The wind on the rooftop still buzzed against my skin, carrying the aftertaste of that small, perfect victory with Ken. Neurostride. It wasn't just a name anymore; it was the deep, resonant hum in my bones, the engine I'd found under the hood of this strange new world. Seeing paths wasn't enough. It was being in all of them, flickering through possibilities before snapping reality into the shape I chose. The power thrummed, a constant low current beneath the surface calm. I craved its confirmation, its weight. Its use.
She was the target. The girl from the death-dream. The impossible echo sitting beside me in Literature. The anomaly resonating with shattered glass and that voice scraping down my spine. She wasn't just another glitch in this world; she felt like the central glitch. Understanding her was key. Understanding meant control.
I didn't rush towards Calculus. Neurostride pulsed, sketching the hallway ahead as I walked.
Option A: Arrive early, sit near her seat. Initiate homework query. Probable outcomes: polite reply (62%), disinterest (28%), unexpected depth (10%). Data yield: low.
Option B: "Accidentally" drop notes near her path after class. Outcomes: she returns them (71%), ignores (18%), someone else intervenes (11%). Forced interaction, messy.
Option C: Position at west stairwell exit during peak flow. Observe her natural path. Probability of natural encounter: 65%. Control: optimal.
C it was. Precision over chance. Control over randomness. I leaned against the lockers near the stairwell exit, phone a prop while Neurostride painted the corridor in shifting data streams – students flowing, trajectories intersecting. I filtered the noise, focusing on the slender figure, the dark hair, that unconscious grace like a quiet eddy in the current. She carried a worn leather-bound journal, not a standard notebook. Divergence noted.
As predicted, her path brought her close. Neurostride refined the approach instantly:
Shift left slightly (intercept jostle from rugby player #3).
Speak 1.7 seconds after she passes locker #42.
Phrase: "Excuse me?" Tone: neutral, inquisitive.
Flawless execution. The jostle dissolved before it formed. My voice cut cleanly through the noise. "Excuse me?"
She stopped, turned smoothly. Molten amber eyes met mine, a flicker of surprise quickly smoothed into polite recognition. "Yes?"
"Literature," I said, offering a calculated half-smile. Neurostride parsed her micro-expressions: relaxed shoulders (positive), slight head tilt (curiosity), steady eye contact (engaged). Good. "Professor Aris mentioned referencing pre-dimensional shift allegories? I was wondering if you'd parsed his notes on the Kantian parallels. Mine are... chaotic." Plausible. Specific. Engaging, not intrusive.
Her lips curved, a faint ghost of amusement that didn't quite warm her eyes. "Kantian parallels? He framed it more as a cautionary juxtaposition, I think. Against unchecked rationalism collapsing into voids." She tapped her journal. "His notes are cryptic. Layers of rhetoric burying the point." Sharp. Analytical capacity: high. "I focused on the 'fractured mirror' imagery. More visceral."
Fractured mirror. The phrase was an ice pick to my temple. Neurostride suppressed the flinch, kept my face neutral. "Visceral is right," I agreed, modulating my tone to shared frustration. "Felt less like analysis, more like decoding a fever dream."
Her gaze sharpened, lingering on my face a fraction too long. Neurostride flagged it: Increased scrutiny. Potential trigger? But her voice stayed light. "Perhaps that's the point? Reality through a distorted lens? Feels applicable sometimes." She gestured vaguely at the bustling hall. "Everything familiar, yet... off-kilter. Like a reflection in troubled water." Her words mirrored my own initial dislocation with unsettling precision.
We fell into step towards Calculus. A delicate dance guided by Neurostride's invisible hand. She lived east side, near the old park – a street I knew had been bulldozed for a mall back home. Interests: theoretical physics and antique clockwork. An odd mix. Parents mentioned warmly, vaguely. Neurostride noted a subtle tension around family specifics – a slight tightening near her eyes. Possible divergence or sensitivity?
She seemed… normal. Intelligent, reserved, observant. Plausibly innocent. No echo of the dream-horror. No flicker of the void. My questions got innocent answers. Yet, beneath Neurostride's orchestration, a dissonance hummed. Primal. Illogical. The calm surface felt too smooth. Her apt observations felt too coincidental. Neurostride mapped her reactions, but couldn't quantify the unease coiling in my gut.
"So," I ventured as we neared the Calculus bottleneck, "I realize I never asked. Your name?" Neurostride calculated the timing: natural lull, low pressure.
She glanced at me, that faint ghost-smile returning. "Sylin. Sylin Mirrel."
"Sylin," I repeated. The name settled. Another data point. "Caelus Vireon." The crowd thickened, pressing in. Neurostride, ever-scanning, suddenly flashed red-tinged pathways.
Conflict Imminent.
Subject: Marcus Vale (known aggression). Trajectory: collision course with Sylin. Motivation: Perceived slight (stepped on shoe, unacknowledged). Action: Forceful shoulder-check. Intent: Humiliation.
Secondary: Liam Torch (associate). Position: Flanking. Action: Block retaliation.
I saw it before it happened – Sylin stumbling, books flying, Marcus's sneer, Liam's block. Sylin, looking ahead, oblivious.
Options flickered cold and efficient:
1. Interpose. Take hit. Protect Sylin. Risk: Escalation with Vale. Attention.
2. Redirect. Precise elbow nudge. Alter Vale's trajectory 15° left. Collide with doorframe. Detection prob: Low (22%). Avoid conflict. Sylin unaware.
3. Vocal warning. Low evasion prob (31%). High prob Vale targets me.
4. Do nothing. Sylin humiliated. Minimal impact. Optimal stealth.
Option 4 was clean. Efficient. The ruler's move. Preserve assets. Avoid variables. But looking at Sylin, the dream-image slammed back – the rubber neck, the voice: This version... doesn't belong here. A hot surge, not calculated, rose. Protecting her felt necessary. Defiance. Or a test.
I chose 2.
As Marcus lunged, I shifted minutely. My elbow, adjusting my bag strap, connected with precise force against his ribs. A neurological interrupt. He gasped, momentum stuttering, veering sharply left. Thud. Shoulder into solid oak doorframe. Winded. Ego bruised.
"Whoa, Vale! Watch it!" Liam barked, surprised.
Sylin jumped, turning. "Are you alright?" Genuine concern.
Marcus, flushed, glared wildly, couldn't pinpoint the source. Saw only me looking mildly concerned. "Fine," he grunted, shoving past Liam.
Sylin looked at me, question in her eyes. Neurostride prompted: "Crowded," shrug.
"Crowded halls," I said, shrugging. "Happens."
She nodded, composure returning. "Indeed. Shall we?" She gestured inside.
Seconds. Invisible to most. Yet, the weight settled. I'd acted against the optimal path. Protected her. Why? Neurostride offered no answer, only the ghost of Option 4 – the clean choice rejected. Cost: Marcus Vale's simmering, directionless grudge. An unnecessary variable.
Calculus blurred. Neurostride parsed symbols effortlessly, freeing my mind. The power worked flawlessly on the physical act. Yet, Sylin's reaction – genuine concern for Marcus – grated. If connected to the dream, shouldn't she be perceptive? Cold? Not this plausible innocence? The dissonance deepened, a splinter under my control.
Later, seeking quiet, I found a secluded library carrel, ancient philosophy texts a bulwark against the world's cracks. I opened my notebook.
October 12th - Addendum: Subject Sylin Mirrel
- Name confirmed: Sylin Mirrel.
- Interaction: Intelligent, observant, reserved. Plausible knowledge (East Side residence intact).
- Interests: Theoretical physics, antique clockwork. Significance?
- Dissonance: Surface innocence contradicts dream association. Protective intervention initiated (See: Hallway 3-B). Motive: Unknown. Emotional contaminant? Assess.
- Neurostride: Hallway intervention successful. Variable introduced (Vale animosity). Cost/Benefit requires refinement. Emotional impulse = interference vector. Suppress.
I paused, pen hovering. How to quantify the unease? It wasn't data; it was instinct, resonating with the nightmare's terror. I sketched a small, fractured mirror in the margin.
Movement. Not in the aisle. Reflected in the dark, dormant screen of the library computer monitor opposite me.
In its black depths, a reflection swam into focus. Not the bookshelves. Not my face.
Sylin.
She stood near the entrance, partially hidden, examining a book spine. In reality, her back was mostly to me. But in the monitor's reflection... her head was turned towards me. And her eyes…
My breath froze. Blood turned to slush.
Reflected in the dead screen, Sylin Mirrel's eyes weren't amber.
They were vast, depthless pools of absolute, lightless black. The terrifying, wrong black from the dream. Not hollow. Full. Filled with infinite, chilling void. The beauty mark beneath her left eye seemed darker, sharper, a crack in reality.
Her reflected face was utterly, terrifyingly blank.
In the real library, Sylin slid the book back and walked away, graceful, oblivious.
But in the dark mirror, the reflection lingered a fraction longer – the black eyes fixed on where I sat frozen – before dissolving into mundane black plastic.
Utter stillness. The pen clattered from numb fingers, ink bleeding across my notes. Neurostride's hum stuttered into shocked silence. The icy dread from the dream flooded back, drowning the rooftop confidence, the hallway control.
Surface innocence. The words mocked me. Camouflage. A mask worn perfectly.
The reflection wasn't a trick. It was a glimpse behind the curtain. The horror wasn't just memory; it was here. It was her. Watching. Hiding.
My heart hammered, frantic against the library's suffocating quiet. The plan to rule this world felt like a child's fantasy. I'd manipulated a hallway, shielded her from a bully, while the entity with void eyes observed every calculated move.
Why reveal? The question cut through panic. Warning? Taunt? Or… loss of control?
The ruler's curiosity died, replaced by a colder, primal fear. What was Sylin Mirrel? What did she want with me here? This world wasn't just mine to take. It was a maze, and I'd just glimpsed the Minotaur wearing a girl's face. The game changed. The stakes screamed into the void.
I stared at the dark monitor, just blank plastic now. But the image of those black eyes was seared onto my vision, a silent, chilling end to the day in a world far more dangerous and strange than any calculation could fathom. The reflection held the truth. The innocence was the lie? Or I was just imagining things...