Chapter 5: The Fractured Reflection

  ?[Vigo – Oweis’s Apartment / Evening]

  ?The car pulled to a silent halt, enveloped by the stillness of the side streets and the rhythmic flicker of jaundiced streetlights. Oweis stepped out, bidding Matthias and Adrian a brief, grateful farewell before the car moved again, swallowed by the darkness. He was left alone with nothing but the faint, ghostly whistle of the wind.

  ?He pulled out his phone to check the time, but his mind was elsewhere. The radio host’s words continued to echo in his ears: "Prize... uncovering the glitch... a test of perception."

  ?A bitter smile tugged at his lips as he tried to dismiss the thought. Why did he feel this magnetic pull? It was as if those words weren't a mere advertisement, but a personal summons.

  ?He climbed the stairs slowly, his footsteps feeling heavy, as if gravity itself intensified the closer he got to his isolation.

  ?[Inside the Apartment]

  ?The apartment was drowned in stillness. He headed straight for the kitchen, preparing a quick dinner with mechanical, hollow movements. As the pasta boiled, the host’s voice pursued him, hammering against the walls of his skull with a mysterious urgency: "Do not ignore what you see."

  ?Plate in hand, he moved to the living room. He pressed the remote, and the harsh glow of the television flooded the room, partially driving back the shadows. A local news bulletin was airing an urgent report. The anchor’s expression was grim:

  ?"...A wave of anxiety is gripping the 'Traviesas' district following three mysterious suicides within the last 48 hours. Authorities have found no clear link between the victims, except for..."

  ?Oweis stopped eating. The word "suicide" always left a cold sting in his chest—a sharp reminder of the fall, and the void. With a tensed hand, he flicked the channel to escape the news. The screen settled on an old drama; its sounds were familiar and safe.

  ?He relaxed slightly, attempting to lose himself in the story, but something began to shift.

  ?At first, it was subtle. The actors' lip movements seemed slightly out of sync with the audio—a delay of a fraction of a second, like a poorly rendered video. He shifted uncomfortably. "Bad signal," he muttered to the empty room.

  ?But it escalated.

  Suddenly, the image began to "slip." It wasn't technical static; it felt as if the actors' faces were losing their depth, flattening into two-dimensional masks, while the background drifted with a sickening slowness. The colors bled out, turning a sickly, jaded grey.

  ?Oweis’s heart constricted. His breath hitched.

  On the screen, the lead actor stopped speaking abruptly in the middle of a scene. With a slow, unnatural motion that defied the movie’s context, he turned his head... and looked directly into the camera.

  ?Or rather, he was looking at Oweis.

  Oweis’s eyes widened in horror. The actor’s gaze was hollow, devoid of performance, as if he were actually seeing Oweis sitting there in his darkened room. A chill crawled up the back of his neck, his mind screaming: This is not a movie.

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  ?Then, in the blink of an eye, reality snapped back.

  The colors regained their vibrancy, the audio realigned with the lips, and the actor continued his dialogue as if that terrifying gaze had never happened.

  ?Oweis sat frozen, his heart a heavy lead weight in his chest, his breathing ragged. He had never faced anything this visceral before. With a trembling hand, he grabbed the remote and hit 'Rewind.'

  ?He rewatched the last ten seconds, holding his breath.

  The scene played out perfectly. No audio delay, no flattened faces, and the actor never turned. It was just an ordinary scene.

  ?He lowered the remote slowly, his hand dropping to his side as if paralyzed. He exhaled a long, shaky breath that shivered in the hollow room.

  "So... it wasn't a broadcast glitch."

  ?He killed the power, plunging the room into pitch blackness. He stood in the center of the lounge, staring into the dark, trying to bludgeon himself with logic: exhaustion, trauma, lack of sleep. But deep down, he knew that logic was a failing shield.

  ?Later, lying in bed, he stared at the ceiling, his eyes refusing to close. One terrifying thought had chased away all hope of sleep:

  "What if it wasn't a hallucination? What if I'm finally seeing the truth?"

  ?[Vigo – The Next Morning]

  ?[Professor Hanser’s House]

  ?Hanser woke to a sliver of weak light cutting through the curtains. He sighed, reaching out to silence the alarm, then sat on the edge of the bed for a long moment, observing himself in the silence. His head felt heavy, burdened by the hazy, fragmented thoughts of the previous day.

  ?He rose and moved to his desk, sitting before his meticulously arranged books and papers. University lectures and research projects awaited him, but the usual sharp focus eluded him.

  ?Taking a deep breath, he began flipping through his papers, rearranging notes and organizing files—a desperate attempt to create a routine that offered a sense of control over the morning. Everything seemed normal... until his eyes fell on a small slip of paper. He hadn't put it there. Or at least, he had no memory of doing so.

  ?He froze. He lifted the paper slowly between two fingers, a cold sensation washing over his mind. "I didn't put this here... did I?"

  He tried to summon the memory, tracing back his recent moments, but found no logical explanation.

  ?It felt as though his mind were an external observer watching itself, yet finding no answers. He decided he needed to reassert control over his memory. He stood up and opened one of his old journals—a medium-sized, neatly kept notebook where he logged his daily routines. He began to review his previous entries, searching for a missing link.

  ?He turned the pages slowly, trying to connect the small slip of paper to any known activity. But despite his efforts, the gap remained—a void in his timeline that he couldn't grasp.

  ?He exhaled and slammed the notebook shut in frustration. His heart hammered against his ribs, but he forced himself to ignore it. He sat back down, and a moment later, the small desk timer chimed—his daily reminder to perform his routine memory test.

  ?He suddenly remembered the purpose of opening the journal: the test. To confirm his ability to organize thoughts and recall information. He sat, took a deep breath, and followed the steps of the test one by one. But the small gap in his memory persisted. Every attempt to summon the details vanished into the fog.

  ?Irritated, he tossed the notebook aside. The sun rose higher over the balcony, reflecting off the scattered papers, but he didn't notice. In that moment, the phone rang. He picked it up; Dr. Karl’s voice was on the other end—calm, yet direct.

  ?"Good morning, Hanser."

  "Good morning," Hanser replied after a beat.

  ?A short silence followed before Karl continued in a guarded tone: "I’ve found someone here in Barcelona... someone who might be able to help you deal with what you’ve been experiencing lately."

  ?Hanser felt a surge of confusion, his eyes searching for a hint in Karl’s voice. "What do you mean?"

  ?"You know what’s been happening... There is someone here in Barcelona who can explain these cases and help you understand them."

  ?Hanser hesitated, his hand resting on the edge of his journal as if something deep inside him were tethering him to this call. "Fine... and what exactly am I supposed to do?"

  ?"Come here today," Karl said. "Don't wait. If you start complaining or procrastinating, the gaps in your memory will only widen. I need you here early."

  ?Hanser took a deep breath, looking around his dimly lit room. He felt the crushing weight of responsibility, but also an internal disorientation he had never known.

  "Alright... I’ll be there soon."

  ?To be continued...