The "tick" of the backward-running second hand was the only sound that broke the compressed stillness. Each of its reverse beats was a hammer blow against their chests. No one said a word, but in their minds, a storm was raging.
An was the first to act. He walked to the bar, his eyes glued to the metal film canister. The logic within him was trying to regain control, trying to find a rule—any rule—in this madness. There had to be a structure. There had to be a system. Everything had rules, even the most insane things.
"What is this?" He asked the Station Master, though he knew there would be no answer. His voice was dry, alien to himself. "Where is it sending us? Why us?"
The Station Master remained motionless, his empty eyes looking straight through An as if he were just air, just an insignificant impurity in the equation of something much larger.
"Don't touch it," Khue's voice rang out, sharp and clean. She had moved to stand right behind An at some point. "Look."
She pointed at the canister. Its metal surface was covered in a thin layer of frost, tiny water droplets condensing on it. But the air in the café was warm, and dry. There was no reason for frost.
Khue moved closer. Reached out her hand. Stopped five centimeters from the canister.
Cold.
Not a normal cold. This was the kind of cold that... sucked heat. Sucked life. Like standing in front of an industrial freezer door. No, more. Like standing next to a freshly dug grave.
"A cold spot," Khue whispered. "In spiritualism, they call a place with supernatural activity a cold spot. An unexplained drop in temperature."
An looked at her. "You believe in that stuff?"
"I don't. But I'm standing here feeling cold from an object with no power source."
Son stood further back, leaning against the wall. Listening to the other two talk.
They were analyzing. Investigating. Trying to understand.
But Son knew: understanding it or not wouldn't change anything. That film canister was going to take them. Sooner or later.
"What's the point in waiting?" Son said loudly. "Waiting for that damned clock to hit zero?"
An turned. "So what are you going to do?"
"I'm gonna..." Son stopped. He didn't know. "I don't know. But just standing here won't solve anything."
"Acting recklessly is worse," An said. "We need information. We need—"
"Need what?" Son strode over. "Look at that old guy. He's not talking. He's not answering. Just standing there like a clown. And you two keep asking, keep analyzing. It's useless."
Khue interjected, "But if we—"
"Enough."
Before An or Khue could stop him, Son stepped forward and placed his hand on the canister's lid.
________________________
The moment his fingertips touched the freezing metal, the world vanished.
No more amber light, no more wooden bar. All three were suddenly submerged in a torrent of alien sensations attacking simultaneously from all sides.
The acrid, suffocating smell of chemicals and decaying old paper flooded their noses. The steady clack-clack of a film projector echoed in their ears like the heartbeat of a giant beast.
And worst of all—the feeling of being watched. A sensation coming from every direction, from the shadows between towering, endlessly straight aisles. From the air. From the darkness itself.
It lasted only a second.
Then they were thrown back into the reality of The Still Point, all three stumbling back, gasping, hearts hammering.
"What... the hell was that?" Son was the first to speak, staring at his hand as if it no longer belonged to him. His fingers were still stiff, the skin pale blue.
"An archive," Khue said immediately, her eyes shining with an obsessive, analytical gleam. "That smell is of nitrate film decomposing. It's highly flammable. Extremely dangerous. The sound is an 8mm projector, old model, probably from the 1960s. We're about to be sent to an abandoned film library or archive."
"We need to prepare," An said, his mind beginning to function again. Focusing on a concrete goal kept him from thinking about what had just happened. "Right now. Check what everyone has on them."
They emptied their pockets onto a nearby table. The result was pathetic.
An's signal-less iPhone, the screen meaninglessly displaying "No Service." A leather wallet holding a few 500,000 VND notes and credit cards—completely useless. A set of keys to his 15th-floor apartment, which he wasn't sure he'd ever return to.
A Thien Long ballpoint pen and a worn, hardcover notebook belonging to Khue, filled with tiny, meticulous notes on criminal cases. A USB drive labeled "Butterfly 1997-1998."
And a tarnished silver Zippo lighter, along with a few small spray paint cans from Son's backpack. Red. Black. White.
Khue looked at the lighter. Then at An.
"Nitrate film. Flammable. If he brings a lighter and five cans of aerosol paint into an archive of old film..."
An understood immediately. "It could be a weapon. Or a death sentence."
Son picked up the lighter, his voice curt: "So I should throw it away?"
"No," Khue said. "Keep it. But be careful."
An looked up at the clock. The red second hand had already completed half a rotation. "We don't have much time." He looked at the other two. "We need to talk about... about how we work."
"Work?" Son scoffed. "Sounds like a day job."
"It is." An looked Son straight in the eye. "We don't know each other. We don't trust each other. But if we don't cooperate, we'll die."
Silence.
Khue spoke up. "An is right. We need... to assign roles."
An nodded. "I can analyze the space, the building's structure. Find exits."
Khue: "I can observe behavior. If there's... anything else there, I might be able to predict its patterns."
Both of them looked at Son.
He shrugged. "Me... I don't know what I can do. I'm just a graffiti artist."
"But you have paint," Khue said. "You can... mark our path. So we don't get lost."
Son looked at his paint cans. Then back at the two of them. "OK. Fine. But one thing."
"What?"
"If one of you puts me in danger," Son looked straight into An's eyes, "I won't let it go."
An didn't blink. "Same here."
They looked at each other, three total strangers less than an hour ago, bound by a fate they didn't understand, didn't want, and didn't choose. Suspicion, fear, and a subtle, underlying hostility seeped between them like toxic smoke. Who would be the burden? Who would make the wrong call? Who would be the last one standing—if anyone was left standing?
________________________
As the red second hand touched the number 6, the lights in The Still Point began to flicker. The warm amber light now sputtered like a dying candle. The dark corners of the room seemed to deepen, creeping outwards, swallowing the space.
Tick.
The second hand hit 5. The Station Master, who had stood motionless as a wax statue this whole time, began to disintegrate. His body blurred, dissolved into black smoke, and was sucked into the darkness behind the bar.
Tick.
Number 4. The clack-clack of the projector they had heard in the vision now became real, echoing from everywhere around them. From the ceiling. From the floorboards. From the air itself.
Tick.
Number 3.
An turned to the other two. "Grab your things. Stay close."
They huddled together. Three strangers. Three fates forced into one spot.
Tick.
Number 2. The table, the chairs, the bar... everything in The Still Point began to lose its form, blurring like a water-damaged photograph.
Tick.
Number 1.
An felt the floor beneath his feet lose its solidity. Like standing on water. Like standing on a cloud.
Khue clutched her notebook. Her mind recorded every detail. Memorizing. To analyze later.
If there was a "later."
Son closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. Prepared for the un-preparable.
Tick.
The second hand touched 12.
The clock stopped.
________________________
Darkness swallowed them.
They didn't feel themselves move.
Instead, it felt as if the world around them had been replaced. As if someone had changed the stage scenery in the blink of an eye while they weren't looking. The darkness receded, revealing a colossal space that their brains refused to fully process because it was too large, too wrong.
The ceiling was so high it couldn't be seen. It dissolved into the darkness above like a starless night sky.
Thousands of towering steel shelves. Packed tightly together. Forming an endless labyrinth. Each shelf held hundreds of metal film canisters, identical to the one they had just touched, stacked in terrifyingly perfect order.
Dust covered every surface. The air was thick with the smell of old film, chemicals, and something sickeningly sweet, like rotting meat.
In a distant corner, a single beam of light shone from an old 8mm projector. It swept across the shelves in silence, casting long, distorted shadows on the far wall.
They had arrived.
And they were not alone.