Velridge had many faces. The one you saw in daylight was clean enough for tourists and criminals who paid taxes. But beneath that, under the web of the old rail lines, the city turned inside out.
That place was called the Loop Market.
It wasn't marked on any map. You could only find it if you already knew it existed. I remembered fragments from before my death, old cases whispered between agents. They said the Loop Market was where time forgot its manners. People traded stolen memories for years of youth, sold hours of their lives to pay for someone else's second chance.
Tonight, I needed to find whoever sent me the photograph.
The cat perched on my shoulder, unimpressed.
"Do you realize how many cursed markets you've dragged me into lately?"
"Only the ones that pay in information," I said quietly.
The elevator down from the abandoned metro station opened into an underground street. The air shimmered faintly, thick with perfume and ozone. Stalls lined both sides of the tunnel, filled with clocks missing their hands, jars filled with flickering light, and mirrors that refused to show reflections.
"Currency is memory," the cat reminded me. "You'll have to give something up to buy anything here."
"Good thing I'm already missing a few."
A woman behind a glass counter looked up as I passed. Her hair was silver, her smile practiced. "You're glowing," she said. "That means you don't belong."
"Story of my life."
I moved deeper into the market until I found the one thing that didn't belong. A stall with no light, no vendor, only a mirror propped against the wall. Someone had drawn a circle of chalk around it. A small card sat on the floor in front of it.
FOR ELIOR VANE
I crouched down, my reflection barely visible in the dim light. The card had a single address written in careful handwriting. Dockside, Building 47, 11:47 p.m.
The same time as the photo.
Before I could stand, my reflection blinked. I didn't.
The mirror rippled. My reflection stepped forward, but instead of mimicking me, it spoke. Its voice sounded like mine, only hollow.
"You're late."
I froze. "Who are you?"
"You already know," it said softly. "But knowing won't help. The closer you get, the more you forget."
"Why send the photo?"
"Because you still have something that belongs to me."
The reflection smiled, and the temperature in the room dropped. Frost spread across the mirror's frame.
"You think you were built to solve your death," it whispered. "But you were built to repeat it."
Before I could speak, the chalk circle flared blue. The reflection shattered, and the market lights blinked out.
People screamed as the mirrors around us cracked one by one. I felt my chest seize, not from pain but from recognition. The pattern in the light, the pulse in the air—it was identical to the Bureau explosion.
The cat hissed, its fur standing on end. "We need to move now."
I ran, glass crunching under my boots, every breath filling with static. When I reached the exit, the elevator was gone. The tunnel behind us was swallowed in blue light.
When the glow finally faded, the market was silent again. Every mirror was gone. The stalls were empty. The city above was quiet.
And on the ground where the mirror had been, a new card waited for me.
It read: "Tomorrow, bring what's missing."
I turned it over. On the back was a fingerprint. Mine.