Standing Wall Mirror の小説・ストーリー

The walls were a pristine shade of white, accented with dark walnut panels, and a massive floor-to-ceiling mirror stretched along one side, reflecting the state-of-the-art equipment that occupied the room. Everything was positioned with precision, a testament to both luxury and practicality. To my left was a row of high-tech cardio machines, each more advanced than the last. The treadmill, a top-of-the-line Peloton model, had a massive HD touchscreen, customizable speed and incline settings, and even virtual running trails that simulated real-world environments.

She turned. At the far wall, half-buried in fallen stone, a mirror leaned—eight feet tall, gothic-arched, the frame a tangle of carved angels and demons locked in eternal collision. The glass was cracked, most of it intact. Burgundy veins marbled the surface like something old had dried there. “It’s beautiful,” she said, stepping closer despite herself. Her fingertips came away dark. Not paint. Blood. Michael brushed at the base. “Even with the crack, craftsmanship’s perfect. It looks sealed-yesterday fresh.”

My breath hitches in response. Harlan's hand goes to my jaw, and he wrenches me around with little effort. Instantly, my ass is at his crotch. I wonder how long he's been so hard. The thought ignites me with excitement. At the top of the entryway dresser is a large, ornate mirror. Gold-trimmed and surely ten feet wide at the least, it hangs spaciously on the wall, and at the moment, is giving me a particularly nice glimpse at Harlan, and... well, myself.

Large white and rose gold decorative mirrors hung from the wall and almost rested upon marbled work surfaces in front of each chair. The sound of hairdryers and laugher circled the room as my eyes quickly skimmed over the other clients who were having their hair tended too. Not wanting to make awkward eye contact, I refocused my eyes onto my appearance once again. This time it was in an actual mirror as opposed to a glass building which made me feel worse. Is that a grey hair!? What the f… Before I could examine further, three men attracted my attention. I could see their reflection in the mirror that I was placed in front of which gave me a clear sight of them without looking like a pervert

I pulled the cord and began to climb the ladder. Once I made it to the attic, I began shining the light through the room, but I still didn't see anything. Walking through, I felt something touch the bottom of my foot; it was glass. Why was there glass? I looked up to see a mirror that used to be in my room; I remember it like it was yesterday. Mom and Dad took it out when I was little because I woke up from nightmares; I was six, talking about gruesome things that a six-year-old girl shouldn't know about. I shoved that memory aside and looked back at the mirror then started to leave, but I saw something, a glimpse of something "Hello?" I breathed; my chest was beginning to hurt. I heard the

And yet still, my Master catches me unprepared… Centrepiece to the entrance hall is a pair of mirrors. The frames elaborately carved, gilt finished, they face each other from opposite walls. In proportion to the hall, supported at the base with a dado rail at waist height, each must be eight feet tall, reaching for the ceiling above.

And when she put it on me and I finally turned around to the full-length mirror she’d hidden from me while we were preparing, I really did start to cry and had to blink back the tears so I could see myself. I stood in a thick beam of lush, gold midday sun pouring through the French-paned windows. The walls on this second floor were wood-paneled and warm. The room simple with a cast-iron framed bed and pale coverlet. The mirror was vintage: Oval and gold-framed. It rotated on a stand.

Hailey POV The reflection should not move first. That is the rule. That is the law of physics. Of mirrors. Of reality. But she smiles before I do. And the smile is not mine. It is slower. Knowing. Dylan shifts instantly, his body shielding mine without fully blocking my view. “What is it doing?” he asks, voice low. “It is not copying,” I whisper. The wall is smooth. Solid. Matte white. But the image inside it is sharp. Clear.

They had been taken during public events and Dice had framed them, only to put them up in his home in Paris. Cute mirrors, a total of six mirrors were placed on the walls, around the room. I grinned. Trust Dice to pick up on something about me and make a big deal. I had just started enjoying staring at myself in a mirror for long minutes, probably because Dice would not stop showering compliments on me at any given chance. Yeah, that was definitely the reason.

The Mirror Room wasn’t built for comfort. It was made to fracture reality, to dismantle the sense of self. Floor to ceiling, the room was encased in flawless, polished glass. Every breath, every blink, every heartbeat reflected a thousand times over. There were no shadows here, just distortions—haunting, endless versions of whoever dared to step inside.