The harsh, vibrating screech of metal scraping against laminate flooring echoed off the bare walls.
Ethan pulled the heavy bedframe backward.
His sock-clad feet slipped slightly on the buildup of dust beneath the mattress. He caught himself, shifting his weight lower, and drove his heels down. He pulled again.
The air moving out from under the bed smelled intensely of old, dry dust. It caught in the back of Ethan's throat. He coughed, a dry hack that tasted like stale pennies.
The Ancestor didn't offer to help.
He stood near the kitchenette, his wet robes clinging to his legs. He directed Ethan with sharp, precise flicks of his wrist.
"Further from the portal," the Ancestor ordered, pointing a rigid finger at the front door. "The blade of the entrance still clips the foot of the mat."
Ethan didn't argue. He just gritted his teeth and dragged the metal frame another six inches to the left.
The bed now sat entirely flush against the solid, windowless wall on the opposite side of the studio. It looked ridiculous. It cut off half the walking space between the desk and the kitchenette.
Ethan let go of the headboard. His arms felt like lead. He wiped a streak of cold sweat off his forehead with the back of his wrist. He was panting heavily in the quiet room.
He turned around. He looked at the Ancestor.
"Is that it?" Ethan asked. His voice was completely hollow. "Is the... qi... fixed."
The Ancestor didn't look at him. He was staring at the large floor mirror still leaning against the far wall. The glass now reflected the empty space where the bed used to be.
He walked over to the tangle of gray sheets Ethan had kicked onto the floor. He picked up the top sheet with two fingers, holding it away from his body as if it were contaminated.
He walked over to the mirror. With a swift, snapping motion, he threw the sheet over the top of the glass.
The gray fabric completely covered the reflective surface.
The Ancestor stepped back. He looked at the shrouded mirror. He looked at the relocated bed. He walked over to the footboard and nudged the metal frame exactly two inches to the right with the toe of his cloth shoe.
He stood still. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting out a slow, controlled breath through his nose.
He opened his eyes. He looked at Ethan.
"It is no longer a grave," the Ancestor said, his voice dropping slightly. "It is merely a hovel."
Ethan didn't say anything. He turned around and dropped face-first onto the mattress.
He didn't bother pulling the comforter up. He just lay there in his slacks and button-down shirt. His face was buried in the flat pillow.
The silence in the room changed immediately.
Usually, the apartment felt chaotic even when it was empty. The hum of the fridge, the wail of sirens from the highway, the rattling pipes in the wall—they all blended into a low-grade anxiety that Ethan could never tune out.
But as soon as his head hit the pillow in the new orientation, the noise seemed to compress. It muted.
The air felt heavier, but not suffocating. It felt like sinking into warm water.
Ethan lay perfectly still. He was waiting for his brain to start spinning. He was waiting for the inevitable loop of pricing models, Linda's cold voice, the fear of missing his morning alarm.
It didn't happen.
The frantic tapping of his index finger against his thigh stopped. The tightness in the center of his chest loosened.
It was a profound, physical relief. It was so intense it almost made his throat ache.
He didn't want to think about why it was happening. He didn't want to analyze the physics of the room. He just closed his eyes.
He turned his head slightly to the side.
Through the dim light coming from the digital clock on the desk, he saw the Ancestor.
Ethan lifted his hand slightly. He pointed a limp finger toward the cheap, molded plastic IKEA chair sitting in the corner near the window.
"Sit down," Ethan mumbled into the pillow.
The Ancestor looked at the bright orange plastic chair. He looked at Ethan with deep offense.
"I will not rest upon a hollow resin stool," the Ancestor said. "It has no roots. It is an insult to the earth."
He walked over to the front door. He turned his back to it, standing rigidly at attention, facing the room. He crossed his arms over his chest. He was standing guard.
Ethan watched him for two seconds. He was too tired to care.
He let his eyes close completely.
He fell asleep in under a minute.
The blare of the iPhone alarm sliced through the apartment.
Ethan jolts awake. He sat up so fast his vision swam.
He reached over to the desk and slammed his hand down on the glowing screen. The noise stopped abruptly.
The silence that followed was heavy.
Ethan took a sharp breath in. He held it. He waited for the crushing tightness in his chest to return. The familiar, suffocating panic that usually gripped him the second he woke up.
He exhaled slowly.
His chest didn't tighten. His head was incredibly clear. He looked down at his hands resting on his thighs. They weren't shaking at all. He felt genuinely rested for the first time in six months.
He looked around the room. Sunlight was filtering through the dirty blinds.
The Ancestor was standing exactly where he had been hours ago.
But he wasn't standing guard by the door anymore.
He was standing by the single window. He had pulled the cheap plastic blinds up slightly. He was staring out at the Jersey City skyline.
The old man was completely still. His posture was rigid, but his hands were gripping the windowsill tightly. He was watching the morning traffic on the elevated highway below with absolute, quiet terror.
Ethan stood up. The floorboards creaked.
The Ancestor didn't turn around. He just spoke to the glass.
"Metal carriages moving without horses," the Ancestor whispered. His voice was completely devoid of its earlier authority. It was just raw shock.
He pointed a trembling finger at the towering glass skyscrapers in the distance.
"Towers of ice piercing the clouds. Blocking the flow of the rivers. The dragons of this land are either dead, or they are monstrous."
Ethan walked over to the desk. He picked up his phone. The screen lit up.
He had three texts from Bryce.
Pre-market tech futures are swinging.
Did you fix the hedge?
Linda is already here.
Ethan's heart gave a single, hard thump against his ribs. The clarity of his mind vanished, replaced instantly by the adrenaline of the trading floor.
He had to leave now.
He didn't have time to process the old man staring out the window. He didn't have time to process the fact that the old man was still there in the daylight.
Ethan threw open his closet door. He pulled out a clean white shirt. He didn't bother ironing it. He ripped his wrinkled shirt off and pulled the clean one on. He grabbed a tie and looped it around his neck without tying it.
He grabbed his briefcase off the floor.
He turned toward the window.
"Listen to me," Ethan said sharply. He pointed at the Ancestor. "I have to go. Do not leave this room."
The Ancestor slowly turned his head away from the window. He looked at Ethan. He looked at the strange, tight knot Ethan was making with the patterned silk around his neck.
"Do not touch the microwave," Ethan continued, walking backward toward the door. "Do not open the door. Do not answer the door if someone knocks. Just stay here."
He grabbed the doorknob. He turned the deadbolt.
He pulled the door open and stepped out into the hallway. The stale smell of curry and damp carpet hit him immediately.
He slammed the door shut behind him. He heard the lock click into place.
He let out a fast breath. He turned and started walking quickly down the hall toward the elevator bank.
He pushed the down button. The button lit up red.
He stared at the metal doors, mentally running through the pricing model for the back-month hedge. He needed to adjust the strike price by at least ten cents before the bell rang.
A soft, shuffling sound echoed from down the hallway.
It sounded like wet fabric dragging against the cheap carpet.
Ethan froze. He didn't turn around. He just stared straight ahead at his own warped reflection in the elevator doors.
The shuffling stopped directly behind him.
"I told you," Ethan said slowly, without turning his head. "To stay in the apartment."
The Ancestor cleared his throat. It was a formal, distinct sound.
"I died serving the King's court," the Ancestor said. His voice was perfectly level. "I will not cower in a peasant's closet."
Ethan slowly turned around.
The Ancestor was standing three feet away. His robes were no longer dripping wet, but they had dried stiff with river mud and silt. His hair was still tied in a messy, drying knot. He looked like an extra from a historical drama who had been dragged behind a car.
He stood with his hands clasped behind his back.
"Take me to your magistrate," the Ancestor demanded.
Behind Ethan, the elevator doors slid open with a bright, cheerful ping.
The sound echoed loudly in the quiet hallway.
Ethan stared at the old man. He looked at the stiff, muddy robes. He looked at the serious, unyielding expression on the man's face.
He had to be on the trading floor in exactly thirty-four minutes.
Ethan turned his head and looked at the empty elevator car behind him.