The figures pressed closer. Their whispers rattled through Arun's skull.
"Stay. Serve. Choose."
The largest one leaned forward, its eyes like drops of oil, its grin stretching far too wide. Behind it, the mirror still rippled like water. Beyond the glass, Arun glimpsed something impossible: a world of black trees gleaming like obsidian, skies fractured into shards of light, rivers flowing like quicksilver.
The Mirror-Realm.
Then, a voice not like the others—measured, human—broke through.
"Enough."
Arun turned. Mr. Varma stood calmly in the doorway. His coat was gone, his clothes old-fashioned, his eyes reflecting silver light.
"The house has chosen," he said, as though announcing the result of a contract. "You may enter… or you may remain here as its shadow."
Varma stepped into the hall. The reflections parted for him, bowing slightly as if to an elder.
"You wonder why the rent was so cheap," he said with a faint smile. "This place is not property, Arun. It is a Gate. One of Seven. The occult family who built it is gone, but the door remains. It needs… caretakers."
He gestured at the mirror. Its surface rippled wider, showing more of the strange landscape beyond. A tower of glass rose in the distance, runes glowing faintly across its sides.
"You may go through," Varma continued, "and claim your reflection-self. Or you may stay, and be claimed by the house. Either way… the seventh night always decides."