The spiral staircase gave way to light.
Not sunlight. Nothing warm. Just the clinical hum of Hollow Reach's midday, filtered through hanging fog and signs that flickered without meaning. The trio stepped out of the mural chamber in near silence—no one wanted to be the first to say what they saw down there, because saying it might make it realer.
Behind them, the wall sealed on its own, closing with a sound like teeth setting into a jaw.
Lance held Dario close.
The dog didn't bark. Didn't growl. Just stared back at the mural, tail still and breath slow.
It hadn't been just a hallucination. Lance knew that. He could still feel the other version of himself like a stain in his nervous system. Something had touched him. Not his skin—something deeper. Like it had brushed up against the person he hadn't finished becoming.
Kenton stayed three steps behind them, muttering faintly into a battered audio recorder.
"Mirror was active. Entity matched known reflection-inversion profile. Type Theta-Four. Manifestation not complete. Subject Lance destabilized. Possible synchronization underway—pending psychological threshold breach."
Lance turned. "Are you—taking notes about me?"
Kenton didn't even blink. "Should I not be?"
"Do it quieter," Dani muttered, eyes sweeping the street like a sniper on vacation. "We're not alone."
Lance's retort wilted in his throat. Because she was right.
They weren't.
Down the center of Hollow Reach's cracked cobblestone main road came a figure.
Not quickly. Not menacingly.
They walked with the confidence of someone who belonged, and the unsettling grace of someone whose bones didn't know how to age.
Long coat. Pale gloves. A high collar that rose too far up the neck, like it was hiding something. They had the bearing of a retired stage magician—but the eyes were wrong. Too dark. No reflection.
Kenton immediately stepped behind Dani. Not cowardice—strategy.
Lance stood his ground. Barely.
The figure stopped about ten feet away. Smiled.
Their mouth moved just a bit too late.
"You've seen the mirror room."
Lance's throat tightened. Dario pressed closer to his leg.
Dani's voice was calm, too calm. "You knew it was open?"
"I know when anything opens in Hollow Reach," the figure said pleasantly. "Just as I know when someone looks into the wrong version of themselves."
They bowed. Not deeply—just enough to make it unsettling. "Call me the Caretaker."
"No thanks," Dani muttered under her breath.
The Caretaker's smile twitched. "You are visitors. That's rare. This place doesn't often draw... volunteers."
"We weren't exactly given a menu," Kenton said stiffly.
"You were given guilt, Archivist. That's the only ticket Hollow Reach accepts."
Lance's breath caught in his chest.
The Caretaker's eyes snapped to him.
"I see it already started the dreamwork in you," they said. "The sweat. The milk-scars. The way you lean on the dog because you're afraid the world will stop recognizing you."
Lance took a step back.
Dani did not.
"What do you want?" she asked.
The Caretaker tilted their head.
"I tend to the balances here. Some of our... residents are delicate. Reality slips in through their seams if not properly contained. But every so often, something new arrives. Something still unfinished."
Their gaze returned to Lance. "And you are very, very unfinished."
Lance's voice cracked. "What do you mean—unfinished?"
The Caretaker stepped closer. Dario growled.
"I mean you're not who you think you are. Not entirely. Pieces are still being written. Some of them by you. Some by it."
Silence stretched. A hum began in the walls around them. Not electricity. Something older.
The Caretaker reached slowly into their coat. Dani's hand darted to her grenade launcher.
But the Caretaker only pulled out a key. It shimmered with wet ink and fractured light.
"If you want answers," they said, "go deeper."
"What's the catch?" Kenton asked.
The Caretaker's teeth were too many when they smiled.
"You'll see another version of yourself before you're ready. And one of you won't come back."
Then, without another word, they turned and walked through a nearby alley.
And vanished. Literally vanished.
No noise. No flare. Just gone, like someone hit delete.
Dani exhaled sharply. "This place makes me want to bite someone."
Kenton looked visibly rattled. "Caretakers aren't supposed to talk to subjects."
"Subjects again?" Lance said.
But no one answered.
Instead, Dani held up the key. It was still warm, like it had a pulse.
"I hate to admit it," she said. "But I think we follow it."
Lance stared after the alley. "That thing knew me."
"No," Kenton corrected. "It recognized you. Recognition implies repetition. Like it's seen your face before."
Lance looked down at his opaque reflection in the puddle near his foot.
The face looking back didn't blink when he did.
And somewhere deep in his chest, the part of him that wasn't quite him yet... smiled.