The library smelled like paper and cleaner. Afternoon light slid through the tall windows, cutting the tables into pale squares. Jason leaned over a workbook, tapping his pen against the margin.
"So you divide first," he said. "Then, no, wait. Actually, do the bracket before."
The younger boy frowned. "You said the exact opposite five minutes ago."
Jason blinked. "I did?"
Across the table, a girl with tight braids and tired eyes crossed her arms. "You're confusing him."
"I'm not," Jason said quickly. "I just, okay, look. Let's take this one more time. Plug the value here."
"That's not what Mr. Hunn taught us," the boy muttered.
Jason's jaw tightened. He dragged a hand through his hair. "Teachers overcomplicate things."
The girl leaned back. "Or maybe you're skipping steps."
A chair scraped nearby. Elias Rowan watched from another table, quiet, eyes tracking Jason's hands.
Jason forced a smile. "Trust me. This works."
"Now try again, just as I taught you."
The boy tried again. The answer came out wrong. He stared at the page, shoulders sagging. "I don't get it."
Jason exhaled through his nose. "You were doing fine earlier."
"Because you explained it better earlier," the girl said. Not cruel. Just flat.
Jason sighed, heat creeping up his neck. "I'm running out of time."
"So are we," she replied, gathering her books. "Come on."
They left without another word. The chair legs echoed too loudly.
Jason stood there, workbook open, pen still ticking. Elias approached, slow.
"Move too fast," Elias said softly. "And you lose people."
"I'm just trying to help," Jason snapped.
Elias shrugged. "Maybe. Or maybe you like the hard part more than the finish."
Laughter drifted from the hallway. Jason caught fragments through the glass.
"He's smart, but unreliable."
"Yeah. You never know with him."
Jason's grip tightened until the pen bent. He stared at the smeared ink, chest tight, the light shifting as if the room itself had leaned away.
Jason gathered his workbook and walked. The library door swung shut behind him. The corridor was empty, lockers humming faintly, metal cooling after a long day. He sat on the floor opposite the mounted mirror, knees drawn up, backpack at his side.
His reflection stared back, lean frame folded in, eyes darker in the dimming light.
"Get it together," he muttered.
The mirror held silence.
A breeze slid through an open window down the hall. Dust lifted, drifting sideways instead of falling. Jason frowned.
"That's new."
He stood, stepping closer. The glass felt cool against his fingers when he tapped it. Solid.
"Just tired," he said.
His reflection moved a fraction late.
Jason froze. "What?"
The delay vanished. Perfect sync again. Too perfect.
Footsteps echoed somewhere distant. A door shut. The sound stretched, thinning like it had passed through water.
Jason's chest tightened.
The mirror's surface shimmered, faint, like heat rising off pavement. Light bent along the edges, warping the lockers behind him.
His pulse thudded in his ears.
He leaned back.
"Hello?"
His breath felt heavy.
"I must be losing my mind."
The shimmer deepened. Shapes shifted beneath it, not reflections, something layered behind his own face.
Jason stepped back. The floor creaked.
"I'm not in the mood," he said, voice tight.
The mirror rippled once, slow and deliberate. A darker outline slid through the distortion, moving against the rules of reflection.
Jason's heart kicked hard. The hallway felt suddenly narrow, air pressing in.
He backed away slowly, eyes locked on the glass as it continued to move.
Jason blinks. The hallway gutters out, lockers thinning into fog. Sound drains first, then colour, until he stands ankle-deep in gray light that has no source. A low hum presses against his teeth. He takes a step. The echo arrives late, warped, as if the space is deciding whether to accept him.
He turns. There is no wall, no ceiling, only distance piled on distance. His breath clouds, then clears, then refuses to fog again. Time feels elastic. He lifts his hands. They look right, but wrong, like copies printed a shade too pale.
"Okay," he says, voice swallowed. "Where am I?"
The hum swells. With it comes a gridless sense of direction tugging at his chest. He walks. The ground firms under each footfall just before contact, then softens again, accommodating him alone.
A memory tries to surface, chalk dust, Nathan Cross's stare, but the void erases it mid-thought. Jason's pulse steadies by force of habit. Count steps. Breathe. Adapt.
"Three," he murmurs, taking a careful step. His foot lands with a delayed echo.
"Four." Another step. The sound stretches thin, then snaps back.
He paces, slow, deliberate. "In. Two. Three." He drags in a breath. "Out." His shoulders drop a fraction. "See? Functional."
Something clicks.
A square cursor blinks into existence at eye level. Flat. White. Patient.
It floats closer, awaiting input, as if the emptiness itself has asked him to choose.
The hum pauses.
Expectant.