Page 7 of Into Pitch

I step deeper into the room and my reflection multiplies instantly.

There are dozens of me, maybe more; Sadie facing forward, Sadie in profile, Sadie warped slightly at the edges where the glass bends. My black lace mask repeats endlessly, delicate and black, my eyes staring back at me from a hundred angles.

In some mirrors I look small and in others I look taller, sharper.

I hadn’t realized how still I’d gone until I see it echoed back at me, so I force another step forward. Every version of me takes it too and the silver chain on my wrist flashes in unison across the room.

The air smells faintly of something clean—antiseptic, maybe?—and something warmer underneath it, like fabric that’s been sat on by too many bodies. Not unpleasant by any stretch of the imagination, but present.

There’s no music here and the hum in the walls from the hallway doesn’t translate within. It’s completely silent and I hate how unnerving I find that.

I move slowly, boots soft against the concrete, and circle the settee once. The mirrors give me no privacy, no corner to retreat into. No matter where I stand, I am visible. From the front, the back, the side, fractured in endless variations.

For just a brief moment, I wonder which one is closest to the truth.

I let my fingers brush the back of the settee as I pass, feeling the texture of the fabric, and grounding myself in something real. It’s cool to the touch and firm. Built to be used.

I blink and look around, because it seems as if time would probably stretch oddly in here.

Without sound or movement cues, seconds feel longer. My pulse is steady, but my awareness sharpens, honing in on small things; the way the lights don’t cast shadows the way they should, the way my breath sounds louder than it ought to in a room this big.

I stop near one wall and look closely at my reflection.

Up close, the glass isn’t flattering. It exaggerates tiny imperfections like the dark circles under my eyes or the faint tension at the corner of my mouth. I tilt my head and so do all the versions of me in varying directions.

“You may sit.”

I spin around in search of the voice that cuts through the silence. It’s low and smooth, close enough to be intimate but not directional enough for me to trace.

“You may stand.”

The words arrive without echo or amplification I can identify. I turn again, searching for the source.

“Or you may move on.”

My heartbeat kicks a little harder this time. I scan the mirrors again, searching for the trick of a one-way pane, a darkened rectangle, anything that would give away where the voice is coming from.

Every reflection only shows one thing—me.

I wet my lips and breathe in slowly, feeling the air in my lungs and grounding myself in the reality of my body in this space.

Sit.

Stand.

Move on.

The choice hangs in the room with me, heavy and deliberate.

And for the first time since I stepped inside Pitch, I understand something clearly, without fear clouding it: This isn’t about obedience, but response.

And I came to do this damn thing, so I’m doing it.

I sit down.

The silence after my choice stretches, but it’s strangely not awkward or empty. Just… expectant.

I’m still sitting when something shifts in the mirror directly across from me. At first I think it’s just another distortion; glass warping light the way it’s been doing since I walked in. Then the reflection bends wrong and is interrupted.