In the red room where Samantha said mirrors stole souls from the unwary, Derek looked at his twisted, bent reflection in the spiderweb of glass clinging to the wall. One eye pushed up, the other to the right, he smiled and reveled in the distorted image his violence invoked. He turned. Samantha lay pressed against the fold of the door frame, her limbs askew among the chaos of blood and torn clothing, a testament to her failure, a chasm of misunderstanding, Derek took a long, calming breath.
“You should have known, I have no soul to steal.”