Michael's world narrowed to the pain in his ears, the trickle of blood flowing down his neck. The laughter drilled into his skull like nails, each peal twisting deeper, pulling at threads he didn't know were there.

His hands pressed harder against his ears, but it was useless. The sound seeped through, a mocking echo that filled every corner of his mind.

He curled tighter, knees to chest, the cold floor freezing his back through the jacket. The happy place he'd tried to summon, a quiet beach from some old family trip, waves lapping soft and steady, shattered under the invasion.

There they were, his reflections, wading into the surf with demonic grins, splashing shadows that turned the water black. One lounged on the sand, arms behind its head, while another built a castle that crumbled into its face, over and over.

"Stop," he gasped, voice muffled against his knees.

But the word came out weak, swallowed by the chorus. They were everywhere now, not just in the room but in him, flipping through memories like a deck of bad cards.

The girl from training again, her laugh ringing clearer than the waves ever could. Nova's easy shrug when she turned away, like it was nothing. Michael's fists clenched in the sand of that false beach, grains slipping through his fingers as the reflections piled on.

Why him? The question looped, a snare tightening around his thoughts.

Nova, with his god-fallen grace, stepped into trials like he owned them. Zane, quick and clever in the greed caves, cores in hand before anyone blinked.

Elesch, blooming with an evolution to her void power ability mid-battle, while Michael's shadows and ice just lingered. And him? Stuck on S-rank for the past two years, his progress has been. He felt small, jealous, and his progress that he had mapped out was completely stagnant.

The laughter grew; it spiked exponentially, making his vision blur into an ocean with high tides. Blood collected under his palm, sticky.

His stomach heaved, and for a second, he thought he'd vomit right there, right in the middle of his own breakdown. Rock bottom wasn't a place; it was this, a pit where envy wasn't just a feeling but a weight, crushing his ribs until breathing hurt.

But something flickered then, buried under the noise. A spark, faint as a dying ember. He'd hit bottom before. That night, after the girl, alone in his bunk, shadows coiled around the bedposts like they wanted to strangle him.

Or after the pillar stall, staring at his Circle sigil night after night, willing it to move. Each time, he'd clawed back up. Not because he was special. Because he had to.

The first reflection's voice cut through, closer now, almost gentle amid the din. "All the way, Mike. That's the only way."

He forced his eyes open. The room blurred, mirrors smeared with streaks of red from his ears. The circle of his looms faces a mosaic of his worst days, hollow cheeks from skipped meals, eyes shadowed from lost sleep. But in the center, the first one knelt still, waiting. No grin this time. Just him, tired and stubborn.

Michael's hands dropped from his ears. The laughter rushed in full force, a wave crashing over him. He winced, tasting copper, but he didn't cover up again.

Instead, he pushed his palms flat against the floor, fingers splaying wide. The glass was slick with his blood, but he pressed harder, grounding himself in the sting.

"You're right," he said, voice raw, barely above a whisper. "I have to face you. All of you."

The chanting faltered, just a hitch, like they'd heard wrong. One reflection, a bulkier version, fists scarred from fights he wished he'd won, snorted. "Face us? You can't even stand."

But Michael was already moving. Slow, shaky, he planted one foot under him, then the other. His legs trembled like a newborn foal's, muscles screaming from the drain. Shadows leaked from his skin, thin and erratic, but he pulled them back, coiling them tight around his core. Not as a weapon. Not yet. As an anchor.

The reflections surged, hands grabbing again, wrists, shoulders, collar. Cold fingers dug in, sapping more of his strength, unraveling the edges of his barrier.

One yanked his hair, forcing his head up to meet a mirror where his kid self stared back, small and forgotten. "See? This is you. Always watching. Never taking."

Pain lanced through his scalp, but Michael didn't flinch. He met the kid's eyes, his eyes, and said, "Yeah. I was watching. Because I was scared. Scared you'd get hurt if you jumped in. Scared I'd fail and look stupid."

The words tumbled out, clumsy, but real. The kid's face softened, just a fraction, before the reflection's grip tightened.

Another pulled at his arm, the lean one from the bad night. "And her? You envied him so badly, you forgot to fight for yourself. Let it eat you."

Michael twisted free, or tried to, the hold was iron, but he leaned into it instead, using their pull to haul himself upright.

His back scraped the mirror behind him, shards from the broken floor crunching under his boot. "I did. God, I did. I envied how he didn't care. How he just was. But that's not all I am. I stayed because I wanted the team to be solid. Because losing her hurt, but losing us would've hurt more."

The lean reflection blinked, its hollow eyes widening. A murmur rippled through the circle, the laughter fracturing into murmurs. Hands loosened, just enough for Michael to straighten fully.

He stood there, swaying, blood crusting on his neck, but standing. His shadows steadied, weaving back into his veins like threads finding a needle.

The first one rose slowly, matching his height. "Then what now? You talk pretty when you're cornered. But envy doesn't go away with words."

Michael wiped his face with his sleeve, smearing blood and sweat. He looked around, not at the faces, but past them, into the infinite stretch of mirrors.

Endless hims, endless doubts. But now, he saw the cracks too. Tiny fractures in the glass where his earlier lashes had landed. Places where the light bent wrong.

"Not words," he said, flexing his fingers. Shadows bloomed from his palms, not wild but controlled, sharp as blades. "Action."

He struck first, not at the reflections, but at the mirrors themselves. His fist, wrapped in darkness, slammed into the nearest pane.

Glass exploded inward, shards flying like angry stars. The reflection tied to it shrieked, dissolving mid-reach, its form sucked into the void behind the break.

The room erupted. They lunged as one, a tide of grasping hands and snarling faces. Michael moved with them, not away. He twisted through the press, shadows lashing out in precise arcs, not to hit flesh, but to shatter frames. Each break pulled at the reflections, yanking them back like puppets on cut strings.

One grabbed his throat, squeezing. "You think breaking us breaks you free? We're you!"

Michael met its eyes, inches away. "Then I'll break the parts that hold me down."

His shadow tendril pierced the mirror at its back, not the body. The glass buckled, and the reflection convulsed, fading with a wail. The grip slackened, and Michael shoved it aside, lunging for the next.

He fought like that, a whirlwind in slow motion, dodging grabs, enduring pulls that sapped his breath, but always striking the source.

Mirrors cracked and fell, the room's hum turning to a groan, like the whole space was protesting. Blood from his ears mixed with new cuts on his knuckles, but the ache in his chest eased, fraction by fraction. Each shatter felt like shedding weight, envy bleeding out with the glass.

The circle thinned. Dozens became ten, then five. The remaining ones circled warily now, less sure. The first one hung back, watching with those sharp eyes. "You're doing it," it said, almost approving. "Facing the shadows. But the biggest ones are still here."

Michael paused, chest heaving, surrounded by jagged stumps of mirrors. His reflection, the first, the truest, stepped forward alone. No grin. No taunt. Just a mirror of him, bloodied and tired, but unbowed.

"You're the core," Michael said, wiping his mouth. "The envy that started it all."

It nodded. "The one that whispers you're not enough. That Nova's light dims yours. That you'll always be the shadow, not the man."

Michael's shadows coiled, ready. But he didn't strike. Not yet. "And if I break you?"

"Then you win. Or you lose the fire that pushes you." It spread its hands, empty. "Your call."

The room held its breath. Michael's mind flashed, not to losses, but wins. The time he'd covered for Zane in a cave-in, shadows holding the rock till help came.

He stepped closer, shadows humming. "I don't need envy to push me. I need me." His fist drove forward, not wrapped in darkness this time. Just flesh and bone, straight into the reflection's chest.

It didn't shatter. It absorbed the blow, staggering back, but whole. Then, slowly, it smiled, not mocking, but real. "Good."

The mirror behind it spiderwebbed, cracks racing out. The reflection reached up, touching Michael's shoulder, not draining, but steadying. "You're enough."

Light flared, blinding. The room shook, mirrors collapsing inward like a house of cards. Michael shielded his eyes, the hum peaking to a scream before dropping silent.

When the glare faded, he was alone. No reflections. No circle. Just an empty room, walls blank stone now, the inscription glowing faintly before vanishing.

He sank to the floor, back against the wall, breath ragged. His ears still rang, but the blood had stopped. Shadows curled lazily around his fingers, strong again. The ache lingered, but it was different, cleaner, like a bruise that'd heal stronger.

A portal shimmered open across the room, soft blue light spilling in. The trial was over. He'd won. But as he pushed to his feet, one last whisper echoed, not from the mirrors, but inside: Don't forget us entirely. A little envy keeps you sharp.

Michael snorted, wiping his face. "Yeah. Maybe." He stepped toward the light, ready for whatever came next.

He then entered the envy room again for his second trial, though he quickly came out, overcoming his reflections and making peace with his inner self.

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