I step inside without a word, clutching the card like a lifeline.

  I traverse the hallway, feeling an odd warmth and hearing the typing of impossible magnitude. It feels overwhelmingly busy, yet I see no evidence of life as I approach the end of the corridor. Then, just as I reach it, all typing abruptly stops.

  I enter a clear office—decorated with question marks, exclamation points, and what looks like chaotic tabloids pinned to the walls. A young, spiffy man gestures for me to sit. Signs hang all around: “We Trade in Secrets,” “Redeem Your Curiosities,” “Negotiate Your Destiny.” Just like the plaque. Now, they feel more like instructions than suggestions.

  The man speaks in a professional tone:

  “Welcome to Mystery Trader Inc. We are truly happy to add a new customer to our services, Mr. Jason.”

  I freeze.

  How does he know my name?

  I ask him.

  He coughs awkwardly.

  “The introduction letter. We’ve been informed of your situation, and we are willing to assist you in your endeavors.”

  I cut to the chase:

  “Then… do you know how to defeat the mirror monster that stalks me?”

  He answers plainly:

  “Of course we do. But I don’t think you alone can achieve the result you desire. If you wish to know…”

  He leans forward.

  “…pay me a secret.”

  “A secret?”

  “Yes. We trade in secrets.”

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  He says it flatly, almost bored. But then he pauses, studies me for the first time, and suddenly his fake smile lights up—almost radiant.

  “Ahhhh, where are my manners? The first one is a service! We’ll give it to you for free!”

  That was strange. He was practically uninterested a moment ago, half-selling me his sales pitch, and now he’s flipping into full enthusiasm. Something’s off.

  I press him.

  “What’s with the sudden change in attitude?”

  He starts whistling nervously, eyes avoiding mine.

  “Pay or take the service. Don’t push me.”

  Realizing I’ll get nothing more, I relent.

  “Fine. How do I beat the mirror man?”

  He adjusts his tie—visibly relieved.

  “You must destroy his pocket mirror. It acts as an anchor to this reality. You already have the tools—the artifice of your escape. Last time, you were nearly successful, but missed by a small margin. The issue now is… the special operator knows you're capable.”

  Everything he says sounds right. Uncomfortably so.

  How does he know all this?

  He continues:

  “Exploit his weakness. He fears bodies of liquid. They distort his perception with their malleable reflections. He craves consistency—because constancy of image keeps him whole.”

  He leans in again.

  “You’ll need help. A friend. You won’t win alone.”

  I understand what that means.

  Lex. Again.

  Some things really don’t change.

  The clerk smiles, pleased. I ask:

  “Is that all you require of me?”

  He answers:

  “I’ve answered your mystery. That was your free service. But, as an after-service courtesy, here’s one last bit…”

  He lowers his voice.

  “The Commissariat visited the warehouse. Something about all the windows—homes and storage units—exploding at once and injuring several, though no deaths. They believe the church was involved. John D. and his staff were recalled to the main cathedral for… ‘mediation.’”

  Finally. A chance to uncover the secret of the parish.

  I didn’t mean to say it aloud, but the words tumbled out.

  The clerk smiles again—like someone proud of watching a child take their first steps.

  “I hope our services have been useful. Please, come again!”

  He gestures grandly toward the door.

  As I walk to leave, I stop just at the threshold.

  “Hey… what’s your name?”

  He smirks.

  “That’s a secret. Proper payment to find out.”

  +++

  Before I can argue, the door slams shut—and I’m supernaturally pushed back out. The wall behind me folds in, as if the passage had never existed.

  I'm now fully convinced that all my doubts about the existence of a god in this world have been shattered… How could so many fantastically horrifying things happen to me in less than a week? I sigh, sinking into a quiet depression, reminiscing with a sort of bitter nostalgia. Mundanity is beyond me now.

  I miss my security job—pushing around trespassers, informing my community. I even miss the war...

  Second thought—no, the war wasn’t better.

  I peel myself off the wall. The sun hits my face—radiantly, almost annoyingly so. I grimace, shielding my eyes, and make my way toward Lex’s apartment. It's starting to get late.