The building was buried beneath the street.
Not metaphorically—literally. Keiran had to descend three levels below ground before the air began to lose its scent of old stone and wet brick. The entrance bore no sign, no markings—just a single door with a slit that opened when he approached.
A black eye looked through.
"Badge?"
Keiran held up the metal token he'd been given—the one etched with twin circles and the vertical line. The eye lingered on it for exactly four seconds, then the door clicked open with a dull metallic sigh.
No greeting. No instruction.
He stepped inside.
The hall was narrow and dim, lit only by strips of green flame recessed into the stone walls. The air hummed—not loud, but constant. Like a machine thinking just below the surface of sound.
He passed no people. Only doors.
Each bore a symbol. None he recognized. One looked like an eye being sewn shut. Another like two hands reaching toward opposite corners.
The third door opened on its own as he passed.
He froze.
Beyond it, a white room.
Clean. Bright.
Too bright.
Everything gleamed: the chair in the center, the pale table, the walls with no seams. There were no windows. No cameras.
No shadows.
He stepped in.
The door closed behind him. Sound vanished.
Keiran sat. He didn't know if he was supposed to.
The chair adjusted beneath his weight, shifting softly, almost imperceptibly, as though reading his shape.
He waited.
Nothing happened.
Then, without warning, a voice emerged from nowhere.
"Subject 3C."
Male. Toneless. Not hostile. Not warm.
Just present.
Keiran didn't answer.
The voice continued.
"Recorded presence confirmed. Mark observed. Processing sequence will begin now."
From the wall, a panel slid open.
Out came a small brass arm tipped with a silver spike.
Keiran flinched.
"Remain still." Then "Sample required."
The spike touched his wrist.
A sting. Not sharp, but deep. Like it had struck something beyond the vein.
He inhaled sharply.
The spike retracted.
Another panel opened across the room.
A rectangular mirror slid into place.
Except it wasn't a mirror.
Not exactly.
His reflection moved slower than he did. Just by a breath. Just enough to notice.
Then it caught up.
And the mark on his wrist began to glow.
The curved line shimmered pale violet.
Then brightened.
Then split.
Another line formed, branching up and across—unseen before, now etched onto his skin in living light.
The voice returned.
"Secondary glyph confirmed. Classifying anomaly."
A pause.
Keiran stared at the reflection. The mark had evolved. Changed without his permission.
"What does it mean?" he asked.
The voice ignored him.
"Sigil resembles pre-Rift configuration. Further analysis required. Binding type: unstable. Host response: unknown."
The mirror dimmed.
The reflection faded.
The lights overhead dulled to a pale grey.
A new voice entered. Softer. Female.
"Subject 3C… you are under review."
This voice had tone.
Not quite sympathy.
Not quite scorn.
But something human.
"Your mark has no registry match. That alone puts you under high-grade watch."
Keiran swallowed.
"I didn't choose it."
"They never do."
Silence.
Then:
"Do you remember where you received it?"
"Yes," he said. "Beneath my building. There was a room. A… figure. Masked. It spoke to me."
"Did it give you instructions?"
Keiran hesitated.
"No."
A pause. Almost imperceptible.
"Did it say your name?"
"Yes."
Another pause. Longer.
"Did you answer?"
"…Yes."
The room hummed louder for a moment.
Then:
"Do not return to that room without authorization."
"I don't know how—"
"Do not try to return."
The lights shifted again. The walls began to hum in sync with the ceiling. Something unseen pushed against his chest—just pressure, not touch.
The voice continued:
"From this point forward, any alterations in your mark must be reported within one day. Any magical manifestation—perceived or real—must be documented. Emotional anomalies. Memory loss. Voice intrusion. All are to be logged. Your cooperation is expected."
Keiran leaned forward.
"You still haven't told me what I am."
A beat.
Then:
"You're not what you were."
The lights shut off.
For three full seconds, the room was utterly black.
Then the door behind him hissed open.
No voice said he could leave.
But he understood the command.
He rose. Walked. Didn't look back.
Outside, the fog had thickened into near-smoke. The streetlamps didn't shine through it anymore—they simply hummed, lost inside the grey.
Keiran walked without thinking.
Each step echoing in his ears.
Each breath caught in his chest like it might not come back out.
He didn't return home right away.
Instead, he wandered toward the broken bridge by the canal—the one no one crossed anymore, because half of it had fallen into the water during a fire two years ago.
He stood at the edge.
Looked down.
The water was black. Still. It didn't ripple.
Even the wind avoided this place.
Keiran sat on the ledge.
Pulled back his sleeve.
The mark on his wrist was clearer now. The second line branched upward in a jagged arc—like a serpent's fang.
It pulsed slowly.
Not in time with his heartbeat.
Its rhythm was older.
He stared at it.
And whispered—
"What did you give me?"
The wind didn't answer.
But the mark did.
Just a little.
A faint glow. A shimmer of heat. A single echo of a word he didn't understand.
Something in a tongue he'd never heard.
And somewhere deep beneath the city, in the stone roots of forgotten rooms—
Something answered back.