WORTH 50,000: DAY TWENTY-FIVE - What rises after the fire?

[momebie]

[Source.]

The glass is only cool and smooth for half a second under his palm, then it ripples and thrums. It warms, converting the possibility of him into energy. He stands, leaning into it but not falling through it, idly smoking a cigarette and staring at himself. When he's called back, if he's called it, it's the cigarettes he'll miss the most. He stares and stares. He can still only see himself. Smacking his other fist against the glass he causes a cross vibration that rattles across the surface and flings a few droplets of liquid onto his cheek. All he can see is himself, the burning ash between his lips, and the smoke rising between his eyes. They've cut him out, but it won't work for long. He'll push his way through soon. He'll reclaim his talons and his image, blotting out the mercy they think he has.