The fog thickened again.

Not the drifting, lazy kind from before—this was dense, low, humming with energy. It clung to her skin, wrapped around her ankles like a held breath, and pulsed faintly in rhythm with the thread on her wrist.

She stepped forward, following the pulse.

The blurry world she’d escaped—the glitching city, the flickering doubles, the surreal chase—was behind her now. But the thread remained. Tied tight around her wrist. Real. Unmistakable. A challenge in silk form.

She flexed her fingers. Grinned.

Ahead, the fog began to thin—but not with relief. The space grew colder, more deliberate. The hush wasn’t natural; it felt curated, like something was waiting to be revealed.

She walked slower here. Not from caution, but from awareness. This stretch of fog didn’t feel like the rest.

There was a focus to it now. A shape. Like the fog itself was choosing what came next.

To the left, she passed a series of standing mirrors—each one warped, curved just enough to make her reflection tilt wrong. Her arm longer. Her grin too wide. One showed her in full military gear, polished boots, saluting to no one. Another in a business skirt and blazer, sitting behind a massive desk with no door.

She didn’t stop. Just glanced. Let it sit.

Another mirror caught her eye. More run-down than the others, frame half-rotted, propped at an angle like it had been forgotten. This version of her sat slumped in an alley, threadbare hoodie pulled over greasy hair, knees tucked to chest, a paper cup near her foot with nothing inside it. Her face was thinner. Paler. Eyes sunken.

No one else in the mirror. Just her.

Alone.

She paused. Not long. But enough.

Enough to feel it.

Then kept walking.

The thread tugged again—stronger now, as if to say: this is it.

And then the fog parted, not like mist, but like the opening scene of a play she’d forgotten she was in.

Just enough to see a shape. A shimmer. A wall of glass.

It wasn’t something you could walk around. The fog curved in behind it—tight, dense, like a barrier in every direction. Even the thread pulled forward now, not sideways. Not giving options. Just one path: through.

No door. No hinges. Just a window, suspended mid-air—framed in iron, rimmed with a kind of false stillness that made you feel boxed in just by looking at it. The ground led nowhere else. The fog, once open, curved tight around it like a trap disguised as clarity.

There was no path left to wander. Only forward.

Only through.

On the other side—

Her.

But not.

This version stood motionless, arms crossed. A tailored black suit. No dirt. No scars. Hair slicked back into a knot. Skin clean, eyes cold.

Everything about her screamed control.

She looked like command lines and office chairs. Like contracts and security clearances. Like she’d never climbed a roof or jumped a fence just for the hell of it.

And worst of all—

She looked bored.

The real you stopped walking. The grin didn’t vanish—but it changed. Curved downward, held tight—like something sharp pressed behind calm.

She stepped closer to the glass.

The suited version tilted her head. No smile.

“You’re functional,” she said. “But unreliable.”

No introduction. No warmth.

“Efficiency doesn’t require chaos,” the suit-her added. “And this barrier isn’t for breaking.”

You stepped close to the glass. Pressed one hand to it, then rested your forehead against the surface. The cold stung, but you didn’t move. Your grin widened—too wide, on purpose. The kind of grin that meant trouble was coming.

Your eyes scanned the ground. Found something: a stone. Just big enough. Just heavy enough.

You picked it up.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t hesitate.

You stepped back.

You launched it like a baseball pitcher—full wrist, full shoulder, everything behind it.

It hit the glass and bounced.

No crack. No mark. Just a dull thunk as it hit the floor again.

The suit-you raised an eyebrow.

“Told you. You can’t break what you’re not ready to face.”

You looked at the floor. Slowly. Deliberately. Then up at her.

And grinned wide.

“Watch me.”

You stepped back.
Rolled your shoulders.

Then ran.

Adrenaline kicked. Breath steady. Boots thundering. No hesitation.

You didn’t think. You just went. Shoulder first. Teeth bared.

And this time—

It cracked.

Not shattered. Not gone. But cracked. Thin white fractures spidering out from the point of impact like lightning frozen in ice.

The suited version stepped back—slightly, barely—but enough.

You leaned against the glass, breath hot, heart pounding.

Still grinning.

“You don’t get to wear my face,” you said, “and stand there like you’ve got the right to tell me who I can be. Who I am.”

The crack deepened.

The thread pulsed.

And the world began to change again.

But not the way you expected.

The suited version took another step back. Arms still crossed, but the stillness cracked around her.

Order doesn’t break windows. She knew that. That wasn’t her job.

She didn’t flinch. But she didn’t advance either.

You backed up again. Picked up the same stone. Rolled it in your palm.

One more throw. Harder.

This time it struck one of the fractures—and bounced again. But the crack deepened. The spiderweb widened.

Inside the glass, Suit-You sighed. A sound of irritation, not fear.

“You’re wasting effort.”

You ignored her.

You walked to the edge of the fog. Picked up a longer piece of scrap—metal? Maybe. It didn’t matter. It had weight.

You hurled it.

The glass rippled. Didn’t shatter. But it moved. Just slightly. Enough to see Suit-You’s expression shift.

You pressed both hands to the surface now, breathing deep.

“You still think I won’t get through?”

Her tone was flat. “You won’t get far once you do.”

You grinned. “Then open up. Let’s test that.”

She didn’t. Of course not. Not her style.

But something behind her shifted. A sliver of light broke through—just over her right shoulder, as if the world was catching up to your intent.

You moved fast.

Threw your weight again, right at the weak point. The crack screamed. The thread flared.

You dropped to one knee, breathing hard, fingers clenching tight around the metal bar. You didn’t stop.

You wedged it into the crack—deep—and twisted.

The glass groaned. A deep, high-pitched sound like it resented being disturbed. The spiderweb of fractures bloomed wider, crawling toward the edges. You pressed harder, using your weight, shoulder braced against the bar, rattling it like a crowbar against a door that didn’t want to know you.

Inside, Suit-You watched. Silent. Still. But her arms were no longer crossed.

“You’re making a mess,” she said.

You grunted. “Good.”

The glass bulged. Warped. A line split clean—vertical, down the middle.

She stepped closer now, reluctantly. Like gravity insisted.

You pulled the bar free. Drove it in again.

This time, the sound wasn’t a crack.

It was a rip.

A hole opened—jagged, sharp, barely wide enough to crawl through.

You didn’t hesitate.

You shoved the bar through, then your hands, dragging yourself in like someone breaking into a future they were never invited to.

Suit-You stepped back, barely enough to let you pass.

You fell through the jagged opening, boots crunching across glass shards that hadn’t fully given up their form. The floor inside was smooth and sterile—until you arrived. Now it was littered. Messy. Marked.

The suited version of you stood ten feet away, eyebrow raised. Still not afraid. Just… judging.

She clicked her tongue lightly. “Dramatic entrance. Do you always smash your way into conversations?”

You gave a sharp breath through your nose, half-laughing. “Didn’t see a ‘knock politely’ option.”

Her eyes flicked to the jagged edges of the hole behind you. “You think that proves something?”

You stepped further in, hands loose at your sides. “Yeah. Proves I’m not asking.”

You stood tall. Shoulders loose. Breathing steady.

“So,” you said, eyes locked, grin returning. “What’s your problem?”

Suit-You folded her arms again. “Besides your complete disregard for structure? You’re volatile. Chaotic. And you’re wearing boots like you’re about to run instead of listen.”

You took a step closer, fragments snapping beneath each step. “Yeah, well. You look like someone who irons socks and has a spreadsheet for ‘acceptable tone of voice’.”

She didn’t blink. “You look like someone who dives headfirst into walls just to say you didn’t flinch.”

You gave a little nod. “Damn right. Better than asking permission to breathe.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Control isn’t permission. It’s survival.”

You snorted. “Sounds boring.”

A long pause followed.

Then Suit-You asked, “What are you trying to prove, exactly? That you’re different? That you’re better?”

“No,” you replied. “That I’m real.”

Her expression faltered. Just a twitch. A crack.

You pointed to the broken glass around your feet. “And I don’t need your permission to be here.”

The thread tugged once at your wrist, then stilled.

You held your ground.

Let her speak. Let her judge.

You weren’t done here.

Suit-You raised her chin slightly. “Real doesn’t mean right. You know that, don’t you? Passion fades. So does defiance. Eventually, everything needs a system. A ladder to climb. Stability.”

You took another step, glass crunching like punctuation. “You mean cages.”

Her lips pressed into a near-smile. “I mean a place. A role. A purpose that doesn’t rely on how fast you can run or how loud you can be.”

You shook your head. “No. You mean being useful on someone else’s terms. That’s not purpose. That’s a cage dressed as purpose. That’s containment—dressed up neat and called sustainability.”

Suit-You didn’t move. “It’s sustainability,” Suit-You said, voice softer now. “Without structure, you burn out. You become noise. You make a scene, and then the world moves on without you.”

But even she seemed to feel the hollowness in the echo. Like a line rehearsed too many times. Like it used to mean something.

“So what?” you snapped. “I’m not here to be remembered for keeping the lights on. I’m here to live. To move. To break what needs breaking.”

“And then what?” Suit-You asked, voice sharper now. “When the dust settles? When you’ve run out of fights to pick and cliffs to leap from?”

You were right in front of her now.

“Then I’ll be me. Still moving. Still breathing. Not a polished product someone else can sell.”

Suit-You’s eyes narrowed.

“You think that makes you better.”

You shook your head again. “No. Just awake.”

And for a moment, just a breath of it—

She blinked.

And looked almost… uncertain.

A long silence stretched between you.

Then, quieter than before—but not soft:

“You think I wanted to become this?” Suit-You asked, voice low—not defensive, not sharp. Just honest.

You blinked. That wasn’t the tone you expected.

“I think you stopped asking if you had a choice,” you said.

She looked away—just briefly. A flash of discomfort in a face that had worn stillness like armor.

“There was a time I ran like you,” she said. “But one day, I realized the world only bends if you have leverage.”

You gestured to the jagged hole you’d forced through the glass. “Then maybe I’ll make my own.”

Her lips tightened, but the judgment was gone. In its place—something else. Not quite approval. Not quite resentment. A kind of weary understanding.

“We do what we have to, to survive,” she said.

You nodded. “And sometimes, surviving means smashing the window before it turns into a mirror.”

Her eyes met yours again. And this time, there was no fight.

Just… recognition.

You both stood there a while. No need to pace. No need to posture.

Finally, she said, “You remind me why I started. Why I used to move without asking who was watching.”

You smiled. Not a grin this time—something smaller. Calmer.

“And you remind me what it costs to never stop.”

Suit-You nodded once. Not an agreement. Not surrender. Just… respect.

“Maybe we need each other more than we admit.”

You shrugged. “Maybe we’re just two sides of the same thread.”

For a moment, you both just breathed.

And you turned.

Back through the jagged glass. Toward the thread—but something shifted.

Where there had been only fog and fracture, now there stood a doorway. New. Seamless. Unmistakably meant.

Clean edges. Smooth frame. No hinges, but glowing faintly around the outline—as if it had only just been created.

You hadn’t seen it before.
Maybe it hadn’t existed before.

But it was yours. A way forward you made.

No smashing needed this time.

You glanced back.

Suit-You stood still inside the broken room, one hand raised—not waving, not reaching. Just a quiet signal.

“Go,” she said. “Keep moving. Someone has to.”

You nodded once.

Took a deep, steady breath.

And stepped through.

And walked on. No orders. Just thread, and will.

---

❂ The thread winds this way.

Follow where it frays, tangles, or tightens.

Each part holds the next—and the next part is just below.