The man from the black sedan stepped onto the sidewalk with the deliberate grace of a predator. He was wearing a suit that cost more than my car, and in his right hand, he held a sleek, matte-black cylinder that was clicking like a frantic cricket. He raised it, sweeping the air in a slow arc until the sensor leveled directly at my chest.
The clicking turned into a high-pitched, steady whine.
My heart did a somersault. I squeezed my gloved hands into fists, praying the leather was thick enough to keep my panic from manifesting as a dozen phantom briefcases. I was a deer in the headlights, frozen on the lobby's marble floor, waiting for the "National Department of Impossible Physics" to tackle me.
The man took a step toward me, his eyes locked on mine. "Mr. Pringle, I presume? We have some questions regarding a particular—"
Suddenly, the device in his hand let out a sharp, electronic chirp. A red light began to pulse on his lapel. He stopped mid-sentence, his brow furrowed. He tapped an earpiece I hadn't noticed before, listening to a voice that sounded like a swarm of angry bees.
"Understood," he snapped into the air. "But I have a visual on the anomaly. It's right here."
The bees buzzed louder. The man's face hardened. He looked at me, then at the black sedan, then back at me. There was a moment of pure, crystalline tension where I thought I might just duplicate the entire lobby out of sheer terror.
"You're lucky, Arthur," the man said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous chill. "Duty calls. But don't think for a second that the scent isn't already on you."
He turned on his heel and moved toward the car with an efficiency that made my skin crawl. The sedan roared to life and tore away from the curb before he'd even fully closed the door.
I stood there for a full minute, breathing in the scent of burnt rubber and expensive cologne, until a security guard cleared his throat behind me. I didn't wait to be asked if I was okay. I bolted for my car.
I didn't just drive home; I performed a low-speed flight. I checked every mirror, peered down every side street, and took three unnecessary U-turns just to make sure the black sedan wasn't trailing me.
By the time I fumbled my keys into my front door—thankfully without doubling the lock—I was vibrating with a different kind of energy.
The house felt quiet. Too quiet.
I leaned against the door, closing my eyes. "Just a glitch," I whispered, breaking my own rule about using that word. "A weird, physical, furniture-duplicating day. Tomorrow, I'll wake up and I'll just be Arthur again. One-table Arthur."
I walked into the kitchen. The second table was still there, looking aggressively real. I threw my keys on the counter.
Ding.
The sound was sharp, digital, and completely unfamiliar. It wasn't my phone—that was in my pocket, and its ringer sounded like an old-school telephone. This was a crisp, chime-like notification, the kind you'd expect from a high-end operating system.
I looked around the empty kitchen. Nothing.
Ding.
It was coming from the second table. Or rather, on the second table.
I walked over, my leather gloves still gripped tight. There, sitting perfectly in the center of the duplicated oak surface, was a device I'd never seen before. It looked like a glass tablet, completely transparent, with no buttons or ports.
Floating in the center of the glass were three words in a soft, glowing blue font:
[PRINT QUEUE: 1/10]
Below that, a smaller notification bubble was bouncing impatiently.
[USER MANUAL DOWNLOADED. OPEN NOW?]
I didn't move. My breath hitched. I hadn't photocopied a tablet. I'd only touched the table.
"I didn't make you," I whispered to the glass.
The tablet flickered, the blue text shifting to a warm, inviting green.
[YOU DIDN'T. WE DID. WELCOME TO THE BETA, ARTHUR.]