Horrific Shorts: Zombie Edition

It descended like a marionette without strings—limbs too long, posture bent but purposeful, each step shattering the glass beneath its feet into a trail of ember. Where the face had been vast, untouchable, this body was immediate. Close. Human.

And it was hers.

The figure carried her height, her frame, even the faint curve of her jawline. But its flesh was glass-smoke and ember, its skin fissured like burnt porcelain. Where her heart should have been glowed a spiral—her spiral—burning red as if stolen from her chest.

Mira staggered back, Elena's weight in her arms like an anchor. "It's not just copying anymore…" Her voice cracked. "It's wearing me."

The hollow-body tilted its head, shards of ember spilling from its hair like sparks off steel. Then it smiled—a perfect echo of hers, only empty. It raised one hand, palm up, as if offering.

The shards in Mira's orbit shuddered violently, several tearing free before she could stop them. They flew to the doppelgänger's side and began circling it, obedient as dogs returned to their master.

Mira's stomach knotted. Her own weapons betrayed her.

Elena stirred, her glow faint but urgent. "It's not trying to fight you… not yet. It wants to finish you. To see if you'll step into it willingly."

The hollow-body spoke for the first time, voice a chorus of Mira's tones layered wrong, fractured like echoes through broken glass:

"Why fight what you already are? I am your release. No guilt, no weight—only fire without fracture."

Mira's chest tightened. The words slid too easily into her bones, because she wanted them. The temptation gnawed: to stop resisting, to pour herself into the hollow and let it bear everything she couldn't.

Her bleeding hand trembled. The spiral at her chest pulsed.

She whispered, almost to herself, "If I step into it… I won't have to hold anymore."

Elena coughed, ember spilling from her lips. She clawed weakly at Mira's tunic until their eyes met. "That's not release. That's erasure. You'll be nothing but ash in a body that wears your name."

The hollow-body extended both arms now, wide, welcoming. Its shards sang as they spun, a music that reverberated inside Mira's ribcage. The spiral in its chest blazed brighter, pulsing in time with her heartbeat.

Her knees buckled, half-ready to collapse into it. For a moment, she saw herself stepping forward—laying Elena down, giving herself up, finding peace.

But then she remembered Elena's words in the plain, when the vessels had first stirred: What if becoming isn't losing?

The thought twisted. Maybe it wasn't about surrendering. Maybe it was about shaping.

Mira planted her bleeding hand against her chest, forcing her spiral to beat against the hollow's rhythm. "If you're me," she hissed, "then you don't get to lead. You bend."

The hollow-body's smile faltered, cracks rippling across its porcelain-skin.

It lunged.

Mira braced as her own reflection struck—her own strength, her own fire, her own fury—slamming into her like a mirror breaking across her bones.

The plain screamed as two Mirahs collided, ember and ash scattering into storm.