Oliver woke with his jaw locked tight. Three days of pretending hadn't worked. He swung his legs out of bed, pulled on yesterday's shirt, and reminded himself why he wouldn't run. This was his house. His town. He would not let strangers in robes decide the shape of his life. He opened the front door to check the mail. The mark was back. Burned this time, scorched deep into the wood — a flower of jagged petals and curling lines, like a mandala from somewhere no human had ever walked. His breath caught. He stepped down to the mailbox and lifted the lid. Inside sat a small wooden carving. A thin, long-beaked figure with antlers like antennae and stars at their tips, painted in faded blue. Oliver carried the carving inside with shaking hands. He set it on the bathroom counter and turned the tap, splashing cold water on his face. When he lifted his eyes to the mirror, he stopped breathing. The thing staring back was not him. A shimmering, prism-bright shape wore his outline — shifting colors, sharp angles, alive behind the glass. He stumbled back. The reflection did not. It tilted its head, studying him, and smiled with his mouth. Oliver understood then, fully, for the first time. They were not coming for him. Something was already inside.