The day broke without sunlight.
Khương Triều Dạ stood in front of the mirror, his toothbrush idle in his hand, foam clinging to the corners of his lips. He hadn't slept since returning. Not truly. His body had rested, but something inside him remained awake—listening.
The tooth was still there.
Small. Hard. Sharp. Nestled under his tongue like a secret.
He pressed it with his fingertip.
It pulsed.
---
The outside world remained intact. Or at least it pretended to be.
The streets bustled with motion—cars honking, wheels screeching, people weaving past each other with downcast eyes and quickened steps. The vendors shouted the same prices. Children laughed the same laughter. Everything repeated with perfect, automated precision.
Too perfect.
Like watching a stage play where every actor had rehearsed their roles for eternity.
---
He avoided his office that day.
His feet led him toward the western edge of the city—a place he rarely visited. The buildings here were older, built in the post-war era with cracked balconies and iron railings that screeched in the wind. Street signs were faded. Moss crawled up cement walls like fingers trying to escape the ground.
He wasn't alone.
Someone was following him.
He could feel it. Not behind him. Not beside him. But inside his shadow.
A second rhythm.
A delayed echo.
---
The alley he turned into was narrow and steep, sloping toward a cul-de-sac lined with ancient, boarded-up shops. Windows were dark. Air stale. But something called him.
He reached the end.
And saw her.
A figure in gray robes, sitting on a plastic stool like she'd been waiting since the world was new. Her head was wrapped in cloth, face entirely covered, and fingers long and yellowed curled around a broken cup of tea.
The steam from it rose upward—but never dissipated.
Khương Triều Dạ stopped.
She spoke without lifting her head.
"You've brought back more than you should."
His throat dried. "What are you?"
The figure's head twitched slightly. "Not what. When."
"What does that mean?"
"You're early. You should have descended seven layers down before the tooth appears."
His hand instinctively moved toward his tongue.
She chuckled—a sound like paper tearing.
"You've stepped sideways. Not down. That is why they are aware."
"Who is 'they'?"
The figure leaned forward, slow and jerking, as if her body resisted motion. Her fingers brushed against the tiled floor, leaving faint ash behind.
"The Things Below Names. The Ones who remember what the gods forgot."
He felt a pressure behind his eyes. Like something pushing forward from the back of his skull.
"What do they want from me?"
She paused.
Then whispered, almost kindly:
"To wake up what's inside you. So they can worship you again."
---
Khương Triều Dạ staggered back.
The alley twisted.
Not metaphorically—literally.
The walls bent, as if made of soft clay. Windows blinked. Shutters snapped open like jaws. The ground pulsed beneath his feet.
And the figure was gone.
Only the tea remained—still steaming.
He turned to run—
—but the exit was no longer there.
Just a hallway of doors. Identical. Infinite. Stretching out in both directions.
On each door was a number.
And a name.
His name.
But different each time:
> Dạ, Khương T.
Dạ Khương
Triều-Dạ, K.
Dạ. Khương.
One door read only: "Dạ (0)"
His breath came in ragged bursts. The tooth in his mouth vibrated now, as if aware of what surrounded him.
He reached for a handle.
---
The door opened inward.
Revealing a room shaped like a cathedral turned inside out. Walls bent upward, forming arches of meat and smoke. Candles burned with black fire, suspended mid-air without holders. Choirs sang in reverse—a language not meant for mouths or meaning.
At the center: a mirror.
But it reflected someone else.
Not Khương Triều Dạ.
Taller.
Clothed in shadows that moved like smoke and teeth.
Eyes of ink.
And behind that figure—hundreds of people, kneeling.
Mouths sewn shut.
Worshipping.
---
Then the mirror cracked.
A voice spilled through:
"Wake up, O Fragment. Your name is not yours alone."
His body snapped backward, spine arching violently. Heat surged through him. Blood flooded his nose, his ears. His mouth opened in a silent scream—
And then—
Nothing.
---
He was back in his bed.
Covered in sweat.
The window closed.
The mirror quiet.
The tooth? Gone.
But on the wall, written in something that shimmered faintly like oil:
> "Layer 0: Initiated."