Chapter 13 Chapter 13

The air changed first around the safe room.

The mark the cut left behind was a white scar now.

Denise was on the bed. She had taken her ruined boot off. Her sock had a hole in it. She kept putting her finger through the hole and pulling it out. Putting it through and pulling it out. Over and over. Her eyes were fixed on nothing.

Neither of them had spoken since Maya left.

The city hummed outside. Low and steady. Leo was starting to get used to the sound. Then the hum stopped.

It didn't fade or slow down. It just stopped like someone had flipped the switch.

Leo looked up. Denise stopped playing with her sock. Her head turned toward the window. Fear and surprise hit them like a splash of water.

The purple sky outside was darker now. Almost black. The clouds that had been hanging low were gone with just the darkness left.

"What happened to the sound?" Denise asked. She was already fidgeting.

Leo swallowed hard. He did not answer. He was looking at the mirror and hoping nothing was about to go wrong. “Maya said this was a safe place for us.” He murmured.

The mirror above the sink was fogging up. Not from steam but from cold. The glass was turning ashes then it turned black.

The temperature dropped abruptly. Leo could see his breath. White puffs in the air. Each one hung in front of his face for a moment before disappearing.

Denise stood up. She backed into the corner. Her hands went flat against the wall behind her. Her gaze was fixed on the window.

"Leo," she said. Her voice was small. "What is happening?"

Leo pushed himself up. His knee screamed. He ignored it.

The mirror cracked with a thin line from the top to the bottom.

Leo stared at it sternly. Another crack came from left to right. Then another. Diagonal.

Then more and more. There were dozens of them spreading across the glass like veins. Like something was growing inside the mirror. Something trying to get out.

Denise made a sound. A whimper. She pressed herself deeper into the corner.

Leo walked toward the mirror. His boots felt heavy. Each step took effort. Like walking through deep waters.

"Leo, do not go near it," Denise said.

He ignored her and kept walking. He was curious to know even though he was scared.

The cracks spread faster. The glass looked like a spiderweb now with white lines across the black surface. Leo could not see his reflection anymore. It was just cracks, lines, and he felt something moving behind them.

He stopped in front of the sink with unblinking eyes, slightly raised eyebrows and clenched teeth. A drop of sweat dropped from her forehead to the floor. He looked at the mirror. At the cracks. At the darkness behind the cracks.

Then the darkness moved.

It pressed against the glass from the other side. Something was there. Something large. Something that did not fit in the space behind the mirror.

The glass bulged outward.

Denise screamed. “Ahhhhh.” A short sound cut off like something had grabbed her throat.

Leo stepped back.

The glass bulged more. A shape was forming. Tall. Too tall for the mirror. Too tall for the wall.

The glass finally shattered but the pieces did not fall. They stayed in the air. Hovering. Floating. Each piece reflected something different. A desk. Papers. Eyes. Tiny clockwork hands. A hallway Leo did not recognize. A door with no handle. A room full of bones. A stairwell.

Then the pieces came together.

Not back into a mirror but into something else. A shape. Nine feet tall. Maybe taller. Leo had to crane his neck to see the top of it.

It was in a charcoal suit perfectly pressed. No wrinkles. No dust. No signs of wear. The kind of suit a banker would wear. Or a funeral director.

Its face, made of spinning paper. Pages turning. Documents flipping. Eyes opening and closing between the pages. Dozens of eyes. Maybe not human.

And where the mouth should be, tiny clockwork hands. Ticking. Clicking. Turning. They moved in patterns Leo could not follow. They wrote words in the air that disappeared before he could read them.

The Interlocutor.

Leo had seen it in his dreams. Every night for months. The same desk. The same papers. The same clockwork hands.

But this was not a dream.

This was real. Here. In his Safe Room. The one place Maya said was supposed to be safe.

Denise still pressed herself into the corner unable to move. Her hands were over her mouth. Her eyes were wet. Tears ran down her scarred cheek. She was shaking so hard the wall behind her could rattled.

The Interlocutor did not look at her. It looked at Leo.

Its paper face spun. One eye blinked. Then another. Then three at once. The clockwork hands ticked faster.

"Hmm. You survived," it said.

Its voice was flat. You can't put a gender on it. It spoke like it was talking out of boredom. Like someone reading terms and conditions out loud. Like someone who had said these words a million times before and would say them a million times again.

Leo's hands shook. He put them behind his back so the Interlocutor would not see. His scar throbbed. The knife in his pocket felt warm.

"You said you would not come here," Leo said. His voice came out steady. He was surprised.

"I said I would not come to your dreams. This is not a dream."

"What is this then?"

The Interlocutor tilted its head. The papers shifted.

"This is a visit. Clerks are permitted to visit Players in their rooms. It is in the contract."

"I never signed a contract."

"You touched the sigil. That is signature." He said it so softly and slowly like he was counting the words.

Leo's jaw tightened. "That is not how contracts work. I am supposed to give my consent and sign.”

"Not again kiddo. Not again. It is in this jurisdiction."

The Interlocutor took a step forward. Its feet made no sound on the floor. But the room got colder. Leo's breath came out in thicker clouds. The window frosted over. The purple sky disappeared behind white ice.

Denise made a sound. A small cry. Leo looked at her. She was crying now. Silent tears. Her body was pressed so flat against the wall she looked like she was trying to become part of it.

"Let her go," Leo said.

The Interlocutor's eyes blinked. Dozens of them. All at once.

"She is not my prisoner. She is free to leave."

"You know she cannot leave. The door is locked."

The Interlocutor looked at the door. Then back at Leo.

"Doors can be unlocked."

"Then unlock it."

The Interlocutor was quiet for a moment. The clockwork hands stopped ticking.

"No," it said.

Leo's hands curled into fists. His nails dug into his palms. The scar on his left hand throbbed harder.

"Why are you here?" Leo asked.

"To speak with you. Player to Clerk."

"I am not a Player."

"You touched the sigil. You fell into the Game. You completed a mission. A task. You are a Player."

"I did not choose this."

"No one chose to."

The Interlocutor took another step forward. It was close now. Leo could smell it. Paper. Ink. Old dust. And something else. Something sweet. Like flowers at a funeral.

"You have questions," the Interlocutor said.

Leo said nothing.

"All Players have questions. Why am I here? What does the Game want? How do I escape?" The clockwork hands started ticking again. Faster now. "But you have different questions. I can see them. Behind your eyes."

Leo's throat was dry. "What questions do I have?"

"About your father."

Leo stopped breathing.

The room went silent. Even Denise's crying stopped.

"Your father," the Interlocutor said. "Emil Vasquez. Transit worker. Touched the sigil at Grand Street Station. Twelve years ago."

Leo's chest felt tight. His heart was pounding. He could feel it in his neck. In his temples. Behind his eyes.

"What about my father?" His voice came out rough. Broken.

The Interlocutor's papers spun slower. The clockwork hands slowed down.

"He lasted three missions."

Leo blinked. "What?"

"Three missions. The Hollow Mall. The Quiet Game. The Bloody Mary Protocol. He survived all three."

Leo's hands dropped to his sides. His father had been here. In this nightmare. Walking these hallways. Fighting these things. Leo had been looking for him for twelve years. And he had been really here the whole time.

"Where is he? You said I was going to meet him if I participated in this mission." Leo asked. His voice was shaking now. He could not hide it. "If he survived three missions, where is he?"

The Interlocutor was quiet for a long time. The papers spun. The clockwork hands turned. The eyes blinked. One by one. By one.

"He was not selected for advancement."

Leo stared at it. "What does that mean?"

"The Game requires fuel. To run. To exist. To create the missions and the monsters and the halls you walk through. It all requires fuel."

Leo's mouth went dry. His tongue felt thick.

"Players who are not selected for advancement become fuel."

The words hung in the air. Leo heard them. He understood them. But they did not make sense. They could not make sense.

"Fuel for what?" he asked. His voice was barely a whisper.

The Interlocutor raised its hand. The fingers were long. Too long. Made of paper and brass.

"Everything," it said. "The missions. The monsters. The mall. The cathedral. The sigils. The walls. The floors. The air you breathe. All of it requires fuel. Your father became part of that."

Leo felt something break inside him. Not his heart. Something deeper. Something he did not h

ave a name for. Something that had been holding him together for twelve years.

"You killed him," Leo said.

"I processed him."

"You killed him."

The Interlocutor tilted its head. The papers rustled.