The Digital Reflection of Darian King
By Olivia Salter
Word Count: 3,381
The rain fell in steady sheets against the glistening skyscrapers of New York, painting the night in streaks of neon and shadow. Darian King stood by a floor-to-ceiling window, the city lights glimmering in his eyes, his reflection more vivid than his surroundings. Tonight was the launch of his first solo show, and the loft gallery buzzed with artists, critics, and influencers—each of them primed for spectacle.
Eli Basil, Darian’s longtime friend and the artist responsible for tonight’s centerpiece, slipped through the crowd like a shadow, his presence barely more than a whisper amid the clinking glasses and quiet murmurs. His eyes found Darian across the room, and he moved closer, clutching a slim USB drive in his palm.
“Darian,” Eli’s voice was a low murmur, as if he carried a secret meant only for them. “I finished the portrait. The one you wanted.” He held up the drive, offering it like a token of something sacred. “It’s on here. A version of you the world will remember.”
Darian’s fingers closed around the drive, feeling the weight of it, though it was feather-light. “Perfect?” he asked, his voice somewhere between curiosity and a need for affirmation.
“Perfect,” Eli replied, his eyes dark and unreadable. “As perfect as you are.”
They moved toward the back of the gallery, where Darian’s laptop was stashed in a private office. Eli watched silently as Darian slid the drive into the port, the screen flickering to life. And there it was—his image, rendered in high resolution. The version of himself he had always longed to see.
Darian drew in a slow breath. He looked… powerful, magnetic. Eli had somehow distilled not just his face but the essence of his ambition, his insatiable need to be admired and adored. In this digital reflection, his eyes sparkled with something almost otherworldly.
“Unreal,” Darian breathed, his voice thick with awe. “This… this doesn’t even look like me.”
“It’s more than you,” Eli said, leaning closer. “It’s the ideal version of you.”
For a moment, Darian felt a chill. But he brushed it off quickly, savoring the intoxicating thrill of seeing himself like this. This wasn’t just an image—it was a mirror into something deeper, something untouchable.
Eli’s friend, Henry, wandered into the office, leaning against the doorframe with a sarcastic smile. “Oh, don’t let me interrupt,” he said with a slight smirk. “Admiring your own beauty, Darian? Careful—too much self-love can ruin you.”
Darian turned, rolling his eyes at Henry’s provocations. They’d met a few months back, and though Darian couldn’t always trust Henry’s blunt opinions, he liked his cynicism, his bold disregard for anything sincere. Henry was the one who’d taught him to see admiration as currency—to cultivate it, hoard it, and wield it.
“Not everyone can understand the value of beauty, Henry,” Darian replied, his tone light but his words carrying an edge.
Henry only laughed, patting Darian on the shoulder. “You’ve got it all, Darian. Beauty, talent, charm. You’re invincible—at least as long as you never stop looking that good.” His eyes flicked to the image on the screen, an amused glint dancing across his face.
Darian only smiled, looking back at the image. He knew Henry’s praise wasn’t meant to be reassuring, but it didn’t matter. He’d never felt more alive.
***
Two weeks later, the nights in New York blurred together. Darian drifted through exclusive parties, drank in rooftop lounges, and found himself photographed at every corner. His face—always carefully lit, perfectly angled—started appearing in glossy spreads, on social media, splashed across influencer feeds. He basked in the glow, feeding off the applause that followed him.
And yet, there was the portrait.
It stayed hidden on his laptop, locked away where only he could find it. And every time he opened it, he saw something different. Maybe it was just the lighting, or a trick of the screen, but the image looked… different. His eyes appeared a little darker, the shadow beneath his jaw deeper, the hint of a line forming across his forehead. Little things he brushed off as nothing more than an artist’s flourish, a bit of drama added by Eli.
But as the days turned into weeks, Darian noticed the changes growing. He had looked into the mirror just this morning, his skin smooth, unlined, his eyes bright and clear. But in the digital image, his face held a slight, almost invisible strain, as though the weight of all he carried was beginning to etch itself into his skin.
He ignored it, of course. Who cared if a digital portrait showed him with a slight frown, a shadow he hadn’t noticed before? He was living his dream, reveling in the glamour and allure of his own success. The world was his mirror, reflecting back everything he wanted to believe about himself.
But as he closed the laptop one night, the faintest whisper of dread clawed at the edges of his thoughts. He shook it off, pushing it away, but the feeling remained—a lingering sense that something about the image, about himself, was beginning to unravel.
***
One month later, Darian’s nights stretched longer, spilling into mornings. He’d perfected his look for photos, the slight tilt of his head, the exact squint of his eyes to project intensity. Every post on his feed went viral; every comment, every like, stoked the embers of his confidence into a blazing fire.
But the portrait—now a fixture in his nightly ritual— torture him. It had become an obsession. He would check it after every event, every new conquest, seeking confirmation that his allure, his perfection, was as unbreakable as he wanted to believe.
Instead, each time he opened the file, he found a subtle new flaw. Lines deepened under his eyes, his expression grew harder, his smile twisted into something that bordered on cruel. The darkening image seemed to peer back at him with an accusatory glare, like a version of himself he didn’t want to see.
One evening, he sat alone in his loft, the city’s glow casting long shadows across his face. He had been avoiding Eli since the portrait's completion, a combination of guilt and irritation building in his chest. But tonight, he couldn’t ignore the changes any longer. He needed answers.
“Eli,” he said, his voice blunt when his friend picked up. “Meet me at my place. I need to talk to you about… the portrait.”
There was a hesitation on the other end, and Darian sensed Eli’s reluctance. But after a beat, he agreed.
***
Eli arrived an hour later, shoulders hunched, eyes flickering around Darian’s carefully curated space. The loft was more than just an apartment; it was a stage, every piece of furniture carefully chosen to project an image of effortless style. But tonight, the carefully crafted aura felt hollow, like a set left vacant after the actors had gone.
Darian wasted no time, dragging Eli over to the laptop. “Look,” he said, the edge of desperation threading his words as he opened the file. “Something’s… wrong with it.”
Eli leaned in, eyes narrowing as he studied the screen. Darian watched him, scanning his face for a reaction. He wanted Eli to tell him it was just the lighting, just a trick of the digital display. Instead, Eli’s lips thinned, and his gaze darkened.
“It’s not the same,” Darian pressed. “I haven’t changed, but it has.”
Eli’s face was unreadable as he studied the distorted reflection. “Art,” he murmured, almost to himself, “is a mirror, Darian. Sometimes it shows more than we expect.” His eyes met Darian’s, and for a moment, there was something raw there—an emotion Darian didn’t want to name.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Darian snapped, though his anger was tinged with a flicker of fear. “Are you saying this thing is changing on its own?”
Eli sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe it’s reflecting you. Not your face, but… everything else. The things you’re carrying, the choices you’re making.”
Darian’s jaw tightened. “You’re saying this is my fault?”
“Not fault,” Eli corrected gently, though his eyes were shadowed. “But maybe it’s trying to show you something you’re not seeing.”
Darian dismissed him, slamming the laptop shut. “I don’t believe in that. I don’t believe in… superstitions or some creepy reflection nonsense. It’s just a picture. And I want you to fix it.”
Eli’s lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze heavy. “Some things can’t be fixed, Darian. Not without changing what’s causing the problem in the first place.”
Darian waved him off, irritation flaring hotter than ever. “You’re just jealous, Eli. You can’t stand seeing me successful, loved, and… and beautiful.”
Eli’s expression fell, but he didn’t argue. He only watched as Darian turned away, his face etched with a sadness Darian refused to acknowledge.
As Eli left, Darian felt a pang of something unfamiliar—something that clawed at his chest, an ache that felt close to loneliness. But he shoved it down, burying it under the familiar glow of his phone, the notification bubble lighting up with likes and comments.
Yet as he stared at the screen, the words blurred, and for the first time, they felt hollow. A sea of names, faces he barely knew, strangers propping up the image he had created. An image he wasn’t even sure he recognized anymore.
***
Another month passes, the changes in the portrait escalated, becoming grotesque. Darian’s once-perfect smile now seemed twisted in a sneer, his eyes hollow and dark. He could no longer brush it off as a trick of light. The image was haunting, a reminder of something he couldn’t shake.
Darian tried to drown the nagging fear in new pursuits, relationships that burned fast and ended in silence. He ghosted Sabine, the actress he’d dated briefly, leaving her to deal with the fallout of the press’s scrutiny on her own. She had come to him, tear-streaked and heartbroken, asking for answers, for closure. But Darian, too self-consumed, had pushed her away with a shrug.
One night, while scrolling through old photos, he found an image from when he’d first arrived in New York. He looked… bright, hopeful. That version of himself felt like a stranger. When he opened the digital portrait afterward, the contrast hit him like a blow to the chest. The version of himself in the portrait was barely recognizable now—a hollow-eyed, jagged-edged creature he wouldn’t have acknowledged in daylight.
But it wasn’t just the image. Lately, people had started treating him differently. His once-loyal friends grew distant, their voices tinged with hesitation, their glances skittish. His interactions felt strained, as if they were sensing something off. Even Henry, normally unfazed by Darian’s worst qualities, had grown oddly silent.
***
One evening, unable to take the isolation any longer, Darian called Henry, demanding he come over. Henry arrived late, leaning against the doorframe with a wary look, his casual smirk absent.
“What’s going on with you?” Henry asked, his tone unusually serious.
“Nothing,” Darian replied sharply. “But people are acting strange. They look at me like…” His voice trailed off, frustration flaring as he searched for words. “Like I’m someone else. Like they don’t even know me.”
Henry watched him in silence for a moment before answering. “Maybe they don’t.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Darian’s voice rose, his fists clenched.
Henry only shrugged, his gaze flicking to the laptop on the table. “I think you know. Deep down, at least.”
Darian’s jaw clenched as he felt the rage simmering under his skin. “No. No, I’m the same. I haven’t changed.”
Henry’s expression was resigned. “Everyone can see it but you, Darian. There’s a price for the things you do, for the way you treat people. Maybe it’s just catching up with you.”
Darian could barely breathe, the weight of Henry’s words pressing on his chest. He glanced at the laptop, the closed screen a silent accusation. His stomach twisted, anger morphing into something darker—an emptiness that gnawed at him from within.
With a harsh laugh, he shoved Henry out of his apartment, the door slamming shut behind him. He didn’t need this. He didn’t need anyone.
But as he stood in the empty loft, the silence echoed, filling the space where his confidence had once been. And despite himself, he couldn’t stop the trembling in his hands as he reached for the laptop, knowing that no matter what he saw, he couldn’t look away.
***
A week later, Darian was unraveling. The changes in the portrait—no longer subtle, no longer ignorable—haunted him like a shadow that grew darker with each glance. The once-handsome face now looked monstrous, twisted by an expression that was both vacant and menacing, as if every unkind thought, every careless betrayal, had etched itself there. His flawless skin had dulled, taking on a sickly, almost corpse-like hue.
He became obsessed with trying to fix it. He’d spend hours tweaking settings, adjusting lighting, trying to erase the flaws, but every edit made it worse, deepening the darkness, sharpening the hollow lines. It was like the image was fighting back, reflecting a truth he couldn’t accept.
His work suffered, his friends disappeared. He barely left his apartment, the glow of his laptop casting long, eerie shadows across his face late into the night. Each day, he convinced himself that the changes weren’t real—that he was simply overworked, overtired, maybe even hallucinating.
But deep down, he knew better.
***
On a night when the silence was too much to bear, Darian tried to lose himself in the city’s nightlife, drifting from bar to bar in search of distraction. But even the city, with all its lights and laughter, couldn’t drown out the darkness he felt gnawing at him.
At one of his usual spots, he spotted Sabine. She stood with a group of friends, laughing and radiant under the dim lights. When she noticed him, her smile vanished, replaced by a look of thinly veiled disdain.
“Darian,” she said flatly as he approached, her eyes cold. “Still charming the world?”
“Sabine,” he began, his voice softer than he’d intended. “It’s good to see you.” He forced a smile, but her glare remained steady, unmoved.
She crossed her arms. “You’re as fake as they come, Darian. I wasted so much time thinking you cared.”
He chuckled, a hint of bitterness creeping in. “Oh, please. Don’t act like I forced you to be with me. You wanted the fame, the thrill, the drama. Just like everyone else.”
Her face twisted in hurt, but her voice remained firm. “You think the world revolves around you. But you’re just… empty, Darian. Whatever you were trying to prove—whatever made you so hollow—it's eating you alive. You might not see it, but everyone else does.”
She turned and walked away, leaving him standing alone, her words lingering like the faint sting of alcohol on his lips.
But this time, the anger he expected didn’t come. Instead, a cold wave of shame washed over him. He looked around the room, suddenly aware of the distance between himself and everyone else, as if they were all standing in the light, and he was trapped in shadow.
***
Back in his apartment, a grim sense of dread had replaced the smug satisfaction he once felt about his life. He sank into his chair, the laptop glowing in the dim room, the faint hum filling the silence.
Darian’s fingers hovered over the touchpad, reluctant to open the portrait. But the pull was undeniable, the need to see it, to confront the thing that had been his obsession, his curse.
When the file loaded, he recoiled. The image had morphed further. His face was gaunt, skeletal, with sunken eyes that seemed to stare back at him, mocking him. The mouth was twisted in a cruel, sneering grin. It looked barely human—a grotesque mask that captured the very essence of every horrible thought, every cruel word, every selfish act.
With a shudder, he realized it was the face of a monster.
In a fit of rage, he tried to delete it, his fingers feverishly pounding keys. But every attempt failed, the file refusing to disappear, no matter what he did. The laptop froze, the image remaining on the screen, glaring back at him with a darkness that seemed to reach out from the screen.
Panicked, he slammed the laptop shut, but even with the screen dark, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the image was still there, burned into his mind.
***
Days passed, and Darian’s isolation deepened. The bright young face he once saw in the mirror now looked hollowed out, exhausted, despite his efforts to keep up appearances. The makeup he applied to cover his darkening eyes, the careful styling of his hair—all of it felt pointless. People still saw through it, saw through him.
He sought out Henry again, desperate for some way to undo what had been done. They met at a dim, nearly empty bar, Henry’s face unreadable as Darian recounted his desperation, his horror.
Henry’s voice was grim. “So, you’re finally realizing the cost.”
Darian gripped his glass, his hand trembling. “I don’t care about the cost. I just want to be myself again. I want the image… the portrait to stop changing.”
Henry looked at him, pity darkening his gaze. “The reflection isn’t lying to you, Darian. It’s showing you what you are. What you’ve done.”
Darian shook his head, a look of anger and frustration crossing his face. “But I can’t undo it. I can’t… take it back.”
Henry sighed, as if speaking to a child who still didn’t understand. “The only way out, Darian, is to change what’s in here,” he said, tapping his chest. “Until you face what you’ve become, the portrait will keep showing you the truth.”
Henry stood, leaving Darian alone, the words lingering long after he had gone.
***
Haunted, Darian returned to his loft, mind racing. He sat on his couch, laptop on his knees, the dark screen like a gateway into something he could no longer escape.
“I’m not a monster,” he whispered to the empty room, but his voice wavered, betraying him.
In a final, reckless act, he decided to confront the portrait one last time. He opened the laptop, bracing himself. This time, the portrait didn’t show him at all.
It was just a blank, black screen, with two gleaming, hollow eyes peering out of the darkness. They looked straight through him, as if seeing everything he had tried to hide, every weakness, every flaw.
The sight broke something inside him, and he found himself gripping the edges of the laptop, his breaths coming in shallow, rapid gasps.
“No,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “I won’t… I won’t let it end like this.”
But as he stared into those hollow eyes, he felt a terrifying sense of inevitability settle over him. The face was no longer something he could hide, no longer a reflection he could escape. It was him, stripped of all pretense, all illusions.
In a final, desperate moment, he took the laptop and hurled it across the room, the screen shattering on impact. The pieces scattered across the floor, fragments of glass and metal, each one catching the light, like tiny shards of a broken mirror.
But as he stared at the wreckage, the empty eyes still lingered in his mind, haunting him, mocking him.
For the first time, he realized he couldn’t escape himself. No matter what he did, he would always be haunted by the choices he had made, the image he had become.
***
Months later, Darian was scarcely recognizable. The world had moved on, as it always did, forgetting the once-bright star who had captured so much attention. He was alone, his life reduced to quiet solitude, his friends and fame long gone.
Every now and then, he would see his reflection—a glimpse in a window, a flash in a mirror. But each time, he saw something darker staring back, a reminder of the image that had once consumed him.
And every night, in the silence of his empty loft, he felt those eyes watching him still.
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