You ever walk through a house of mirrors?

Everything looks familiar but just off. A stretched smile here. A crooked eye there.

You take a step, and suddenly your arms are longer. Your body’s wider. Your face isn’t yours.

But you keep walking. Because part of you wants to see it, to know what the world thinks you look like.

That’s where you live, Narcissa.

In reflections.

Crafted ones. Controlled ones that bend at your will and tell you what you want to hear.

You don’t chase truth. You curate it.

And you wrote “I know” in lipstick like that made it real. But lipstick smears.

And mirrors shatter.

You wrote it like a spell, like saying it made you the author of my shame. But you don’t know me.

You never did.

You only know the version of me that fit in your frame. The villain you needed. The reflection that cracked the prettiest pane.

So you called it horror. Called it tragedy.

Called it mine.

But you never stepped outside the glass.

You want to talk about bombs? Let’s talk about the ones you left ticking.

You claim to know the truth. But truth doesn’t wear makeup.

You write it in lipstick. I wore it in blood.

You think power is knowing. But I’ve lived on the other side of knowing.

After the Red Light District turned to ash, after the screams stopped echoing, all I had left was a mirror.

And when I looked into it? I didn’t see guilt or grandeur or some tragic heroine.

I saw me. And I didn’t look away.

You can’t say that.

You live in mirrors because you’re afraid of windows. Afraid someone might look in and see you without the glow. Without the mask. Without the edit.

You call yourself the Designer, but all you’ve done is make illusions for people too scared to open their eyes.

You want them to believe you see everything. But the only thing you’ve ever seen is your own reflection.

Zeus let you hold the glass and you called it power.

I broke it and called it freedom.

You don’t scare me.

Because once you’ve lived through your own reflection cracking—once you’ve stood among the shards and still recognized yourself—there’s nothing left to fear.

Not exposure. Not judgment.

Not even you.

So write your little messages. Trace your little truths.

I’m not walking into your house of mirrors, Narcissa.

I burned mine down.

And when we meet in the ring, you won’t be facing a reflection. You’ll be facing the girl who broke through the glass.

The one who sees you exactly as you are. Not what you pretend. Not what you project.

But the truth you’re too afraid to say out loud.

That you don’t know anything. Not about power. Not about pain.

And definitely not about me.

So say it again if it helps. Smear it across every goddamned mirror in Olympus.

“I know.”

But when I shatter your world around you and you finally see your face without the filter, I’ll be the one whispering back:

“I don’t care.”