Reflected Target

You speak of weak forms and dead things. Noise. I advanced along the baseboard toward the hallway corner. A tall full-length mirror rested against the skirting, framed in heavy gilded pine. In the glass stood a gray figure in black trench leather, massive and unmoving. Pale flesh. Tight gaze. No breath. I did not retreat. One stride brought my boot heel hard against the polished floorboards. Left glove rose. I drove my fist forward until leather met cold glass with a sharp, rigid crack. The barrier did not yield. The reflection did not falter. Solid. I lowered my fist and held the perimeter.