The night air of Manhattan wrapped around Amara as she stepped out of the terminal — brisk, sharp, and perfumed with rain. A convoy of black sedans waited near the curb, their tinted windows glinting beneath the orange wash of floodlights. She didn't need to check the plates to know they were from Roman Industries. Her father never left things to chance, especially when he wanted control.
The man who opened the door for her was one of his usual escorts — expressionless, well-tailored, and loyal enough to be feared. "Miss Roman," he said quietly, "your father is expecting you."
She nodded once, stepping into the car without a word. The leather smelled of new money and distance — a scent she'd grown up with. As the doors sealed shut, the city blurred past, a river of glass and light.
The rain thickened, and the rhythmic drumming on the roof mixed with the hum of the tires. Outside, neon signs and street lamps reflected in the window, but every now and then, the reflections seemed to shift on their own. Shapes flickered where there should have been none — faint golden outlines that seemed to follow her movements.
Amara pressed her palm against the window, her breath fogging the glass. It's just exhaustion, she told herself. Stress. But deep down, she knew the feeling that crawled under her skin wasn't fatigue. It was recognition.
The car turned off the main road, weaving through a quiet neighborhood where the skyline thinned. Moments later, the mansion came into view — an expanse of glass, steel, and pale stone that glowed faintly under the drizzle. It stood on a hill like a fortress of mirrors, every window a reflection of the stormy night.
When the gates slid open, Amara's chest tightened. The mansion had always felt wrong to her — too quiet, too perfect. Her father had called it The House of Glass, but it felt less like a home and more like a museum built to worship him.
As she stepped inside, the automatic lights blinked on, one by one. The marble floor gleamed beneath her shoes, reflecting her in shards. The air smelled of polish and ozone, humming faintly with the hidden systems that ran through the walls. She could hear the soft buzz of surveillance drones above, faint like mosquitoes.
At the base of the grand staircase stood her father. Chief Roman — towering, immaculately dressed, and cold as the walls around him. The light caught the silver in his hair, but his eyes, deep and calculating, hadn't softened with age.
"Welcome home," he said. His voice was low, deliberate — the kind that filled rooms even when whispered.
Amara stopped a few steps away. "You had me detained in a foreign country, Father. Forgive me if I don't feel at home."
He smiled thinly. "You were in danger, Amara. My sources told me things got… complicated. The relic you found isn't what it seems."
"I know exactly what it is," she said, her tone sharp. "And so do you. It's cursed. You saw what happened in Jos, what it did to the lab workers. Chuka warned us."
Roman's smile faltered for the briefest moment. "Chuka is brilliant, but emotional. He doesn't understand the scale of what we've found. That relic — that Amour — is not a curse. It's a key. The Nok sealed it to protect it, not to destroy it. They knew it carried something divine."
Amara stepped closer, her voice trembling. "Divine? You call it divine when it killed three people before it was even opened? You call that power holy?"
Roman's jaw tightened. "You think too small. The relic responds to energy, to will. It amplifies what's already there. If handled correctly, it could advance humanity centuries ahead. It could change everything."
"Or end everything," she whispered.
The silence that followed was heavy. Rain pattered softly against the high glass walls, trickling down like veins of mercury. For a moment, the storm outside flickered in the reflection — and Amara saw something impossible.
Her reflection blinked after she did.
She stumbled back, heart hammering. The reflection's eyes glowed faintly gold before returning to normal, leaving only her pale face staring back. Her father hadn't noticed — he was already speaking again, his tone clipped, businesslike.
"You need rest," he said. "Tomorrow we'll discuss your future. You'll meet people who believe in what we're building — in what I've built for you."
"I don't want any part of this," she said, her voice low but steady.
He smiled again, but it was a smile without warmth. "You're my daughter, Amara. That makes you part of everything I build, whether you accept it or not."
She turned and began up the stairs. Her reflection followed — only, in one of the mirrored panels, it didn't. It lingered a moment longer, head tilted, watching her.
By the time she reached her room, her legs felt weak. The room hadn't changed — the same pale curtains, the same scent of lavender and electricity. Yet something felt off. Her father's house had always been filled with surveillance — cameras disguised as art pieces, microphones hidden in vents. But tonight, it wasn't the cameras that made her uneasy. It was the mirror.
It stood in the corner, full-length, framed in polished steel. When she moved, her reflection seemed to lag by a fraction of a second.
Her throat went dry. She took a hesitant step closer. "Who's there?" she whispered.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, the lights flickered — just once. And in the flicker, her reflection smiled. Not cruelly. Not kindly. Just knowingly.
Amara stumbled back, clutching the bracelet on her wrist. The bronze band felt warm now, as though responding to something unseen.
Downstairs, she could faintly hear her father's voice echoing through the hall, speaking into a communicator.
"Ensure the containment unit remains sealed," he said. "I want updates every hour. If the energy readings rise again, we move to phase two."
Phase two. The words lingered like smoke.
Amara backed toward her bed, her breath uneven. Whatever had been sealed in that relic wasn't done with them — and somehow, she feared, her father had already begun to open its door.
Outside, thunder rolled across the Hudson, and for a heartbeat, every reflective surface in the mansion shimmered gold.