He Sank Into His Chair Trembling Reflections In Mirrors Windows And Polished Surfaces Grinned Back

He sank into his chair, trembling. Reflections in mirrors, windows, and polished surfaces grinned back at him. Each shimmer, each angle contained fragments of himself—some screaming, some laughing, some kneeling before the infinite facets of the stone. A laugh—his and not his—slipped past his lips, layered with whispers of Simon, Miriam, and all those absorbed into the lattice. He reached for the box. Shadows stretched closer. Reflections multiplied, each more impossible than the last. Outside, Arkham twisted silently in the fog, streets folding into themselves. The Trapezohedron pulsed insistently, insistent and indifferent. And then Varn understood: he was no longer merely a witness. He was the lattice, inseparable from every shard, every reflection, every corridor of perception. A pressure built behind his eyes, unbearable and screaming, as if the stone itself sought to force him fully inside. His skull cracked with the sound of shattering porcelain, pain blooming across every nerve. He clawed at his head. And with a sickening, final pop, his head exploded outward, bone and brain matter flung across the office.

29.10.2025 08:34