Page 8 of Into Pitch

A seam I hadn’t clocked before opens and my brows rise as a figure steps through the mirror in the doorway I had failed to notice.

I blink again just to make sure I am seeing it right because—

What the fuck is this place?

The man before me is dressed entirely in tailored black. Not costume-store theatrical or sloppy underground kind. Everything fits him far too well for that. His shoulders are squared off in a nice black button-down that is covered by a vest that buttons neatly, his hands covered with gloves smooth and fitted.

Not an inch of skin is on display down to the slacks that hug his thighs and the polished black loafers that refract light below.

It’s certainly not the most pressing thing about him—no, that belongs to the mask he wears.

A plague doctor’s mask.

Matte black with an elongated beak, rivets at the seams where they catch light just enough to make the shape unmistakable. A matching hat sits low on his head, the flat bill shadowing the upper half of the mask so that the eye lenses glint faintly, reflective and unreadable.

He looks like something out of another century, or an entirely different rulebook. And it’s not just how he looks, but how he sounds that is strange.

When he speaks, his voice carries a subtle distortion—not electronic enough to be obvious, not warped enough to feel artificial. Just… off. Smoothed and bent at all the edges, like it’s passing through something before it reaches me.

“You chose to sit.”

He doesn’t move closer yet, nor does he pace. He just stops a few feet away and folds his hands behind his back nice and composed. Contained, I might even say.

I cluck my tongue against the back of my teeth, studying him openly now. “I did have the option.”

“Yes, you did.” He agrees.

The mirrors hold us both now. Me seated at the center of the room and him standing in black, fractured into a hundred versions around us. From every angle, he looks intentional.

“Why?” He probes flatly.

I don’t rush to answer, and it’s not because I’m afraid. I’m trying to figure out the shape of the question and what it might lead to.

“Because I could,” I murmur. “And standing kinda seems like I might feel like I’m posturing.”

A beat passes and something about him shifts. It’s not in his posture or stance, but in the air. Like his interest is tightening.

“Posturing for whom?” He asks.

“For you or whoever’s watching,” I retort easily.

My eyes flash down to his feet as he takes another step forward, the sound of his shoes near silent on the floor in a way my own hadn’t been. Gravity almost seems to bend toward him without permission and my eyes snap back up to the mask.

“Most people might answer it’s because they were told to.”

“Well, I wasn’t exactly ordered, was I?” I challenge softly.

“No.” A hint of amusement slips into his voice, low and restrained. “That you weren’t.”

He tilts his head slightly, studying me from behind the mask. I really wish I could see his damn eyes at the very least. “Do the mirrors bother you?”

I glance around the room at that, and let my gaze take its time before traveling back to him. Some little instinct in the back of my mind tells me that lying might not get me where I need to go from here. “I suppose they are honest.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“They bothered me, but there’s no point in letting them do it for long.” I amend.

“Why not?” He asks.