The Spirit in the Mirror

Y/N's apartment building stood at the end of a quiet lane, Ten floors of pale brick with a glass door at the front and a row of parked scooters outside.

She had walked the last ten minutes in silence, aware of every eye on the street. Now, as she stopped beneath the entrance light, she finally turned around.

"Just so we're clear," she said, "you are not staying. I'm giving you water, and maybe some dry clothes, and then we are figuring out where you actually belong. Okay?"

Jungkook inclined his head. It was the nod of a king granting a favor, and it made her want to scream.

She hadn't noticed that half the street had followed them. A group of university girls stood at the corner, whispering behind their hands. A delivery rider slowed his motorbike, twisting to look. An elderly man with a shopping bag stopped mid-step and stared at the long dark hair, the embroidered silk, the calm, terrible beauty of the face above it.

"Is that a cosplayer?" someone whispered.

"He looks like an actual prince," said another.

"Excuse me, are you an actor?" a girl called out shyly. "Can I take a photo?"

Jungkook’s eyes moved to her without expression. He did not answer. The girl squeaked and retreated, red to the ears.

"Please don't glare at people," Y/N muttered.

"I did not glare."

"You did. You do it with your whole face."

She pushed open the glass door and pulled him inside before anyone else could speak to her.

---

The lobby was small and bright, floored in polished stone, lit by a row of white lights set into the ceiling. Jungkook stopped in the middle of it.

He looked up. Then he looked around at the walls, at the shining mailboxes, at a potted plant that was, he noted with suspicion, made of something that was not quite leaves. He reached out and touched it. It did not wilt. It did not breathe.

"This tree is dead," he said gravely.

"It's plastic."

"What is plastic?"

Y/N opened her mouth, closed it, and rubbed her temple. "A thing that doesn't die," she said finally. "Please stop touching things."

Before he could respond, the front door slid open behind them again, and a woman in her fifties walked in, carrying a bag of groceries. She wore a bright pink sleeveless top, high-waisted shorts, and running shoes, and she was fanning herself with a folded newspaper. It was Mrs. Oh from the second floor, the building's unofficial keeper of gossip.

Her eyes landed on Jungkook, traveled up the entire length of him, and widened.

"Y/N-ah!" she said. "Who is this?"

Y/N's heart sank. "A guest," she said quickly.

"A guest." Mrs. Oh's gaze slid over his robe, his hair, his stillness. "At this hour? From where? Is he part of a film crew?"

"He's a friend's friend. He's staying tonight only. We're very tired. Good night, Mrs. Oh."

She grabbed Jungkook’s sleeve and steered him toward the elevator, feeling the older woman's stare boring into her back like a hot coal.

Jungkook did not move immediately. He was staring at Mrs. Oh.

He had seen ladies of every rank in his kingdom, queens of conquered courts and daughters of old houses, and every one had worn layered silk to the ankle, hair pinned high, arms covered, jewels arranged with careful meaning. This woman wore almost nothing. Her arms were bare. Her legs were bare to the knee. Her hair was a curling, chemically bright shade he had never seen on a living head.

"That noblewoman," he said quietly, "is she... in disgrace?"

Y/N made a strangled sound. "She's a neighbor. She's comfortable. It's hot outside."

"No noble lady would leave her chambers dressed like this."

"Please never say that to her face."

She dragged him the last few steps, and pressed the call button.

---

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime.

Jungkook took one step back, hand flying automatically to his hip. "What is this?"

"An elevator."

"It is a chamber. Small. With walls that part.?"

"That's the idea." She stepped in. "Come on."

He followed slowly, every muscle tense, eyes darting around the brushed-metal box. Then he saw the mirrored wall, and stopped short.

A tall man just like him in dark silk stood there, staring back at him with shock in his eyes. Long black hair. Pale face. A locket at his throat.

"There is a man same like me in the wall," Jungkook whispered. He turned, and the man turned with him. He raised one hand, and the man raised his.

Y/N stared at him for a second. Then a giggle escaped her, and she clapped her hand over her mouth.

"It's a mirror," she managed. "It's just reflecting you."

"It reflects me," he said, "too well. A bronze mirror shows shadows. This shows..." He touched his own cheek, watching the reflection touch his. "This shows me."

The giggle turned into a full laugh, and she leaned back against the wall, shaking, tears at the corners of her eyes. It was the first time all night she had laughed without pain in it.

Jungkook turned. He watched her doubled over beside his own reflection, laughing at him in a metal box in a world he did not understand.

She laughs, he thought slowly, with a strange, cold prickle down his spine. At a king.How disrespectful.

No one had ever done it. Twice now, in a single night. Yet he did not feel the old rage rising, the one that made men flinch. He only stood there, frowning, unsure what to do with the odd warmth that had begun somewhere under his ribs.

"Do not laugh," he said, with as much dignity as he could gather. "It is an insult to the kinb."

"Sorry, sorry." She wiped her eyes, trying to breathe. "Your Majesty."

That made it worse. She burst out laughing again, and this time he almost, almost, did something with his mouth that resembled a smile.

He shifted his attention to the wall beside the door. Below a small glowing screen were rows of round, flat, white circles, each marked with a number.

"What are these?" He pointed. "Coins?"

Y/N sighed, in the way of someone who has resigned herself. "They're buttons. Each one is a floor. Every level of the building has its own number. I live on the third floor."

"And these coins carry us to it?"

"You press it. Like this."

She pressed the button marked 3. It lit up with a soft orange glow.

Jungkook leaned close, staring at it as if it might bite. The doors slid shut, and the whole box shivered gently. A faint hum began beneath his feet.

His hand shot out and gripped the metal rail. "It is moving."

"Yes."

"We are rising."

"That's what elevators do."

"Without stairs? Without ropes? Without slaves at the wheel?" His voice went low with awe. "What power lifts it?"

"Electricity. Magic, basically. Please don't ask me to explain it, I have a degree in accounting."

A small glowing number above the door ticked from 1 to 2 to 3. The elevator gave another soft chime, and the doors slid open on a quiet hallway lit by a single round lamp.

The lamp flickered on the moment they stepped out. Jungkook froze again.

"The light knows we are here."

"It's a motion sensor."

"It greets us," he said, with something dangerously close to delight. He stepped forward. The next lamp lit as well. He stepped again. A third. He walked the whole hallway like a man crossing a bridge of blessings, and behind him Y/N stood with her keys in her hand and her forehead against the wall, shoulders shaking silently.

She had been so sure, on the street, that this was a mistake.

She still thought it was. But for the first time in three years, on the worst night of the year, she was laughing.

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