The underground levels of Helix Tower did not appear on any official map.
Not even many directors knew of their existence.
Caliban Drexler descended alone in the elevator, hands in the pockets of his dark overcoat, the cigar now extinguished between his fingers. The display showed no floors — only a slowly rotating helical symbol, as if marking not height, but depth.
The air changed as he descended. Colder. Denser. Laden with something that was not quite energy, but not absence either.
— Still unstable? — Caliban asked, even before the doors opened.
— Always — replied a metallic, feminine voice, free of exaggerated artificial emotion. — But obedient within the defined parameters.
The doors opened onto a wide, circular hall made of black glass and alloys that did not reflect light naturally. At the center, suspended by almost invisible containment fields, was something that looked neither like a machine… nor an artifact.
It was a mirror.
Not an ordinary mirror.
Its surface was liquid, like motionless mercury, and it reflected not the room but shadows that moved with a delay — as if the world inside were half a second out of sync.
Technicians watched in silence, instinctively stepping back as Caliban advanced.
— Report — he said, without raising his voice.
A tall man with East Asian features stepped forward. Dr. Liang Zhou, head of Project HELIOS-REFLECTA.
— We managed to maintain stability for a full twelve minutes yesterday — he explained. — The reflected reality responded better when we reduced direct human interference.
Caliban raised an eyebrow.
— Curious. The less we try to control… the more it cooperates.
Liang nodded.
— There's something… selective about these reflections. As if they respond better to certain cognitive profiles.
Caliban approached the mirror.
On the silvery surface, for an instant, an image appeared of a city he recognized — but not like this. Familiar streets, recognizable buildings… all slightly misaligned, like a poorly remembered memory.
— Rare profiles? — he asked.
— Extremely — Liang replied. — Most collapse psychologically within days. Dissociation, loss of identity, deterioration of autobiographical memory.
Caliban smiled, genuinely interested now.
— But not all.
— No — Liang confirmed. — Some… adapt.
The mirror rippled.
For a fleeting moment, Caliban had the strange sensation that something on the other side was watching him back.
He did not step away.
— And the Initiative? — he asked casually.
Liang made a restrained grimace.
— They believe the reflections are merely byproducts. Residual echoes from the initial exposure to the Other World.
Caliban chuckled softly.
— Always late. Always looking at the effect, never the intention.
He raised his hand, and the mirror responded. The surface grew smoother. Calmer.
— Doctor Zhou… — he said, almost cordially. — The world believes we're merely reacting to the revelation of the Other World.
Liang watched him closely.
— But you don't believe that.
— No — Caliban replied. — We are behind. Centuries behind. And some individuals… — he touched the glass with the tip of his finger — …are born able to walk between versions of reality without shattering.
The mirror trembled faintly.
— Find these individuals — he ordered. — Before the Initiative realizes there are doors that cannot be closed.
Liang hesitated.
— And if… one of them is already beyond our reach?
Caliban slowly removed his dark glasses, revealing clear eyes — alert, ancient.
— Then — he said, with absolute calm — it means someone, somewhere, is playing a far more interesting game than we imagined.
He put the glasses back on.
— And I hate losing matches that haven't even begun.
As he left the room, the technicians remained motionless for several seconds.
The mirror, for its part, took even longer to return to a neutral state.
As if something, on the other side, had just heard its name —
even though it had never been spoken.