The Tenth Floor

The elevator hummed as it climbed the sterile shaft of St.d hospitals—the way they smelled of bleach and resignation—but today, he had no choice. His mother had called last week, voice trembling. She’s awake, Marcus. After all these years.” Elena. His twin sister. Comatose since the crash ten years ago. No speech. No memory. And now—awake. The elevator dinged. Floor six. Marcus exhaled. Their last conversation echoed in his mind like a haunted lullaby. *“You were driving,”* she’d whispered, just before the crash. But she wasn’t making sense. She’d grabbed the wheel, eyes wild, shouting about someone in the road. But there had been no one. No witnesses. Just wreckage. Silence. Nothing after that. Floor eight. He wondered what she’d remember. What she’d say. What she could say. The doctors had warned him not to expect too much. Brain trauma was unpredictable. Memories might come back in fragments—if at all. The elevator stopped at the tenth floor. Marcus stepped out into a strangely empty corridor. Pale lights flickered overhead. The nurse’s station was unmanned. Odd. He glanced around. No wheelchairs. No sounds. Just the echo of his own careful steps. Room 1022. The door stood slightly ajar. He pushed it open. There she was. Elena sat upright in bed, eyes sharp and steady, watching him with eerie stillness. Her hair was long and tangled, but her face—God, it was like looking into a mirror. "Hi," he said. "You remember me?" She smiled. “Of course I do, Marcus.” Something about her voice was too smooth. Too calm. Unnatural. He walked closer, setting the flowers on the nightstand. “Mom said you just woke up.” “I’ve been awake for a while,” she replied. “They didn’t know.” He frowned. “Why not?” She tilted her head. “Because I didn’t want them to.” A long silence stretched between them like tension on a wire. “You blamed me,” she said suddenly. “For the accident.” “No,” he said quickly. “I didn’t.” “You did,” she insisted. “But you’re wrong.” “I wasn’t driving,” Marcus muttered. “You don’t remember,” she said, smiling wider. “But I do now.” He stared. “The doctors said your brain—” “They were monitoring her,"she said, eyes glittering. “Not me." “What are you talking about?” Elena reached up and slowly pulled the hospital gown aside, revealing a black tattoo just below her collarbone—a ring of interlocking triangles, pulsing faintly. Marcus froze. “I was awake when they brought us in,” she said. “They took me. Studied me. Changed me. And when they were done—” She pointed to the mirror. He turned. His own reflection stared back—but the eyes were black. Bottomless. Not his. “You were the perfect shell,” she whispered. “But now I want it back.” He stumbled back, heart hammering. The lights flickered once, then died. The mirror rippled. A hand—his hand—reached out and seized him. The door clicked shut behind him. And in the dark, Elena smiled.