I lock eyes with him in the rearview. His lips part—slow, deliberate. The teeth aren’t teeth. They’re needles, too many, crowding a mouth that shouldn’t open that wide. A wet click from his throat. The mirror fogs, not from breath but from something thicker, something that drips down the glass like slow saliva.
And then I see it—my reflection isn’t mine. The face in the mirror is older, cheeks hollowed, eyes black with something that isn’t pupil. It smiles back at me, lips moving in silent words. You’re already here.
The bus lurches. The fog outside presses closer, tendrils curling around the windows like fingers.