I darted down the darkened hallway, my eyes barely able to make out the shapes of the slick walls around me. Massive picture frames and lopsided fake plants threw lumpy shadows along my path, standing silent, like grave onlookers lined up to watch a grisly execution. I pretended not to notice them, ignoring their judgmental stares boring into my skin. There was nothing in the thick silence—my quick footsteps had been practiced into soundlessness—but I could hear the verdict the shadowed onlookers gave me like the pounding of drums before the guillotine: guilty.

A shiver went down my spine without my permission. I pushed it away, willing my fraying nerves to harden and mold into something strong. Indestructible.

Focus, I told myself, scolding, like my brief moment of weakness was a sign of bad behavior. Down this hallway and take the second right. It’s the second right.

Are you sure it wasn’t left? my inner unwanted consultant chimed in, her snarky voice feigning innocence. It would be such a shame to screw this up. And by a shame, I mean I really want to see you bleed.

It’s right. I’m sure, I snapped back. Except now, I wasn’t sure at all.

The uncertainty filled my head like the rising tide despite my efforts to keep it down. She fed off any and all negativity, especially in me, and I felt her rise up. I saw as the grotesque image of her formed in the corner of my head, the image of a nightmare but one that was unfortunately all too real in ways I couldn’t explain: nearly a perfect reflection of me. At least, what used to be me. Her skin was ridden with scars and torn to expose electric blue flesh, half her hair had been ripped out, and the left side of her face was marred nearly beyond recognition. My right eye looked back at me, but her left was just a brilliant solid blue orb in the socket, and she gave me a smirk with her half disfigured lips.

Oh, but princess, you sound less sure now.

Shut up, Vanessa. You’re not helping.

Whatever you say, princess. After all, I live to serve.

I rolled my eyes at her, trying to ignore her continuous presence. Months back I had named her Vanessa, mostly because I needed something else to call her besides “Monster Me” and thought it was fitting since that was the name of the sea witch in The Little Mermaid. At first, she was really annoyed by the name, which was why I kept using it, but now she had embraced it. As she put it, naming her meant I was accepting that she wasn’t going anywhere. I always got nauseated at the thought.

Trusting my gut, I continued down the hallway and took the second right. Sure enough, my comrade was there waiting for me, standing against the wall with a loose but alert stance.

“The system’s disabled,” I breathed, barely audible. “We’re good to go.”

Micah nodded and straightened up, not hiding the boredom in his bright green eyes that seemed to glow in the dark: radioactive, unstable, and ready to blow. “After you then.”

I complied, taking the lead down the corridor. It was two lefts, stairs, and a right—I knew that—but I still found myself mentally running through the map I had memorized the day before just to triple check. Micah didn’t allow for mistakes on assignments. That was easy for him until I started accompanying him. Now if anything went wrong it was usually my fault, and I paid for it.

Making my senses focus again, I concentrated on where I was. Feet against shoes, shoes against marble. Musty atmosphere. Faint tropical freshener staining the stagnant air. Micah following close behind, his pace rapid but his breathing even. The shadows that watched us, silently waiting in stoic anticipation for judgment to be passed. Left. Stairs. Right. Never making a sound. Focused on putting one foot in front of the other, leading, tensing, recoiling from what would happen when I reached my destination. The shadows shouted soundlessly at me, exposing me for what I was despite the long sleeves I wore.

A shaky breath escaped me, and I felt Micah’s disapproval without even seeing his face.

Stop it, I commanded myself. Don’t think. Focus. You just have to focus.

I stopped at the immense black double doors with gold letters immortalizing the name ‘Laurent Bridges.’ How nice of him to put his name on the door, like an invitation beckoning us in.

You don’t want us to come in, Laurent. You want to run.

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