The fist connected with jaw. It was a dull, wet thud, the sound of meat hitting meat. Thomas did not feel pain. He felt only the sudden, violent snap of balance, the floor rushing up to meet his shins. He went down. He came up. The other man, a young lieutenant with eyes like wet gravel, swung again. Thomas caught the wrist. He twisted. There was a crack, sharp and final, like a branch breaking in winter. The lieutenant screamed. It was a high, thin sound, nothing like the deep baritone of a man. Thomas pinned him to the concrete floor of the interrogation room. The fluorescent lights hummed above them, a constant, buzzing drone that seemed to vibrate in Thomas’s teeth.

"Stay down," Thomas said. His voice was flat. It was the voice of a man who had spoken very little for a very long time.

The lieutenant struggled. His knee buckled. He was trying to breathe, but his chest moved in shallow, ragged hitches. Thomas held the arm. He looked at the face. It was twisted in agony and fear. The skin was pale, translucent. Under the skin, the veins pulsed. Thomas saw the life in it. He saw the fear. He saw the future shrinking around the boy’s eyes.

"Who told you to come in here?" Thomas asked.

The lieutenant gasped. A tear rolled down his cheek. It cut a track through the dust on his face. "No one," he wheezed. "I just... I wanted to see."

"See what?"

"Nothing. Just... checking."

Thomas released the arm. He stood up. He straightened his tie. The fabric was damp with sweat. He looked at the ceiling. The light flickered. For a second, it went out. The room plunged into darkness. In the dark, Thomas could hear the hum of the ventilation system. He could hear his own heartbeat. It was slow. Steady. It beat against his ribs like a trapped bird.

Then the light came back on. The lieutenant was still on the floor. He was looking at Thomas. His eyes were wide. They were full of a question that had no answer.

Thomas walked to the door. He opened it. The corridor was empty. The walls were white. They were painted a shade of white that seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it. He stepped out. He closed the door. The click of the latch was loud in the silence.

He walked down the hall. His shoes squeaked on the linoleum. He passed the water cooler. He passed the filing cabinets. He passed the window that looked out onto the parking lot. It was raining. The rain fell in sheets, blurring the world outside into a gray smear. He could not see the cars. He could not see the trees. He could not see anything.

He reached the end of the hall. There was a mirror there. It was a large, rectangular pane of glass. It was mounted on the wall, framed in thin metal. Thomas stopped. He looked at the mirror.

He saw himself.

He was older than he remembered. His hair was gray. It was thinning at the temples. There were lines around his eyes. They were deep. They were carved by years of squinting into the sun, of watching for danger, of keeping his eyes open when others closed them. He saw the grayness. He saw the weariness. He saw the man who had been fighting for too long.

He touched the glass. It was cold. It was smooth.

"Who are you?" he whispered.

The reflection did not answer. It only watched. It mimicked his movements. It raised a hand to its chest. Thomas raised his hand. The reflection touched its own face. Thomas touched his own face. He felt the roughness of his skin. He felt the stubble. He felt the heat.

He looked away. He turned back to the corridor. He walked back to the interrogation room.

The door was open. The lieutenant was gone. The chair was empty. The table was bare. There was a stain on the floor. It was dark. It was spreading.

Thomas walked in. He looked at the stain. It was blood. It was fresh. It had not dried yet. He knelt down. He picked up a piece of paper. It was a report. It was crumpled. He smoothed it out on the table.

It was a file. It was his file.

He read the first line. He read the date. It was today. He read the name. It was his name. He read the charges. He read the words. They were simple. They were clear. They were final.

He had been fired.

He had been dismissed.

He had been erased.

He looked at the door. He looked at the floor. He looked at the blood. He did not understand. He had been loyal. He had been strong. He had been right. Why had they done this? Who had done this?

He stood up. He walked to the mirror again. He stood in front of it. He looked at his face. The face was calm. The face was still. The face was not his face. It was a mask. It was a thing that had been worn for so long that it had become part of the skin.

He reached out. He touched the glass again.

He saw the fear. He saw the loneliness. He saw the man who was alone. He saw the man who had lost everything. He saw the man who was dying.

He pulled his hand back. He looked at the corridor. He looked at the window. The rain was still falling. It was falling harder now. The world was washing itself clean. He was not part of it. He was outside it.

He turned. He walked to the exit. He opened the door. The rain hit his face. It was cold. It was wet. It was real.

He stepped out into the rain.

He did not look back. He did not look at the mirror. He did not look at the building. He walked into the street. The street was empty. The cars were gone. The people were gone. The world was gone.

He walked. He walked until his legs gave out. He walked until his lungs burned. He walked until he could not walk anymore.

He sat down on the curb. The water ran down his face. It mixed with the tears. He could not tell which was which. He closed his eyes.

In the darkness behind his eyelids, he saw the mirror. He saw the reflection. He saw the man.

The man was not there.

The man was gone.

The glass was whole.

The glass was empty.

Thomas opened his eyes. The rain had stopped. The sky was clear. The stars were out. They were bright. They were cold. They were far away.

He looked up at them. He looked at the light. He looked at the dark.

He understood.

He had been fighting the wrong war. He had been fighting the shadow. The shadow was not the enemy. The shadow was the self. The self was the enemy. The self was the curse.

He knew now. He knew the truth. The truth was that he was not a hero. The truth was that he was not a savior. The truth was that he was a man. And a man is broken. And a man is mortal. And a man is alone.

He knew it.

And knowing it, he was free.

He stood up. He brushed the mud from his pants. He looked at the building. The lights were on inside. He could see the silhouettes of people. They were moving. They were working. They were living.

He turned away. He walked down the street. He walked into the night.

He did not know where he was going. He did not know who he was. He did not know what tomorrow would bring.

He did not need to know.

He walked.

The rain began again. It was a soft rain. It was a gentle rain. It washed the dust from his skin. It washed the blood from his hands. It washed the guilt from his soul.

He walked.

The mirror was behind him. The mirror was broken. The mirror was gone.

He was free.