When Marcus was twelve, he heard a voice in the back of his mind. Not loud. Not clear. Just a whisper beneath his thoughts.
He ignored it.
Then came the dreams.
He'd wake up with muddy feet, bruises on his arms, sometimes blood under his fingernails. His parents blamed sleepwalking. The therapist blamed trauma.
No one asked Marcus what he thought.
Because Marcus knew—something lived inside him.
---
It didn't speak often. But when it did, it was always the same question:
"Can I drive?"
He said no.
Every time.
He said no.
Then one night, when he was twenty-three, his girlfriend found him standing over her bed at 3:33 a.m., grinning wide enough to split his lips.
He didn't remember getting there.
The next morning, she left.
She was never seen again.
He told the police she ran away.
He almost believed it himself.
But in the mirror that night, as he brushed his teeth, the reflection didn't match him.
His mouth moved after he stopped.
And it whispered,
"I drove just a little. Didn't I do good?"
---
Marcus tried exorcisms. Prayers. Isolation.
But nothing helped.
The thing inside him had roots. It had grown with him. It knew his thoughts. It could mimic his voice. It could steal minutes from his day without him noticing.
Soon, it began to leave gifts:
Photographs of strangers asleep in their beds.
Locks of hair in his shoes.
A child's drawing of a man with two faces.
---
One night, Marcus carved into his own chest to try and remove it.
He blacked out from the pain.
When he woke up, the wound was gone. No scar. No blood. Just the voice:
"Nice try. But this body's mine too now."
From that night on, he started losing hours.
Then days.
He'd wake up in strange places. Hear people calling him by names he didn't recognize.
One day, he woke up in a mirrorless room, strapped to a hospital bed.
A nurse looked at him, terrified, and whispered:
"Which one are you today?"
---
Final Note (From a Psychiatric Journal):
Patient "Marcus" remains catatonic during the day. But during unmonitored hours, security footage shows him talking in a voice not his own, answering questions no one asked.
We have sealed all reflective surfaces in his room.
He smiles whenever we mention mirrors.
And at 3:33 a.m. every night, he whispers:
"It's my turn now."