The bells had rung their last note.
Ledger sat at the desk with the bottle of water in front of him, the black cloth spread across the wood. The gas lamp outside threw a thin stripe of light across the floor, just wide enough to catch the edge of the metal square leaning against the bed.
He worked in silence. The journal was open to the page with the list, the letters scarred into the paper as if the hand that wrote them had been shaking.
First, the vessel of water — poured into a shallow, rimless dish so the surface lay flat as glass. The reflection stared back: his face, unfamiliar, more gaunt in this light.
Second, the black cloth — no hem, just frayed edges. He spread it beneath the dish, watching the water darken in contrast.
Third, the ash from burned bone. He opened the tin and tipped a pinch into the water. It sank without ripples, blooming faint grey tendrils before settling like silt.
Fourth, the key — the one that opened nothing. It went beside the dish, teeth facing away.
Fifth, the salt — poured carefully from the folded paper into a small circle around the setup. No skin touched it.
Sixth, the name he hadn't used in a year. He didn't speak it aloud. He just held it in his mouth like a stone.
The last item was time — between the last bell and the first crow. The window stood cracked to the night, and the silence between those two sounds felt like something alive, pressing in on the building.
Ledger leaned forward and read the rest of the ritual:
Do not speak to it until it speaks to you. If you see yourself, wait. If you see something else, wait longer. If it speaks your real name, end it immediately.
He sat back. The apartment seemed to hold its breath.
The water shifted, though his hands hadn't moved. A faint vibration passed through the dish, like a distant cart rolling over cobbles. In the reflection, his own face blurred at the edges.
Something black uncoiled in the water — not ink, but a shape. Thin at first, tapering to a point. It moved with the slow assurance of something that had been here the whole time, waiting.
The shape rose, breaking the surface without disturbing it. A small serpent, no thicker than his finger, skin black as the gap between stars. Its eyes were not eyes at all, but two small points where the black turned deeper, impossible.
It slid up over the rim of the dish and onto the cloth, coiling in a slow spiral. When it spoke, the voice was not from its mouth — it came from everywhere the shadow touched.
"Ledger," it said.
He said nothing.
The serpent tilted its head, tasting the air with a tongue as thin as thread. "Good. You wait. That means you've read the rules."
It uncoiled and slithered toward him. The salt line should have stopped it — but it slid across without pause, leaving the grains unbroken. It reached his wrist and wound upward, cold against his skin.
"I am Gestalt," it said. "I am you, as much as you'll ever know yourself. You pulled me out because you wanted to see, and now you'll see. You also wanted to be seen, though you won't admit it."
Ledger watched it climb to his shoulder, feeling the faint weight of its body shifting with every loop. "Why a serpent?"
"Why not?" Gestalt said. "I could be smoke, or a mirror, or a thousand mouths. I am what you are to yourself — something patient enough to coil, and quick enough to strike."
It paused, head resting near his jaw. "I can tell you about the other side of things, if you ask. The names, the debts, the way the night listens."
"Start with the names," Ledger said.
Gestalt's tongue flicked. "A name is not just a sound. It's a claim. You put it out, and the dark catches hold of it. Those who never test their egos never learn to mask themselves properly. They bleed their names into every shadow they pass. Easy prey."
Ledger thought of the lamplighter who had known his placeholder. "And those who have… tested?"
Gestalt coiled a little tighter. "They see. I can see the other egos moving — small things like me, stitched to their owners. They know who wears a mask and who doesn't. The mask is only safe if you keep feeding it."
"Feeding?"
Gestalt laughed without sound. "Names, Ledger. Lies. Small denials. The more you use the placeholder, the stronger it grows. And the stronger it grows, the more of you it hides."
It unwound from his neck and dropped to the desk, sliding around the dish in a slow circle. Its reflection on the water didn't match its movements — in the reflection, the serpent's body was thicker, the head larger.
"Who else has one like you?" Ledger asked.
"Not many," Gestalt said. "But enough. You've met some without knowing. That child on the stairs? She's tethered to a small thing that bites her enemies in their dreams. The man with the coins? His ego is a shadow that counts for him. And the woman in the scarf — hers is older than this city."
Ledger felt the memory of her gaze from under the lamppost. "Can they see you?"
"Only if they've tempted their own," Gestalt said. "And only if I want them to."
The serpent slid back toward him, curling once more around his arm. "You pulled me here for a reason. What do you want, Ledger?"
He hesitated. "The truth about this city."
Gestalt's body tensed against his skin. "Truth is heavy. You can't carry it all at once. But I'll give you a piece."
It leaned close, the voice sharpening. "There's a beast under all of this. Not a creature — not really. It's what the city was built to feed. Every debt, every bargain, every name spoken after dark — all of it rolls down to the same mouth. That's the hunger here. And every person who tempts their ego… well. We become better at feeding it."
Ledger said nothing.
"You'll meet others like me," Gestalt continued. "Some will lie. Some will tell you they want to kill the beast. Some will want to become it. You'll have to decide where you stand. But for now… keep me close. I'll see what you can't."
It slid down to his hand, wrapping itself around two fingers. "And remember: if another ego speaks to you, it's speaking to me too. Don't promise anything without letting me taste the air first."
The bells were silent outside, but a crow called in the distance. The serpent turned its head toward the sound.
"Too late for tonight," it said. "Next time, you'll give me more to work with."
Without warning, it unwound from his hand, slid back across the desk, and dropped into the dish of water. The surface broke, then smoothed — his reflection returned, unchanged except for the faint curve of a smile that didn't feel like his.
Ledger sat back. The room smelled faintly of ash and damp cloth. He reached for the journal, intending to write down everything Gestalt had said, but stopped halfway.
If what the serpent had told him was true, anything written could be read. Anything read could be used.
Instead, he reached for the bottle of water, poured it into the dish to wash the ash away, and set the black cloth aside to dry. The key and the salt went back into the drawer. The name stayed in his head, untouched.
In the silence, he could almost feel Gestalt still coiled somewhere nearby, waiting.
And for the first time since waking in this city, Ledger realized he didn't feel entirely alone.