A vacant room. Nondescript, yet intuitively familiar. The ambient light has an operating-room quality. Antiseptic. But oh the sepsis that has festered in untold rooms like this one. Fostered and fed. Raging.
A bank of switches and toggles stands in a curated row, ready to be switched and toggled, alongside an expansive mirror. Its surface is faintly dull, not really meant for reflecting. A cop-show mirror, concealing murky figures in a dimmed room that smells of stale coffee and sweat. Or concealing no one at all. That’s the trick of it.
Time to flip a switch, see if anyone’s watching.
The Lost Way 