The hum of the fluorescent lights in the restroom felt like needles pressing into Rayan's eardrums. He stood frozen, the Nokia burner phone vibrating in his damp palm. Behind him, visible only through the stained silver of the mirror, the legs in the third stall swayed gently. Left to right. A rhythmic, hypnotic motion that defied the stagnant air of the room.
Step. Step. Step.
Rayan didn't turn around. He couldn't. His muscles felt like they had been poured into concrete. Every instinct screamed at him to run, but the message on the phone—Look behind the mirror—held him captive.
He reached out, his fingers trembling as they touched the cold glass. It wasn't just a mirror. He felt a slight gap along the edge. With a sharp tug, the mirrored cabinet swung open, revealing not a medicine chest, but a dark, hollowed-out cavity in the wall. Inside sat a small, whirring tape recorder and a jar containing a single, preserved human eye.
The eye was blue. Just like Rayan's.
A sudden, violent thud echoed from the third stall. The hanging legs stopped swaying.
Rayan spun around, his back slamming against the sink. The stall door, painted a sickly hospital green, was vibrating. Something was kicking it from the inside. Not the frantic kicking of someone trying to get out, but a slow, deliberate beat.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
"Who's there?" Rayan managed to choke out.
The kicking stopped. Silence returned, heavier than before. Then, a wet, sliding sound—like a heavy carcass being dragged over tile. From beneath the gap of the stall door, a pool of liquid began to seep out. It wasn't red. It was thick, iridescent gold, shimmering under the flickering lights.
The burner phone in his hand chimed again. A new message: "Don't let the gold touch you. It remembers everything."
Rayan leaped onto the vanity counter just as the golden liquid reached the spot where he had been standing. He watched in horror as the liquid touched the base of the porcelain sink. The metal pipe began to dissolve, not into rust, but into old, yellowed parchment. The entire bathroom was beginning to change—the tiles turning into sheets of paper, the walls becoming rows of filing cabinets.
The door to the third stall creaked open.
There was no body hanging there. Only a noose made of typewriter ribbon, still swinging. But on the floor of the stall, sitting in the center of the golden pool, was a man. He was dressed exactly like Rayan, but his face was a blur of static, like a corrupted video file.
The Static-Man looked up. Where his eyes should have been, two empty sockets leaked the same golden fluid. He raised a hand and pointed at the cavity behind the mirror.
"The tape, Rayan," the Static-Man hissed, his voice sounding like a thousand whispers layered over each other. "Play the tape before the Archivist finds us."
Rayan grabbed the tape recorder from the wall. He hit PLAY.
"Entry 402," a calm, clinical voice began. It was Rayan's voice, but older. More tired. "I've tried thirty-seven times to bypass the Oakhaven gate. Each time, the memory-tax increases. If you're hearing this, you've already lost your 20s. You think you're an investigative journalist from Seattle. You're not. You're the Guardian. And the key you're holding? It's not a key. It's a seal. Do not—I repeat—do not look at the man in the stall."
Rayan's heart stopped. He slowly looked back at the Static-Man.
The man's face was no longer static. It was clear now. It was Rayan, but with a jagged scar running from his forehead to his chin—a scar Rayan didn't have.
"I'm the version of you that looked," the man whispered.
Suddenly, the main door to the restroom exploded off its hinges. A towering figure, draped in robes made of heavy, rusted chains and ancient ledgers, stepped in. It carried a massive, iron-bound book in one hand and a long, jagged hook in the other.
The Archivist.
The creature's face was a literal book, its pages flipping rapidly in the wind of its own presence. It didn't speak; the flipping pages created a sound like a screaming crowd. It swung the hook toward the Static-Man, snagging him by the throat.
"No!" Rayan yelled, but the Archivist ignored him, dragging the screaming, golden-bleeding version of Rayan back toward the door.
As they vanished into the darkness of the hallway, a single page tore from the Archivist's face and fluttered through the air, landing in the golden pool at Rayan's feet.
Rayan reached down, careful not to touch the liquid, and snatched the page. It was a birth certificate.
Name: Rayan Miller. Date of Birth: June 14, 1995. Status: Property of Oakhaven. Subject to Eternal Recall.
Beneath his feet, the floor began to vibrate. The golden liquid started to rise, climbing up the legs of the vanity like a tide. He looked at the burner phone. One last message was waiting.
"The Archivist has your scent. The only way out is through the drain. Hold your breath."
Rayan looked at the floor drain in the center of the room. It was tiny. Impossible. But as the golden tide reached his knees, the drain began to expand, opening like a dark, hungry mouth.
He had no choice. He squeezed the tape recorder to his chest, took a deep breath, and dived into the darkness.