The streetlamp flickered as Nero stepped outside. Rain kissed the edges of his coat, but he didn't flinch. He stood still — eyes narrowed, mind locked on the faint residue still clinging to the hallway inside his apartment.
A hollow echo.
Someone had been watching him.
Not with eyes. With intent.
He lit a cigarette, not for the smoke, but for the ritual — a thing to do while the pieces shifted inside his head. He traced the pattern again: a breath held too long in the stairwell, the creak of weight on the fourth step (his creaky step), and the faint scent of burning plastic. Cheap gloves. Probably synthetic.
Whoever had come… they weren't new to this.
---
Nero didn't go to the police. He never did. He walked instead — through dim alleyways and buzzing neon shadows, to a place called **The Cellar of Clocks**.
It wasn't a bar. It wasn't a shop. It was a memory that had decided to remain solid.
The bell jingled as he entered, though there was no bell. Clocks lined every inch of wall space, ticking out of sync, whispering broken seconds.
Behind the counter stood **Dr. Simeon Vane**, a man with a voice like silk over glass, and a smile too perfect for a human.
"You smell like wet paranoia," Simeon said, without looking up from his tea.
"You ever heard of hollow echoes left behind by intent?" Nero replied.
Simeon's smile twitched. "Someone's been in your space?"
"More than just in it. They left a mental fingerprint. Subtle. But loud."
The doctor finally looked up, eyes like cracked ice. "Then you've drawn attention. Again."
"I didn't move," Nero said. "The world did."
Simeon leaned forward, setting his cup aside. "And what kind of mind leaves behind an echo strong enough for *you* to feel it?"
Nero reached into his coat and pulled out the photograph he'd found that morning — slipped under his door. Black and white. A man smiling straight into the camera, face distorted with a cracked-glass filter. The photo was old, but the smile felt new.
Simeon's breath caught.
"That's impossible," he said. "That man is supposed to be dead."
Nero stared at the image. "Then either death forgot… or someone lied. Either way, this man's echo is loud. And he's watching."
---
That night, Nero couldn't sleep.
Every time he closed his eyes, the ticking of clocks bled into his dreams, until the seconds became footsteps — getting closer.
When he finally did drift off, he dreamed of a corridor with no doors. Just numbers scratched into the walls.
He stopped at one: **19:47**.
Suddenly, the corridor vanished.
And Nero was left standing in a padded room.
Alone.
Until the mirror cracked — and the man with the glass smile stepped through.