Vorn woke up to silence.
He was still in the crooked kitchen chair, back stiff, neck aching. One foot on cold tile, the other dangling half-off. He didn't remember falling asleep, but the weight in his hand—the key—was warm.
Outside, the sky was a colorless gray. No clouds. No sun. Just a flat sheet, like the city had forgotten how weather worked.
The streets below were quiet. A bird flapped across his view, once, then disappeared behind another wall. The kettle sat untouched. No whistle. No scent of steam.
Vorn stood. His joints popped softly, like gears uncoiling.
The key didn't pulse anymore. But it felt alive.
He slipped it into his pocket.
And left the apartment.
---
The street was... fine.
Normal, even.
But it didn't feel right.
People moved along the sidewalks. Their pace was calm. Their expressions blank. But when they stepped, the sound came half a second too late—like the world had been dubbed wrong.
Vorn crossed the street.
He didn't know what he needed. Maybe food. Maybe the illusion of normalcy.
At the corner store, he paused. Across from him stood a man—leaning against a lamppost near an old bookstore. The man smoked, but the cigarette didn't burn. Just hung there, perfectly still, like a forgotten frame of animation.
Their eyes met briefly.
The man smiled.
Not friendly. Not threatening. Just... knowing.
Vorn turned away and stepped inside.
---
The store was quiet.
Fluorescent lights buzzed. He grabbed what he needed. Bread. Canned soup. Batteries.
At the counter, the woman behind the register gave him a strange look. Polite. But something in her face twitched—like a gesture that didn't belong to her.
"You new around here?" she asked.
"No, I have been here for a while" he replied.
She scanned the items. Her pupils shifted slightly. Not dilated—split. For a second. Then normal again.
Vorn didn't react.
He paid, nodded, and left.
The man from the lamppost was gone.
But someone else was there now. A teenager, hoodie up, leaning too far into the alley. Chewing gum. Loudly.
Too loudly.
Vorn turned the corner and walked faster.
His body was calm.
But something beneath his skin... wasn't.
---
Back in the apartment, the mirror wasn't cracked.
It was open.
Not like a door. Not fully.
More like a slit through fabric. Just wide enough to see.
On the other side, a small workspace flickered into view. A desk. Notes. Glass tools. Ink bottles. Someone sat there—shoulders hunched, goggles on—writing with furious energy.
They paused.
Looked straight at him.
Neither of them spoke.
The mirror flicked back to normal.
---
That night, someone knocked.
Not on the door.
On the window.
Four floors up.
Vorn sat still.
The knocking didn't repeat.
Later, a slip of paper slid under the door. He picked it up.
"Agency 4. You've been flagged.
Show up. Or we come in."
No name. No seal.
Just coordinates. A time.
Vorn didn't sleep.
---
The warehouse looked like it hadn't been opened in years.
Rusted doors. Flickering sign. The number 4 half-scraped off.
Inside, three people sat at a metal table. Two men. One woman. All dressed in plain clothes. The woman gestured.
"You've seen it, haven't you?" she said.
Vorn nodded. "Too much, maybe."
She slid a folder across the table. Photos. Reports. Black-and-white images of cracked mirrors. Faces caught mid-expression. One photo showed a man disappearing mid-step into the street.
"You're not the only one," she said. "But you're the first in a long time to survive contact without breaking."
Vorn didn't answer.
"You're not unstable yet," the man beside her added. "But the mark's there. You've touched the spectrum."
"The spectrum?"
The woman tapped her temple. "We call it that. Layers, frequencies... it doesn't matter. What matters is, people like you—those who resonate—we call them Transcendents."
Vorn's expression didn't change. But he'd heard the word before.
"I've seen it written," he said quietly.
"The mirror told you," she replied.
He looked down. "And the key."
The woman's eyes shifted. For a moment, Vorn saw a faint shimmer—colors oil-slicking across her iris.
Then, a number. A Chinese character. Three.
"You've passed seals," he said.
"Three," she replied. "Barely."
"What do you want from me?"
"Nothing yet. Just to keep going."
---
They tested him.
Not like doctors. Not like scientists.
They put him in a mirrored room. Lights flickered. His reflection changed. Sometimes it wasn't him at all.
He was told to walk through doors that weren't there.
Given words to speak that made the lights pulse.
Everything was recorded. Measured.
After six hours, they gave him a badge.
Blank metal. Numbers etched on the back.
> 41–Spectra–112
---
Outside, a man waited.
Young. Serious. Wore gloves even indoors.
"Renn," he introduced himself.
He didn't offer a handshake. Just turned and walked toward the train station.
Vorn followed.
Only after the train started moving did Renn speak.
"You saw the key, right?"
Vorn nodded.
"Then you've started."
"Started what?"
Renn looked out the window.
"The unmaking of things."
---
When Vorn returned home, the page had changed again.
Same markings. Same page.
But new ink had risen to the surface.
"When the card finds its shape, so will your purpose."
In the drawer, next to the key—something new.
A card.
Blank.
But pulsing with a faint light.