Lyos Lever woke to the taste of iron and the weight of silence pressing against his chest.

  Not the silence of peace, but the kind that fills the world after a scream-the kind that lingers, thick and expectant, in the corners of a room. He lay still, eyes open, staring at the ceiling of his apartment, counting the cracks in the plaster as if they might spell out an answer.

  The city beyond his window was just beginning to stir, but inside, everything felt wrong.

  He sat up, heart thumping in his chest. The clock on his nightstand read 05:27. He didn’t remember falling asleep. He didn’t remember coming home. The last thing he could recall was the board meeting at the foundation, Liora’s searching gaze, the rain streaking the windows, the soft chime of the elevator as he pressed the button for the lobby. Then-nothing.

  A gap, clean and absolute, like a page torn from a book.

  He swung his legs over the side of the bed, feeling the cold bite of the floor against his bare feet. His shoes were lined up by the door, his coat hung perfectly on the rack. Everything was too neat. He didn’t remember doing that either.

  He moved through his apartment in a daze, the details of his life feeling unfamiliar, as if he were walking through a stranger’s home. The kitchen counter was spotless. The coffee table, usually cluttered with books and half-finished mugs, was bare. Even the air felt scrubbed clean, devoid of the usual scents of last night’s dinner or the faint tang of cologne.

  He paused by the bathroom door, staring at his reflection in the hallway mirror. His eyes looked bruised, the skin beneath them shadowed and hollow. There was a faint, dark stain on his shirt collar, almost black in the early morning light. He touched it with trembling fingers. Blood? Wine? He couldn’t tell. The memory refused to surface.

  He turned on the tap, splashed cold water on his face, and tried to shake the feeling that something was wrong-not just with the morning, but with himself. With the world. He watched the water swirl down the drain, red-tinged for just a moment, and blinked, uncertain whether it was a trick of the light or something more.

  He dressed in silence, choosing the gray suit he always wore to the foundation’s events. He checked his phone-no missed calls, no messages. The absence was almost as unsettling as the missing time. He scrolled through his calendar, searching for a reason to feel normal. There was a board meeting at nine, a lunch with Soren Leif at noon, and a call with the camp director at three. Routine. Predictable.

  But the anxiety didn’t fade. It only sharpened, growing teeth.

  He left his apartment, locking the door behind him, and stepped into the city’s morning rush. The rain had stopped, but the air was still heavy with the promise of another storm. He walked to the corner café, ordered his usual black coffee, and sat by the window, watching the world move on without him.

  He tried to focus on the newspaper, but the words swam before his eyes. Something about a violent incident downtown. He barely heard the details, but the anchor’s tone was grave.

  He kept glancing at the clock, counting the minutes, as if waiting for something to happen. He sipped his coffee, noticing the stain on his cuff-dark, almost black. He rubbed at it, but it wouldn’t come out.

  He frowned, a chill crawling up his spine.

  A vibration in his pocket broke his reverie. He pulled out his phone. A single, cryptic text from an unknown number:

  Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

  Did you mean to do it?

  He stared at the message, a cold sweat prickling his skin. He tried to call Liora. No answer. He left a message anyway, voice low and uncertain: “Call me back when you can. I… I need to talk.”

  He finished his coffee and left the café, the city’s noise pressing in around him. He walked the familiar route to the foundation’s office, but every step felt wrong, as if the ground beneath his feet had shifted.

  At the foundation’s board meeting, Lyos felt out of place. The room was too bright, the air too thin. Liora was distant, her eyes sharp and wary. She barely spoke to him, her attention fixed on the agenda in front of her. Soren Leif arrived late, offering a brief nod and a warning glance. The board discussed an “incident” at a refugee camp. People kept glancing at Lyos, as if expecting him to speak. He had nothing to say.

  He tried to follow the conversation, but his mind kept drifting. He caught fragments-“security breach,” “unexplained injuries,” “no witnesses”-but they slid past him, leaving only a sense of unease.

  After the meeting, Lyos found himself alone in the hallway with Liora. She hesitated, then spoke quietly. “Are you all right, Lyos? You seem… off.”

  He forced a smile. “Just a rough night. Didn’t sleep well.”

  She studied him for a moment, then nodded. “If you need anything, let me know.”

  He watched her walk away, feeling the distance between them like a physical thing.

  Lunch with Soren was tense. They sat in a quiet corner of a small restaurant, the clatter of dishes and low hum of conversation filling the space between them. Soren’s questions were pointed, his tone edged with suspicion.

  “Where were you last night, Lyos?”

  Lyos tried to laugh it off, but the sound rang hollow. “Just at home. Why?”

  Soren didn’t smile. “You ever feel like you’re missing time?”

  Lyos looked away, unable to meet his gaze. “Sometimes. I guess I’ve just been stressed.”

  Soren leaned in, voice low. “Be careful. There are rumors-people losing hours, waking up somewhere they don’t remember going. It’s not just you.”

  Lyos felt a cold knot form in his stomach. “What are you saying?”

  Soren shook his head. “Nothing. Just… be careful.”

  Lyos excused himself, dizzy. In the bathroom, he splashed water on his face. For a moment, his reflection seemed to smirk at him-an expression he knew he hadn’t made. He stared at himself, searching for answers, but found only a stranger’s eyes staring back.

  He reached into his pocket and found a note in his own handwriting:

  Don’t trust the mirrors.

  He didn’t remember writing it.

  He left the restaurant, the city’s noise pressing in around him. He walked without direction, letting his feet carry him through the maze of streets and alleys. The world felt unreal, as if he were moving through a dream.

  He passed a newsstand, the headline catching his eye:

  Prominent Politician Assassinated Downtown.

  He bought a paper, hands shaking. The details were vague-a single shooter, no witnesses, security cameras inexplicably disabled. The victim’s name meant nothing to Lyos, but the timing chilled him.

  He folded the paper and kept walking, the words echoing in his mind.

  That night, back in his apartment, the sense of wrongness grew. A chair was out of place. A matchbook he didn’t recognize sat on the counter. A strange symbol-two intersecting lines, almost like a chessboard-was scrawled on a notepad by the phone.

  He tried to piece it together, but the harder he tried, the more his head ached.

  He sat at his desk, staring at the symbol, willing it to make sense. The room felt too small, the air too thin. He heard footsteps in the hallway, but when he checked the peephole, there was no one there.

  A wave of dizziness overtook him. The world blurred, colors smearing at the edges of his vision. He gripped the edge of the desk, trying to steady himself, but the sensation only grew stronger.

  He closed his eyes, and the darkness pressed in.

  He woke hours later, standing in the rain outside a shuttered shop. His phone buzzed with missed calls. A news alert flashed across the screen:

  Second Political Figure Found Dead-Police Baffled.

  He looked down. The stain on his cuff was gone, replaced by a new one-fresh, bright red.

  He stared at his reflection in the shop window. For a moment, his own face seemed to move on its own, lips curling into a cold, unfamiliar smile.

  Lyos whispered, “What’s happening to me?”

  The city lights flickered in the rain, and somewhere deep inside, something waited.