Spending as much time as he does stalking about the halls of Castle Thorne with an intensity easily mistaken for murderous intent, Kylo's demeanor following his unsettling dream of shattered mirrors isn't necessarily noticeably different, at first. But then the vision seems to follow him, out into the waking world. Kylo stares, frozen, jaw set and fingers curled into fists, at the reflection he begins to find everywhere— a boy, a young man who looks very much like he did and still does, sometimes— but this face is riddled with pain. Anguish. He looks, Kylo thinks, lost. Or not lost, exactly. Perhaps he's simply trapped. Imprisoned behind the cracked glass. His reflection doesn't speak, of course, but it doesn't need to. It's all in the eyes staring back at him, glassy with misery and accusation. And guilt. So much guilt.

Kylo hates it. Him. It. He hates it so much he aches with the desire to reach through the glass, seize the pathetic creature beyond by its throat and squeeze and squeeze until it falls limp.

And that's the need he's wearing on his face whenever he whips around, lightning fast, sensing the presence of someone else intruding on his hatred.

"What," he demands, biting the question off at the end so sharply he might as well have silenced it with a blade.

Behind him, the cracked mirror shivers and splits into a razor-edged jumble of pieces that flash and scatter as they fall to the floor.