Chapter Text
Azul Ashengrotto hated mirrors.
It wasn’t an idle distaste or the sort of casual complaint some people had when catching sight of themselves first thing in the morning. No, Azul’s hatred was bone-deep, cultivated over years of practice. Mirrors were cruel, merciless, liars—yet they were the only thing he trusted enough to tell him the truth.
The one in his office was the worst offender. It hung on the far wall, polished to a perfect gleam, reflecting every shadow under his eyes, every tremor in his hands, every curve of his body he despised. Mostro Lounge hummed faintly beneath him, laughter and clinking glasses muffled through layers of wood and velvet. Down there, he was composed, sharp, charming. Up here, alone, the truth had nowhere to hide.
He leaned in close, breath fogging the glass. His reflection sneered back at him with soft cheeks and rounded edges that had no business existing. He tugged at his collar until the fabric bit into his neck. He straightened, pulled his shoulders back, lifted his chin. For a moment, he could almost believe the illusion—that he was refined, lean, untouchable.
But his lungs burned, and when he exhaled, the mask fell away.
Still too much.
His hand drifted downward, palm pressing flat against his stomach, fingers curling like claws. He pinched at the phantom softness through his vest, jaw tight. He could feel it even when it wasn’t there—the weight, the roundness, the shame clinging like barnacles to his skin.
And then the voices came, sharp as broken coral.
“Fat little octo-pot!”
“Bottom-feeder! Look at him waddle!”
“Hey, don’t eat too much, or you’ll sink the reef!”
The remembered jeers hit with the same sting as when he was a boy, hiding in the safety of his octopot. Azul bit down on the inside of his cheek until the copper taste of blood spread across his tongue. The pain grounded him, chased back the phantom laughter—but only for a moment.
That boy was gone, he told himself. He had to be gone. Azul Ashengrotto was no longer the pathetic cephalopod who cowered in saltwater shadows. He was a businessman. A mage of status. A man who could bend others to his will with words alone. He’d clawed his way from the bottom of the reef to the glittering surface, and he would never go back.
So why did the reflection never change?
His stomach growled, sharp and loud in the silence. Azul’s face twisted, shame and fury knotting his insides. He turned abruptly, abandoning the mirror, and sat at his desk.
Dinner waited for him there—an elegant tray with a carefully prepared fillet, vegetables arranged in neat lines, a glass of water catching lamplight like crystal. The steam had long since faded.
He stared at it as though it were poison.
His fingers drummed against the desk, rhythm quickening with his pulse. His body screamed for it. Every muscle ached with the demand, his stomach clenching tight. But his mind hissed louder: You don’t need it. You’ve gone longer without. What’s one more night?
The argument was familiar. Ritual, almost.
He told himself hunger was proof. Proof of control. Proof of strength. The pangs in his gut meant victory, not defeat. If he endured, if he denied, he was winning against the boy in the mirror.
Weakness had no place in his world.
With a sharp motion, Azul shoved the tray away. The clatter of silverware against porcelain rang harsh in the office, final. He dragged the trash bin closer and, with trembling hands, dumped the plate inside. He didn’t look at it again. He wouldn’t—couldn’t—let himself think of what he’d just thrown away.
Instead, he drowned himself in work. Contracts, invoices, calculations. His pen scratched across paper, filling the silence with a frantic rhythm. When his hands trembled, he pressed harder. When his vision blurred, he blinked rapidly and forced himself to continue. Mistakes crept in regardless—ink blots, uneven lines, words that slipped from his grasp like fish darting from a net. He scrubbed them out, furious at his own sloppiness.
Sloppy. Weak. Careless.
The words burned into his mind, familiar as old scars. He repeated them until his throat ached, though no sound left his lips.
Time slipped by unnoticed. He only realized how late it had become when the lamplight wavered in his blurred vision, his pen falling from limp fingers. He stood to retire, but his legs nearly gave out. His knees buckled, and he caught the desk with both hands, knuckles white. The room tilted until his breathing steadied.
He glanced toward the office door, toward the faint reflection in the glass pane. For the briefest moment, he saw not the man he had become, but the boy he once was—round-faced, wide-eyed, cheeks flushed with humiliation. That child stared at him with something like pity.
“No,” Azul rasped, throat raw. “Not again. Never again.”
He stumbled toward his bed, shoes still on, and collapsed into the sheets. His stomach churned, body begging for the food he’d discarded, but he curled tighter, clutching himself as though he could squeeze the hunger into silence.
The voices followed him into sleep. They always did.
And the mirror, silent sentinel of his office, waited patiently for tomorrow’s battle.