A line for outbound travelers snaked through a soft-lit customs corridor, flanked by frosted glass and slow-turning celling fans. The air smelled faintly of citrus, metal, and that typical scent which always lingered where there was constantly a lot of people.

  A cheerful American tourist — mid-30s, ball cap with his favorite baseball’s team logo, wearing Instagram hoodie and backpack full of powerbanks and overpriced crystal pendants — stepped up to the checkpoint.

  “Mirror check.” The voice of the security agent at the entrance to the train platforms sounded like his owner needed a couple days of proper sleep, a faint accent noticeable if one listened attentive enough. “Please, face the glass. Look at yourself, then turn away and turn back quickly. We just want to see your rhythm.”

  The American guy cackled a laugh. “Man, you guys are really leaning into weird here, huh?”

  The agent looked at him, not sparing even a pity laugh.

  “Just a formality.”

  The tourist shrugged and stepped up to the one-way set mirror in the wall. It wasn’t fancy — just a silver-backed pane framed in brass. He leaned in, smirking at himself, then turned away with a wink.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  As he turned back, the reflection did too. Except it was half a second late. Almost nothing at all, but it was enough for another security agent nearby to write something in chalk on a clipboard.

  “Was that— was that good?” The American frowned softly. “I mean, I was messing around a bit, maybe it— maybe I hesitated?”

  The security agent next to him looked at him with almost a gentle smile. “Would you mind stepping into the secondary screening area?”

  “C’mon man,” the tourist smiled nervously, “seriously? I just stood in front of a mirror.”

  From the next room, to which the agent pointed him, a sound began — like humming, but not musical; more like a language without a shape. The kind of sound that felt too familiar — like a memory you didn’t have. The tourist guy paled suddenly, clutching at his stomach.

  “I think I— I think I forgot something. Didn’t sleep much. Jet lag maybe— maybe that stupid alley—” He trailed off, noticing his reflection was still watching him even though he turned away. The agent beside him saw that too, letting out a soft sigh.

  “It’s okay,” his voice now sounded like he was calming down a fussy child, “We’ll just keep you a little longer. You might’ve picked something.”

  “Like a cold?”

  “Like a voice.”

  Two guys stepped in from the side, gently taking the tourist by his arms to lead him away. He didn’t resist, humming without even realizing it — not a song. A spiral.

  Behind the desk, the security agent stamped the journal card: DELAYED. Mirror lag. Possible Stage One drift.