Smoke In Mirrors Novels & Stories

Mira’s P.O.V There was no sound at first. Just a ringing—high, sharp, endless—like the world had shattered beside my ear and the pieces were still falling. Then came the pain. A low, crawling ache behind my eyes, spreading down my spine like cold fire. My eyelids felt heavy, glued shut by dust and smoke. It took everything in me to pry them open. Darkness. Not the comforting kind—this one was thick, suffocating, full of smoke that clawed its way into my lungs.

I looked at Maurice coldly. He gave me a disdainful gaze in return. Then, he pulled out a translucent, heart-shaped rock and threw it onto the table. "I know you like things like this. Think of it as my engagement gift to you, but don't think too highly of yourself." I looked at the rock, remembering how he'd given it to me in a similar manner in my past life. I'd treated it like a precious treasure, and I'd kept it with me at all times. I'd thought it was a symbol of his love for me, yet he'd secretly stolen the jewelry Mother had given me as a wedding gift and given it all to Camilla.

No one seemed to notice their brief exchange. Raven’s fingers tightened around the smoke bomb. This was it. She silently counted to five. Then, with a deep breath, she threw the smoke bomb down. A loud pop echoed through the night, followed by a hiss. Smoke billowed around her in thick, dark waves, swallowing everything in its path. Shouts rose from the pack as confusion spread. Then, another explosion of smoke. Raven’s eyes darted to the left. By the trees, a second smoke bomb went off, sending even more dense fog rolling through the gathering. Miranda. She must have set off another one herself.

Jeremy’s dark and cold expression changed. Clearly, he was convinced by what Joy said. “You’re really smart, Bae. I’m too impatient. I’ll do whatever you say. I’ll execute the plan when you say it’s time.” Then, they started shamelessly dirty talking. I hurriedly turned off the security footage, cradled my chest, leaned over the toilet bowl, and gagged. My eyes burned with such rage that they became bloodshot. I turned on the water tap and dunked my head into the water-filled basin. The feeling of asphyxiation made my head clear up.

I pushed the door open and stormed inside, heading straight for my bag. Miriam closed the door behind her, then leaned against it as she watched me rummage through my things. "What are you looking for?" she asked curiously. "My cigarettes," I muttered right when I finally found the pack buried at the bottom of my bag. I pulled one out, stuck it between my lips, and lit it with shaking hands. Miriam raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "You know those things are going to kill you, right?" I ignored her, taking a long drag and exhaling the smoke slowly. The familiar burn in my throat was oddly comforting.

But she also thought of the stakes. With a curt nod, Mira tucked the paper into her pocket and walked to her car. As she opened the door, Edward spoke again, almost as an afterthought. “One more thing.” Mira turned, her brows raised. He tossed her a cigarette. “For the nerves.” Mira caught it, smirking faintly. “I don’t smoke.” Edward smirked back. “You might, after this.” And with that, Mira got into her car, started the engine, and peeled off down the street, leaving Edward in a haze of smoke.

“I didn’t expect you to be the killer. It wasn’t enough that you killed your parents-in-law. Why did you have to kill my mother too?” I looked at the three of them. They all had the same reaction. I froze for a moment. How was that possible? A mirror was just a mirror. It showed whoever stood in front of it. How could it show my face no matter who looked into it? But their grief did not look fake. What was so strange about that mirror? How could it make my wife, my trainee, and my neighbor all believe I was the killer? “I didn’t kill your mother. It wasn’t me.”

“Oh, and here are some pictures from our bed. Look at them. They might help you understand the case.” The photos showed a man and a woman entwined. The man’s handsome face shone with decadent desire. It was Matteo. Sophia left. Her high heels clicked on the floor. Each tap seemed to strike Alicia’s fraying nerves. The office was empty except for her. After a long while, Alicia opened a drawer. She pulled out a box of slim cigarettes she had not touched in a long time. She took one out and lit it. Her slender fingers trembled ever so slightly.

I roared, my fire erupting in a jagged, messy blast. But the blast didn't hit the Idol. It hit the mirrors. Millions of versions of my fire were reflected back at me, but they were no longer mine. They were Beautified. The smoke was turned into glitter; the heat was turned into a pleasant warmth. My anger was being "Marketed" back to me as "Passion".

She stares out of the window, watching the streets grow nicer, taller, shinier as they climb. “So he’s heard of me,” she says, trying for casual. “Babe,” Sofia says, “he probably knows your national insurance number.” The lift opens straight into the penthouse. Glass is the first thing Layla notices—walls of it, wrapping around a living room that overlooks the city like it’s something to be surveyed rather than lived in. It smells faintly of expensive perfume and something darker underneath: leather, wood polish, a hint of smoke.