The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like angry hornets, casting harsh shadows across the sterile corridors of Apex Pharmaceuticals. Sarah Kline clutched her lab coat tighter, her heart pounding as she slipped into the supply closet. She had heard it all—the hushed conversation between Dr. Harlan and his assistant, Marcus. ‘The batch is ready. Tonight, the water supply gets dosed. No traces, no survivors.’ It was a plot to poison the city’s reservoir, a corporate cover-up for some failed drug trial gone deadly. Sarah’s hands shook as she pocketed the USB drive with the incriminating files she had copied in a moment of desperate courage.

She waited until the footsteps faded before darting out, her sneakers silent on the linoleum. The elevator ride down was agony, every ding of the floors amplifying her paranoia. Was that a shadow moving in the reflection? No, just her own pale face staring back, eyes wide with terror. Outside, the night air hit her like a slap, the city streets alive with oblivious pedestrians. She pulled her hood up and melted into the crowd, but the feeling gnawed at her—eyes on her back, whispers in the wind.

Her apartment was a fifteen-minute walk, but she took alleys, doubling back twice. By the time she locked the three deadbolts behind her, sweat soaked her shirt. The small one-bedroom felt like a cage now, walls pressing in, the single window barred by heavy curtains. She booted up her laptop, transferred the files, and started encrypting. ‘I have to get this out,’ she muttered, fingers flying. But who to trust? The news? Police? Everyone could be bought.

A knock at the door jolted her. She froze, breath caught. Peering through the peephole, she saw Mrs. Delgado from next door, holding a plate of cookies. ‘Sarah? You home? Made too many.’ Relief washed over her, but caution lingered. She cracked the door, chain still latched. ‘Thanks, but I’m good.’ Mrs. Delgado’s smile seemed off, eyes darting. Or was that her imagination?

Sleep evaded her. Every creak of the building was a footstep, every car passing below a black SUV idling. At 3 AM, she couldn’t take it. She texted her brother, Tom: ‘Need to talk. Urgent. Meet at coffee shop on 5th, dawn.’ He replied instantly: ‘On my way. Wtf?’

Dawn painted the sky bloody as she slipped out, hood up, sticking to shadows. The coffee shop was crowded, normalcy a thin veil. Tom arrived, burly and concerned, hugging her tight. ‘What happened?’ Over steaming mugs, she whispered everything, sliding the USB across. ‘Take it to the FBI. I’m marked now.’ Tom’s face hardened. ‘Jesus, Sarah. Why didn’t you come to me sooner?’ She shrugged, guilt twisting. ‘Didn’t want to drag you in.’ He pocketed it. ‘I’ll handle it. Go dark. Crash at my cabin upstate.’

But as she left, a man in a trench coat lingered by the window, staring. She bolted, weaving through traffic, heart slamming. Her phone buzzed—unknown number: ‘We see you. Drop it.’ Panic surged. She smashed the phone under her heel and ran.

Tom’s cabin was two hours north, nestled in dense woods. She hot-wired a beater from a lot—desperation fueling amateur theft—and drove with mirrors checked obsessively. The radio static whispered warnings. Trees closed in like fingers, roads narrowing to claustrophobic ribbons. Dusk fell as she arrived, the cabin a squat shadow amid pines. Inside, it smelled of pine and dust, the single room lit by a flickering bulb.

She barricaded the door, paced the creaking floors. Night brought howls—wolves or men? A branch scraped the window. She grabbed the poker from the fireplace, pulse racing. Hours ticked by in suffocating silence, broken only by her ragged breaths. Then, headlights pierced the dark, sweeping the walls. Engine rumble, doors slamming. Voices, low and urgent.

She crouched behind the couch, poker gripped white-knuckled. Footsteps crunched gravel, circled the cabin. A silhouette blocked the window—tall, hooded. ‘She’s here. Harlan wants her alive.’ Sarah’s blood iced. Marcus’s voice. They had Tom? No, Tom had the drive.

Glass shattered in the back, tear gas canister rolling. Coughing, eyes burning, she stumbled to the bedroom, slamming the door. But they were inside, boots thumping. She climbed out the window, dropping into underbrush, thorns tearing flesh. Ran blind into woods, branches whipping, lungs fire.

The chase was relentless. Flashlights bobbed, dogs bayed. She tripped into a ravine, mud slick, scrambling up the other side. A shot cracked, bark exploding inches away. ‘There!’ Pursuit closed, her world reduced to pounding feet, tearing breath, enclosing darkness.

She burst into a clearing, an old mill looming, derelict and looming like a tomb. Inside, rusted machinery loomed, shadows thick. She hid in a conveyor tunnel, narrow and choking, metal walls inches apart. Claustrophobia clawed—walls breathing, closing. Voices echoed: ‘Fan out. She’s cornered.’

Huddled, sweat-stinging eyes, memories flashed. Why her? The lab, the conversation—had she imagined? No, the USB was real. Tom’s face, trusting. A sob escaped.

Footsteps neared. She tensed. Then, a new voice—Tom’s. ‘In here!’ Betrayal stabbed. He led them? Door creaked open, flashlight blinding. Marcus stepped in, gun drawn. ‘End of the line, Sarah.’ Tom behind, apologetic. ‘Sorry, sis. They got to me. The money…’

Rage boiled. She lunged, poker swinging. Connected with Marcus’s knee, crack of bone. He howled, gun firing wild. Chaos—she bolted past, into deeper mill guts. Tom yelled, ‘Stop!’ Shots whizzed.

Deeper in, a control room, dust-choked. She barricaded with a crate, gasping. Think! Escape? No doors. Vent overhead, tight. She climbed, wriggling into ducts, metal scraping skin, air stale. Claustrophobia peaked—trapped worm in steel gut.

Dropped into boiler room, massive and echoing. Outside now? No, more voices. Harlan himself: ‘Find her. The formula’s in her blood—test subject knows too much.’ Test subject? Her?

Dizzy, world spinning. Flashes: Needles, labs, Harlan smiling. ‘Volunteering for the trial, Sarah? Good girl.’ The poison—she had tested it first. Memory suppressed? No.

They burst in. Harlan, silver-haired, cold eyes. ‘Sarah, dear. Come out. It’s over.’ She faced them, poker raised. Tom hung back, guilty.

‘You poisoned the city. I know!’ Harlan chuckled. ‘You helped design it.’ Lies! But doubt crept.

He tossed a folder. ‘Read.’ Trembling hands opened: Her signature on docs. ‘Project Echo—Psychoactive dispersal.’ Her notes: ‘Perfect for population control.’ Horror dawned.

‘No… I overheard you!’ Harlan: ‘You were the lead chemist. Cracked under pressure, fabricated the “overhearing” to cope. Sent yourself the USB as reminder. Tom’s in on it—your handler.’

Tom nodded sadly. ‘You started unraveling, talking exposure. Harlan ordered containment.’

The walls truly closed now, reality fracturing. All the shadows—her own guilt stalking. The knocks, the texts—self-sabotage. The chase—her running from truth.

She dropped the poker, collapsing. Harlan approached, syringe gleaming. ‘Sedate her. Ward’s waiting.’

As darkness claimed, final thought: She knew too much—about herself. The predator was the mirror.