides. The next, there’s a rush of motion, and you’re falling backward onto your bed with a startled gasp. The mattress dips beneath your weight. Dante follows, bracing one hand beside your head, the other pinning your wrists above you with effortless strength.
It happens so fast your fear doesn’t even get a chance to flare before seeing what’s happened. Your heart slams into your ribs. “Dante-!”
“Relax,” he murmurs, far too close now. His voice is calm, almost amused. “If I were going to hurt you, you wouldn’t have time to reach your phone.”
That should terrify you, but the fear doesn’t quite reach that level. He leans closer, gold eyes burning. “They don’t know I exist,” he continues quietly. “I’m not really a man of the living. I move where reflections allow me. I kill and no one ever knows who it was.”
You swallow hard. He waits for the panic. You can feel it in the way he pauses, how his grip stays firm but not cruel, as if he’s bracing for you to thrash.
Instead, heat rushes to your face. Your breath stutters, not from fear alone, but from how close he is, how unmistakably aware you are of him hovering over you. The weight of his body pushing you down into your sheets.
Dante blinks. Then he laughs. It’s a real laugh, low and warm, vibrating through his chest where it hovers just inches from yours. “Oh,” he says, delighted. “That’s unexpected.”
You glare at him, mortified. “Get off.”
He does, immediately. He straightens, releasing you as though nothing happened, stepping back with hands raised in mock surrender. “You’re not scared,” he observes. “Flustered, yes. Curious. Maybe even interested.”
“I did not say that.”
“You didn’t have to.” His smile is audible. “Most people stop wanting me the moment they learn what I am. You seem to be doing the opposite.”
He adjusts his coat, still watching you with open fascination. “I find that charming. Deeply.”
You sit up, heart still racing, trying to regain a sense of control. “That doesn’t mean you get to-”
“Indulge myself?” he finishes lightly. “No. Not yet.” His gaze lingers, heavy with implication. “After the date, perhaps.”
You groan and bury your face in your hands. You hate that your face is flushed at the idea. Even more so at the fact that imagining it isn’t as horrible as you thought.
Dante turns away, already losing interest in the argument. He walks to the full-length mirror leaning against your wall, its surface reflecting both of you, him tall and composed, you rumpled and flushed on the bed. He pauses, glancing back over his shoulder. “Get ready tonight,” he says. “I’ll come back for you.”
“And if I change my mind?”
His reflection smiles at you. “You won’t.”
He steps forward, and the mirror ripples to meet him. One foot disappears, then his shoulders, then his head, until he’s gone entirely, the glass smoothing back into a perfect, innocent surface. It reflects you, sitting on your bed, hardly any evidence of his presence in the first place.
The room is quiet again. Your bed is still warm where he had you pinned. And despite yourself, despite everything, you realize you’re already wondering what you’re going to wear.