Fred stepped onto the fractured floor, the air between him and the doppelgänger thick with a tension that made breathing painful.
The other Fred smiled — not kindly, but with a mocking, pitying curve of the lips.
"You always ran away from what you could become," the reflection said, circling him. "Always afraid of what you are."
Fred gritted his teeth. "I'm not you."
A chuckle, low and cruel. "Not yet."
The Lost Ones surrounding the throne began to stir, shifting like a sea of regrets. Their hollow eyes followed Fred's every move, as if waiting for him to slip, to fall, to join them.
Without warning, the doppelgänger struck.
Fred barely managed to block the blow. The force behind it was monstrous — like fighting all the grief, rage, and guilt he had buried over the years made manifest.
Their weapons clashed, sparks flying.
Each strike the doppelgänger landed carried a memory:
— The face of the boy he couldn't save.
— The betrayal he didn't see coming.
— The lonely nights questioning if survival was worth the cost.
It was a fight against the weight of his own failures.
And Fred was losing.
--
Mira called out from the edge of the battle, desperation coloring her voice.
"Fred! It's not strength that makes you who you are! It's your choice!"
The doppelgänger laughed, a sound that chilled the blood. "Choice? Choice is an illusion for the weak."
Fred staggered back, his blade knocked from his hand. He fell to one knee, vision swimming.
The Cradle itself seemed to pulse, its heartbeat syncing with his faltering spirit.
In the chaos, a hand grasped his — Mira's.
Her eyes burned with fierce, stubborn light.
"You don't have to fight alone," she whispered.
Fred drew a shuddering breath.
No. He wasn't alone. He never had been.
He closed his eyes, reaching into the core of himself — not the broken parts, not the pain — but the fire that had kept him alive. The stubborn will that refused to surrender.
When he opened his eyes again, they gleamed with a new, unbreakable resolve.
---
Fred surged to his feet.
The doppelgänger lunged — but this time, Fred was ready.
He sidestepped the attack, grabbed the reflection by the throat, and slammed him into the ground.
"You're not me," Fred said coldly. "You're only the fear I refuse to bow to."
The doppelgänger writhed, his form beginning to flicker and distort.
"No!" it howled. "Without me, you're nothing!"
Fred leaned closer. "Without you... I'm free."
With a final, brutal thrust of will, Fred drove the shard-weapon through the heart of his reflection.
The false Fred let out a cry that sounded like every regret he had ever carried — and then shattered into a thousand points of light.
The Lost Ones wailed and dissolved into dust.
The Cradle grew still.
And then... silent.
---
At the far end of the hall, a new door appeared — simple, wooden, unadorned.
Fred turned to Mira and the remaining survivors.
"This is it," he said, voice rough but steady. "The way out."
They crossed the hall together.
Fred paused at the threshold, glancing back one last time at the place where his reflection had fallen. He felt lighter. Not healed — but no longer shackled.
He squeezed Mira's hand.
"Let's go," he said.
And together, they stepped into the unknown.
---