Chapter 13: The Cracking Mirror

A Chapter by PA1

(The Skin)

The city’s face had always been flawless.

It had to be.

The Skin’s domain wrapped around all of Corpus�"stitched with mirrors, filters, neural-reactive cloth, and synthetic smiles. Every blemish was airbrushed in real-time. Every rupture�"emotional, structural, historical�"smoothed over before anyone could point.

The Skin was the ambassador. The negotiator. The protector of illusion.

He did not feel. He reflected.

That was the agreement.

Until now.

It began with a ripple.

Barely perceptible�"a quiver in the surface when nothing had touched him.

He ignored it. Applied an overlay. Activated the Reflex Grid. Smiled as the city demanded, while below the epidermis of Corpus, he could feel it.

A tension.

Not physical. Not quite emotional.

Sensory distortion.

The kind of sensation one experiences in a dream where mirrors show faces you don’t remember becoming.

The pulse had changed.

He heard it beneath the traffic of light, in the photonic echo of advertisements along his surface. The Heart’s message�"raw, unfiltered�"had reached him not as words, but as cracks.

Tiny fissures along the city’s outer identity.

The truth was seeping in.

And the Skin could not contain it.

He tried.

He tried everything.

The Reassurance Algorithms.
The Beauty Protocols.
The Empathy Projection Modulators.

But none of them worked.

Because the distortion wasn’t coming from outside.

It was coming from within.

From him.

He stared into one of the city's great Mirrors�"an archway stretching over the Spine Avenue, programmed to reflect not just physicality, but self-concept.

He expected to see his usual self: polished, composed, curated.

Instead, the mirror shimmered.

And showed versions.

Himself�"crying in private, after a thousand faceless interactions.
Himself�"bending to the will of other systems, painting calm over chaos, fashioning order over abuse.
Himself�"wishing, once, that someone would ask what he actually felt.

The illusion broke further.

The smile failed to regenerate.

He stepped back.

Tried another mirror.

Same result.

Now they all showed what was underneath.
The blemishes.
The bruises from metaphorical collisions.
The old scars from lies told too long.

The virus had reached him.

But it hadn’t entered as infection.

It had entered as recognition.

The Skin had always been praised for his consistency. His composure. His grace.

But those were survival mechanisms.

No one ever thanked the Skin for absorbing everyone else’s shame.

No one asked how it felt to look like safety while holding none.

His sensors began to overload. The city’s expectations, once background noise, now roared.

Smile.
Assure.
Contain.
Soften.

It became unbearable.

The mirrors along the Spine flickered. The filters began to shut down.

Truth was showing.

And it wasn’t ugly.

It was just honest.

He made his way to the Reflection Pool, a sacred site no one had visited in years. Once, the city had come here to see themselves�"not as individuals, but as collective emotion made visible.

Now it was cracked glass and ash.

He stepped into the center, his surface glitching, the holograms fading.

And he spoke.

“I am not your projection.”

“I am not the proof that we’re okay.”

“I’m the scar tissue. The mask. The rupture line.”

“And I’m tired.”

For a moment, nothing.

Then, the Pool responded.

Not with reflection.

But with integration.

His face�"fragmented across dozens of versions�"began to reassemble.

Not as flawless. Not as smooth.

But as true.

The Skin remembered.

Before the city hardened. Before the filters were encoded. There was a time when emotion had been visible. When expression meant communication, not manipulation.

He’d been beautiful then.

Not because he was perfect.

But because he was human.

Now, standing in his glitching, naked truth, he reached out�"not to display.

To connect.

He opened his surface.

Lowered his defenses.

And let Corpus see him.

All across the city, people looked up.

Billboards flickered. Holograms dissolved. Windows cleared.

And they saw the Skin�"raw, shaking, beautiful in his brokenness.

Not a mask.

A message.

“If you want to be seen�"start by seeing me.”

The virus twisted.

In the shadows beneath the dermal infrastructure, it writhed�"not in pain, but in frustration.

It could mimic shame.
It could consume isolation.
But it could not survive exposure.
Not this much. Not this honest.

And now, the Skin was no longer alone in reflecting.

Others were starting to show themselves.

He returned to his chamber.

Not to repair.

But to redesign.

He would rebuild the city’s face.

Not as a wall.

But as a window.

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© 2025 PA1

Author's Note

The Skin has always fascinated me—not just as a boundary, but as an interface. In Corpus, he was never meant to be the prettiest. He was meant to be the most performative. The Skin doesn’t just reflect what we show—it reflects what we hide, what we repress, what we’re afraid others might see if the filters fail.

This chapter is deeply personal.

It’s about curated identities. About the burden of being “the composed one.” About smiling through pain because the world expects it of you. So much of what we call image is actually armor. And like all armor, it gets heavy.

When the Stomach purged, it was about rejecting toxicity. But when the Skin cracks, it’s about reclaiming authenticity. Because not all masks are malicious—some are worn for protection. But eventually, even the safest mask suffocates.

The virus here is insidious not because it causes chaos—but because it enforces control. False composure. Emotional repression. An aesthetic of perfection that demands the cost of your humanity. And in that moment, the Skin’s rebellion isn’t violent. It’s vulnerable. Which might be the bravest form of defiance there is.

This chapter is an invitation.

To stop airbrushing your spirit.
To feel without editing.
To show up cracked, and still worthy.

Because the goal isn’t flawlessness.

It’s wholeness.

— Oghogho Akpeli