The First Loss (Short Story)

If you’d asked anyone who knew Lara Carmichael, they’d say she didn’t lose. Not at anything. Not at spelling bees, scholarships, debates, not even rock-paper-scissors. She was the kind of person who smiled during funerals—elegant, composed, immune to messes. Success didn’t just follow her—it obeyed her.

She kept a Bible on her desk at the firm, leather-bound and gold-trimmed, like some kind of religious accessory. She quoted Proverbs in court, and Psalms at fundraisers. You know the type.

“God blesses the diligent,” she’d say, eyes sharp as glass. “Losers choose defeat.” It was her own proverb—one she was very proud of.

I only met her once, years ago, during a campus competition. She beat me, obviously. Flawlessly. And I never forgot her.

Which is why I paid attention when she just… disappeared. No headlines. No obituaries. No “missing person” posters. Just… gone. But I saw what was left behind.

Her office was cleared out overnight. Except one thing: a scorched envelope, taped to the window, her name written in crimson ink.

LARA CARMICHAEL

Inside was a note: You’ve been chosen. Your victory ends here.

Then I found the footage of her home. Please don’t ask me how I acquired them. It’s not entirely… legal.

At 3:00 a.m., the cameras flicker. She sits up in bed, looks around, and freezes.

Her mirrors? Gone. The wall where her plaques used to hang—cracked, leaking something dark and viscous. Her hand goes to her closet. She opens it. Stops. Staggers backward.

There’s a robe hanging there, but not hers. It’s… wrong somehow. Stained. Sewn from what looks like stitched skin. Threads of pride. Threads of faces she forgot.

Then she sees the mirror. One mirror. One left.

She steps in front of it.

I swear to you—I swear—her reflection isn’t there. Just a gold crown sitting on a pile of ash. And across the glass burned into the silver backing: “What profit is it to a man if he gains the whole world, and loses his own soul? Or what will a man give in exchange for his soul?”

That was the last moment the cameras caught.

She didn’t scream or cry. She just stood there, staring, like… like someone who’d finally lost… and didn’t know why. I keep that verse bookmarked now. Matthew 16:26. Because I used to admire her. I wanted to be her. But I’ve learned something since: Hell doesn’t chase the failures; it waits for the winners.