Part 2: "The Glass Labyrinth"
Lila is led through the upper floors-past sterile white corridors and hushed conference rooms-to an obscure creative development suite. Her desk is isolated. One wall of the room is a one-way mirror. She suspects-correctly-that he's watching from the other side.
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Last moment:
>[She turned the it]
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The door gave under her hand with the kind of silence that made her skin crawl.
It didn't creak. It didn't click. It yielded—like it had been waiting. Like it wanted her inside.
Lila stepped through the threshold and let the door close behind her. It shut with a whisper, stealing all outside noise with it. In an instant, the world became still. Eerily still. The air smelled faintly of steel and ozone, like the inside of a storm. Cold. Breathless.
No voices. No background chatter. No typing. Nothing.
She moved forward.
Her footsteps were muffled against an industrial carpet so precise it looked painted. Every wall she passed was made of matte slate or transparent glass, polished to the point of vanishing. If not for the faint green-blue glow of recessed lighting along the floorboards, she might've walked into one and broken her nose.
It wasn't an office.
It was a container.
Or a vault.
A place where ideas—or people—were kept carefully separate. No noise, no distraction, no proof of life. The silence wasn't an accident. It was curated.
Each glass pod she passed sat empty. Clear boxes with sharp-edged desks, perfect chairs, glowing screens that sat black and lifeless. Not a single coffee cup. No thumbprint smudges. Not even a stray pen.
Too clean.
Too untouched.
Until she saw hers.
Far in the back corner—tucked away like a secret—stood the only pod with a name.
L. HART
The letters were etched right into the glass itself. Not on a sticker or label. Engraved. Permanent.
She stared at it, chilled. Her mouth was suddenly dry. She hadn't filled out a W-4. Hadn't received a contract. She hadn't even said yes.
And yet… the glass already bore her name.
She stepped into the cubicle like someone stepping into a confession booth. The door didn't shut behind her. It just hissed closed on its own. She flinched, just slightly.
The space was bare except for a single ultra-thin digital display, paper white, blinking softly in sleep mode. A stylus floated in a magnetic dock. There were no files. No instructions. No login screen.
The moment her hand hovered over the tablet, it woke.
A pulse. Then white.
Nothing else.
No prompt. No direction. Just… blank.
She sat down slowly. Let the chair adjust beneath her.
The silence grew louder.
Then, she felt it.
The weight of it.
The watching.
She turned her head slightly. Slowly. Like prey smelling breath behind its neck.
There—across from her cubicle—stood a wall. Not like the others. Not reflective glass. Not matte slate.
It looked like smoked obsidian. Black and solid and unyielding, but not quite. Not truly opaque.
It gave off nothing. Reflected nothing.
And in that, she knew.
One-way mirror.
The kind used in interrogation rooms. In psychological labs. In places where people were meant to be studied, not seen.
She stood.
Walked to the mirror-wall like it might answer her if she moved slowly enough. Each step silent. Each one increasing the pressure in her chest. It was ridiculous. She knew that. Paranoia. Drama.
Except it wasn't.
Every nerve in her arms screamed: You are not alone.
She reached the glass. Lifted her hand to its surface—but didn't touch it.
Instead, she stood there. Letting it look.
Her pulse was visible in the hollow of her throat.
"If you're going to watch me," she said softly, "then don't blink."
She turned away before she lost her nerve and returned to the desk.
She didn't sit.
Not yet.
Instead, she scanned the space again. Top to bottom. No visible cameras. No microphones.
It didn't matter. This whole room was a microphone. A lens. A trap.
The kind where the mouse walks in voluntarily.
Only then did she notice a small, black dot in the corner of the ceiling.
Unblinking. Subtle. So small it could've been mistaken for a lighting sensor.
It wasn't.
She sat.
Pressed her palm flat against the cool desk.
This wasn't just a place to work. It was a stage. And she was the only one on it.
And somewhere beyond the mirrored wall, someone was watching with their arms folded. Or maybe a glass in their hand. Or maybe just their breath caught in their throat.
She didn't know why the thought thrilled her.
Or why it scared her more than anything else had in years.
She picked up the stylus.
Dragged one bold red line across the white screen.
A dare.
Come see what I'll do.