Amara Bell stared at the cascading streams of data, his right index finger rhythmically tapping the outside of his thigh. He swiped to unlock. It wasn't a system alert, nor was it a frantic message from his boss.
It was an SMS from a "No Caller ID" sender:
"Welcome to the Mirror Realm. Rule 1: To act is to survive. Rule 2: Find the entrance before the countdown hits zero. Rule 3: Do not trust the mirrors."
He froze.
He glanced around the office. It was 12:03 AM. The graveyard shift had cleared out, leaving only him and William Knight in the adjacent cubicle. William was nodding off, noise-canceling headphones clamped over his ears, a cup of long-cold coffee sitting by his elbow.
This didn't feel like a prank.
Amara pressed his lips thin, exited the message, and toggled back to the data backend. He dialed the internal line for the administrative night shift.
Busy signal.
He tried the landline. Same result. Outside the window, the neon glow of city billboards filtered through the glass, casting long, distorted shadows across the floor. The outlines of the light patches looked... off.
Like flattened, screaming faces.
He yanked his gaze away and looked back at his monitor. The clock in the bottom right corner was stuck at 00:03.
He hit refresh. Nothing.
Then, without warning, a line of text bled onto the center of the screen. The font was a jagged, visceral crimson, resembling half-dried blood.
"ENTRANCE COUNTDOWN: 00:04:59"
The numbers began to tick down.
Amara leaned back into his chair, holding his breath. His left hand instinctively went to the old scar near the corner of his eye; his fingertips were ice-cold. This wasn't a virus. His mind shifted into high gear, cataloging possibilities: Scenario A: An elaborate prank show. Scenario B: Mass hallucination. Scenario C—
He looked at William.
William was still dozing, oblivious. But the monitor in front of him had also gone dark, save for the same crimson countdown floating in the center.
00:03:47.
The times were different.
Amara's heart constricted. From somewhere in the distance, a sound drifted in—crying. It was faint, intermittent, as if someone were being muffled by a heavy hand.
The countdown hit 00:01:00.
William stirred. He pulled off one side of his headphones and turned groggily. "Amara? You hear that? Sounds like... like someone's crying..."
The words died in his throat as he caught sight of the bloody text on his screen.
"What the hell is this?" William frowned, leaning in closer. "A timer? Who's the joker..." He started tapping the monitor, frantically hitting keys.
The numbers kept dropping.
00:00:30.
The crying intensified. It was coming from everywhere now, echoing in layers. Outside, the neon "faces" contorted violently, pressing their luminous features against the glass.
Amara stood up. His legs felt like lead, but he forced himself to stay steady.
"William," he said, his voice surprisingly level. "Get away from the desk. Now."
"Huh?" William looked at him, confused, then back at the screen. "Look, man, I don't get—"
00:00:10.
The office lights flickered. With every pulse of darkness, the shape of the fluorescent tubes seemed to warp.
00:00:05.
William finally realized something was horribly wrong. He lunged upward, his chair screeching harshly against the floor. His face turned ashen, his lips trembling. "This... this isn't right..."
00:00:03.
Amara took a half-step back, his spine hitting the cold metal of a filing cabinet. His mind was racing: Where is the entrance? Mirrors? Where are there mirrors?
00:00:01.
William opened his mouth as if to scream.
Zero.
Time seemed to snag for a heartbeat.
Then, Amara watched as William's entire form blurred.
It was as if an invisible eraser were scrubbing him out starting from the edges. Hair, forehead, shoulders, torso. It wasn't instant, but it was absolute. William's face was a mask of frozen terror, his mouth locked in a silent shout.
He tried to reach out, but as his arm rose halfway, his fingertips dissolved into nothingness.
No flash. No sound.
Just like a pencil drawing being meticulously rubbed away. Finally, all that remained was the chair and the half-cup of cold coffee, which rippled slightly from the sudden lack of weight on the floor.
The headphones hit the carpet with a dull thud.
Amara was alone in the office.
The crying faded into a low, dying whimper.
Amara stood paralyzed, his back pressed hard against the filing cabinet. He stared at the empty space where William had been, his mind a complete blank.
This wasn't in any of his mental scripts.
New text drifted into his field of vision. Semi-transparent, ash-gray, hovering in the air.
"Player Tagging Complete."
"Current Status: Unregistered Actor"
"Days Survived: 0"
"Instance Entrance: Ready (Click to Enter)"
Below the text, a gray, twisting icon pulsed—shaped like a door, or perhaps a shard of broken glass.
Amara stared at "Days Survived: 0." His right index finger resumed its rhythmic tapping against his thigh.
He slowly straightened his posture.
His gaze swept over the empty workstation, the shimmering coffee, the discarded headphones. Outside, the distorted neon faces had quieted, returning to ordinary patches of light. The crying was gone, replaced by the heavy silence of the early hours.
Amara walked over to William's desk and touched the coffee cup.
Cold.
He pulled his hand back, wiped it on his trousers, and turned toward the elevators. His stride was firm.
Only he knew that his palms were slick with cold sweat.
The elevator descended. The brushed stainless steel of the interior reflected a blurry silhouette. Amara stared at his own pale reflection, his lips pressed into a thin line, the third rule of the text echoing in his head.
Do not trust the mirrors.
The doors slid open to a deserted lobby. The security booth was lit, but empty. Amara walked straight through the hall without looking left or right, pushed through the glass doors, and stepped into the biting 1:00 AM wind.
The streets were hollow. The streetlights cast a sickly, pallid glow.
His apartment was a fifteen-minute walk away. In those fifteen minutes, Amara did three things: he confirmed the "Instance Entrance" icon was still hovering at the edge of his vision; he observed every reflective surface he passed; and he mentally cataloged every detail of the night.
There was no discernible pattern.
When he reached his aging apartment building, the night security guard, James Archer, was slumped in his chair, fast asleep. Amara kept his footsteps light and swiped his keycard.
The motion-sensor lights were broken; the stairwell was a vertical abyss.
He pulled out his phone and flicked on the flashlight. The beam cut through the dark, illuminating dust-caked steps. Tap. Tap. Tap. His footsteps echoed back at him.
Fourth floor. Room 402.
He slid the key into the lock, turned it, and stepped inside. He didn't turn on the lights, relying on the sparse glow from the streetlamps outside. Amara shut the door behind him and leaned against it for a long moment.
Safe.
At least for now.
He shed his coat and walked into the bathroom. He cranked the faucet, letting the bone-chilling water run over his fingers. He splashed a handful over his face.
He looked up into the mirror.
The man in the glass was pale, his hair a mess, the old scar by his eye nearly invisible in the dim light. Amara stared into his own eyes.
There were no "player" marks.
He still looked like the same socially anxious data analyst who had worked too late.
He let out a breath and grabbed a towel to dry his face. Halfway through the motion, he stopped dead.
Something was wrong.
When he had looked up... had the man in the mirror been a fraction of a second late?
Amara slowly lowered the towel and faced the glass again.
His reflection looked back, eyes calm, expression a mask of exhaustion. Everything seemed normal. Amara pursed his lips; the reflection followed suit. He blinked; the reflection blinked.
In sync.
I'm just losing my mind, he thought.
He turned to leave the bathroom, his peripheral vision catching the glass.
The man in the mirror didn't move.
The reflection remained facing forward, but then its head began to tilt upward—agonizingly slow, inch by inch. The corners of its mouth began to pull back, wider and wider, stretching into a jagged, malicious grin that no human should be able to make. A grin that reached its ears.
The reflection's eyes remained fixed, staring hungrily at Amara's back.
Amara froze at the doorway, the hair on his neck standing on end.
He didn't look back.
Behind him, the man in the mirror was still smiling.