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The overhead lights hummed in the silence, casting harsh shadows between the stacks. Vesper worked at her desk, scanning documents from the Hartley donation, her fingers moving mechanically over the keys. The archive closed at 8:00 PM on Thursdays, but she always stayed late. There was paperwork to file, digital scans to catalog, and most importantly, there was no one at home waiting for her.

Lila had left at 5:30 PM sharp, waving goodbye with her usual cheerful energy. "Don't work too hard. The dead guys can wait until tomorrow."

But Vesper could not stop. If she stopped, she would have to think about the frost mark on her arm, about the page that had dissolved into impossible snow, about the fact that her dreams were bleeding into reality in ways that defied explanation.

Her breath misted in front of her face.

She looked up from her computer, frowning. The temperature had dropped, subtle at first but now undeniable. A small cloud of vapor hung in the air, impossible in a heated building. The familiar chill crept through her clothes, through her skin, settling into her bones.

The lights flickered once, twice, then stabilized to a dimmer glow.

Vesper stood slowly, wrapping her arms around herself. This was not the usual winter draft. This was deeper, more invasive, like standing in a walk-in freezer. The bitter air seeped through every layer she wore.

She walked toward the windows that overlooked the street. The glass was old, single-pane, rattling slightly in their frames. Outside, snow had begun to fall, thick flakes that swirled in the wind.

That was when she saw him.

Eryx's reflection appeared in the glass, standing behind her own. Not beside her, but behind, as if he were in the archive with her. But when she spun around, there was nothing. Just empty space and the dark rows of shelving.

Vesper turned back to the window, pulse hammering. The reflection was still there. Eryx stood with his head bowed, shoulders hunched, as if he were carrying an enormous weight. His hands were pressed against something invisible, fingers splayed wide. He looked exhausted in a way that made her chest ache.

She reached out and touched the glass. Ice spread from where her fingers made contact, delicate patterns blooming across the surface. The window was frozen, colder than it should be even in December.

In the reflection, Eryx's head lifted slightly. He was not looking at her reflection but at something beyond, something she could not see. His expression was one of fierce concentration, of desperate determination. He was holding something back.

He is guarding me, she realized with sudden clarity. He is standing between me and whatever is trying to get through.

"Eryx?" she whispered to the glass.

The reflection flickered, like a bad television signal, but he did not respond. Could not respond. He was too focused on whatever battle he was fighting in the space between dreams and waking.

Vesper pressed both palms flat against the window, ignoring the burning numbness. "I can see you. I know you are there."

For just a moment, his reflection seemed to solidify, becoming more real, more present. His eyes, dark as midnight, met hers in the glass. There was recognition there, and relief, and something that looked like sorrow.

Then the window cracked.

Not a full break, just a thin line that spider-webbed from where her hands touched the glass. Vesper jerked back, alarmed. The frost patterns spread faster now, covering the entire window in seconds. Eryx's reflection faded with them, dissolving into white.

The temperature in the archive returned to normal so quickly it was like stepping out of water. The lights brightened. Everything was ordinary again.

Vesper stood there for a long moment, staring at the frosted window, at the crack she had somehow caused. Her hands were numb, fingers stiff and aching.

She grabbed her coat and bag, locked up with shaking hands, and set the alarm twice before it took. She needed to get home, needed to sleep, needed to see Eryx in the library where he was solid and real and could actually talk to her.

The subway ride was a blur of fluorescent lights and rattling metal. Vesper sat with her hands tucked under her arms, trying to warm them. The car was mostly empty at this hour, just a few late-night commuters scattered across the plastic seats.

She almost missed it.

Three rows ahead, a man in a business suit sat reading a newspaper. There was nothing obviously wrong with him. He wore the standard urban uniform of gray wool and black leather. His posture was normal, his movements unremarkable.

But his face was wrong.

Where there should have been features, there was static. Not a blur exactly, but a visual distortion, like looking at a television screen that had lost its signal. His eyes, nose, and mouth were there and not there, flickering in and out of focus.

Vesper's breath hitched. She gripped the metal pole beside her seat, knuckles white.

The man turned a page of his newspaper, the motion smooth and practiced. Then, slowly, his head began to turn toward her.

The subway car jolted as it pulled into her stop. The doors hissed open. Vesper did not think, did not hesitate. She lunged for the exit, pushing past a woman with a stroller, and stumbled onto the platform.

Behind her, through the dirty windows, she saw the static-faced man stand. He folded his newspaper carefully, precisely, and turned to face the doors.

They closed before he could exit.

The train pulled away, carrying him into the tunnel. But through the window, she counted seven more standing on the platform behind her, all turning toward her in unison. Their faces were static. Their movements synchronized. Their emptiness complete.

Vesper ran.

The mundane world was fracturing, and she did not know how to stop it.