No, just to the locker room when done

The locker room was quiet.

Emily stepped inside with the soft creak of the door closing behind her, gym bag slung over one shoulder, towel over the other. Fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, bouncing off the mirrored wall that stretched along the far side of the room. Rows of lockers lined the rest—empty, silent, sterile. The smell of old sweat and fresh disinfectant clung to the air.

She headed for the same bench she always used—second from the left, near the corner.

She was already tugging at her damp racerback top when something flickered in the mirror.

Not her reflection.

A crack.

Hair-thin, barely visible unless the light hit it just right—running diagonally across one of the tall wall panels. She squinted. It wasn’t fresh. But something about it—

There was light behind it.

Just a thread of it, almost imperceptible. Not bright. Not wrong. But there.

She paused mid-motion, one hand holding the hem of her shirt, the other resting lightly on her hip.

The crack darkened.

Only for a second.

Then light again.

Her breath caught.

Someone was behind the mirror.

They had stepped in front of the crack—blocking the light—then stepped away again.

She stared.

The rest of the mirrored wall was flawless. Seamless. But that crack—just one, just this panel—showed the faintest pulse of movement. A shadow passing. A hint of shape.

She didn’t go closer.

She didn’t need to.

Someone was watching. Through that fracture in the glass. Waiting. Silent.

Her chest tightened.

No movement now. But she could feel them. Her reflection stared back, flushed and pink from the workout, chest rising and falling beneath her damp top. Her leggings were soaked at the waist, clinging to her skin. Her nipples were obvious now, hard beneath the compression bra.

She licked her lips.

The crack flickered again.

Shadow.

Then light.

They were still there.

Watching.