Scene - 1 : A tall man in coat
Arlen woke to the faint hiss of the radiator in the corner of his room, a sound he had grown used to over the years. His apartment smelled of old books, dust, and something indefinable—perhaps the lingering residue of a city that never truly slept. He lay for a moment, letting the gray light of dawn seep through the slats of the blinds, painting stripes across the floorboards. Outside, London stirred: the distant clatter of trains, the soft roar of buses, the occasional bark of a dog that must have slipped free from some unseen courtyard. It was ordinary, predictable, mundane.
And yet, for Arlen, it felt… wrong.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, feet landing on the cold wooden floor. The familiar weight of his blanket seemed heavier than usual, pressing down on him as if trying to hold him in place. Something prickled along his spine, a tension he couldn't name. His reflection in the mirror across the room caught his eye. At first glance, it was just him—messy hair, pale skin, tired eyes. But as he stared longer, the image seemed subtly off. A twitch at the corner of his mouth that he didn't remember making. Eyes that lingered too long, watching him, judging. He shook his head. "I'm imagining it," he muttered aloud, though his own voice sounded distant, almost foreign.
His apartment had always been small, cluttered, but safe. Stacks of books lined the walls, crammed together with sketches, papers, and notebooks spilling onto the floor. He liked the organized chaos—it was predictable, a kind of order in a world that often felt chaotic. But over the past few weeks, even that comfort had begun to fray. Objects seemed slightly misplaced, reflections slightly delayed, shadows lingering where they shouldn't. A strange tension had begun to coil around his life, tight and subtle, impossible to ignore.
He moved to the small kitchenette, flicking on the kettle. Water hissed and boiled, filling the air with steam. Outside, the city's morning rhythm accelerated. The smells of fresh bread and roasted coffee seeped up from the streets, mixing with the damp odor of rain-soaked stone. He sipped his coffee slowly, letting the bitter taste anchor him to the world, trying to chase away the disquiet that had been creeping into his life.
Then came the knock.
It was precise. Sharp. Controlled. Not the lazy, forgetful knock of a neighbor or deliveryman. It had rhythm, purpose. Arlen froze, mug in hand, pulse jumping. His apartment door was usually unremarkable, ignored by everyone passing by. Today, it demanded attention.
He opened it cautiously.
A man stood there. Tall. Imposing. His black coat was immaculate, swallowing his form in shadow, and his eyes—gray, sharp, impossible—locked onto Arlen with a familiarity that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
"Arlen," the man said. The voice was calm, almost soft, but carried a weight that seemed to press against the walls of the room. "I have something for you."
Arlen blinked. "Who… who are you?"
The man didn't answer immediately. Instead, he extended a hand, offering an envelope—thick, creamy, with Arlen's name written in careful, deliberate handwriting. No stamp. No return address. Just his name, as though it had been written by someone who knew exactly how it would feel to hold it.
"I'm Norman," the man said finally. "And you'll want to read this."
Arlen hesitated, fingers brushing the envelope. There was something unsettlingly heavy about it, as though the paper itself carried a secret weight. Curiosity, tangled with anxiety, won over hesitation. He tore it open.
Inside was a single letter, words etched in the same careful hand:
"Some truths can only be seen when the mirror reflects more than your face. Prepare yourself."
Arlen's brow furrowed. "Mirror? What… what does this mean?"
Norman smiled faintly, almost imperceptibly. "All in due time, Arlen. For now, we ride."
He gestured to a sleek black car parked silently in the street outside. Its surface reflected the city like liquid shadow, distorted yet perfect. Arlen's pulse quickened. He stepped closer, peering at his own reflection. It felt strange, uncanny. "Your car… it doesn't have a license plate," he said.
Norman's gaze followed him. "Not everything needs a name to exist," he replied. "And sometimes, names lie."
Arlen swallowed. The street felt smaller suddenly, the familiar edges of the world bending just enough to make him feel unsteady. He climbed into the passenger seat, the leather cold and smooth beneath his hands. Norman slid in beside him, fingers brushing the steering wheel with deliberate precision. The car hummed, softly, almost imperceptibly, as it came to life. There was no roar, no growl—just a subtle vibration, like the world itself was watching, holding its breath.
For a few moments, silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken questions. Arlen stole glances at Norman, whose expression remained unreadable, almost sculpted. The city passed by like a living painting, streets streaking with the faint motion of early commuters. The hum of the engine filled the pauses, almost soothing, almost hypnotic.
"Mirrors…" Arlen finally said, testing the word aloud. "Why the letter? Why the mirror?"
Norman's gaze caught his in the rearview mirror. "Because mirrors are honest, Arlen. They show what's hidden if you're brave enough to look."
Arlen felt a chill ripple down his spine. He turned his attention back to the passing streets. London looked familiar, but also… different. The same puddles reflected distorted skies, the same brick walls loomed with unfamiliar angles. It was the same city, and yet, it wasn't. Something had shifted.
"People live their lives," Norman continued quietly, "and they don't notice the fractures until someone forces their attention. You are that someone now. That's why the letter came. That's why I came."
Arlen's fingers clenched the edge of the seat. "Fractures? I don't… I don't understand."
Norman's smile was small but knowing. "You will. Soon enough."
The car turned down a quiet street. Arlen's apartment building appeared ahead, unremarkable as ever, yet he felt a flicker of unease. Something in his own life had shifted, and stepping back into what should have been familiar felt wrong.
When the car stopped, he noticed immediately—no names on the mailbox, no numbers on the doors. Just blank facades, as though the world had quietly erased its identity while he was distracted. A familiar place now felt foreign, empty.
Norman's hand rested lightly on his shoulder. "Step inside. See for yourself. Not everything is what it seems, Arlen. And what you think you know… may already be gone."
Arlen hesitated. His reflection caught in the car window again. For the first time, he realized he didn't fully recognize the person staring back. Unease twisted in his stomach, curiosity and fear tangled together. He exhaled slowly and stepped out, toward a home that no longer felt like his own, aware that from this moment, nothing would ever be the same.
Inside, the apartment was eerily silent. The familiar smell of books and dust remained, but there was something else—something colder, deliberate, as if the walls themselves were aware of his presence. Arlen's hand hovered over the doorknob, a part of him desperate to retreat, to return to the comforting predictability of yesterday. Yet another part—strangely insistent—pushed him forward.
Norman's eyes followed him, calm and unyielding. "You will learn, Arlen. The mirror doesn't lie. But it asks questions you may not be ready to answer."
Arlen swallowed hard, stepping into the empty apartment. The letter in his hand felt heavier now, the words engraved in his memory, echoing: Some truths can only be seen when the mirror reflects more than your face.
He glanced around again, the silence pressing in from every corner. Something had shifted, subtly, irrevocably. And for the first time, he understood Norman's meaning: the world he thought he knew was gone, replaced by a new reality.
And standing there, at the threshold of change, Arlen felt it—the fragile, terrifying awareness that nothing would ever be ordinary again.