The Lag

The heat in the Acheron Dormitory was not merely a temperature; it was a physical weight. It pressed against the brutalist concrete walls, trapped the stale air in the stairwells, and turned the fourth-floor corridor into a kiln.

Elias stood in the communal bathroom, gripping the porcelain rim of sink number three. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed with the frantic energy of a dying insect. It was 2:00 AM, and the silence of the empty building was deafening.

He splashed water on his face. The liquid was lukewarm, traveling through miles of sun-baked pipes before sputtering out of the rusted faucet. It smelled faintly of copper and something earthier—like the bottom of a pond where things went to rot.

Elias kept his eyes closed for a moment, letting the water drip from his chin. He was supposed to be writing his thesis on *Liminal Spaces in Post-Modern Architecture*, but for the last three hours, he had done nothing but scroll through old photos of his ex-girlfriend and inspect the pores on his nose in a magnifying mirror.

He exhaled, a shaky breath that rattled in his chest, and looked up.

In the expansive, water-spotted mirror that ran the length of the wall, his reflection stared back. Dark circles bruised the skin under his eyes. His hair was matted with sweat.

Then, he blinked.

In the mirror, his reflection did not blink.

Elias froze, water dripping onto his shirt. A second passed—a long, elastic second that felt stretched thin. Then, the reflection blinked.

"Heat exhaustion," Elias whispered. His voice sounded thin, swallowed by the tiled acoustics.

He leaned closer to the glass. He needed to find the flaw. He needed to prove that his mind was playing tricks on him, that he wasn't cracking under the isolation.

He bared his teeth, checking them.

The reflection bared its teeth. But as Elias relaxed his jaw, the reflection held the grimace for a fraction of a second too long. And in that delay, the expression shifted. It wasn't Elias’s usual look of critical self-loathing.

It was a smile. A predatory, hungry baring of teeth that didn't reach the eyes.

Elias stumbled back, his wet sneakers squeaking on the linoleum. He gripped his chest, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

The bathroom smelled suddenly, overpoweringly, of sweet flowers. It was a cloying, heavy scent—narcissus blooms rotting in stagnant water.

Elias looked at the mirror again. The reflection was normal now. It looked tired, scared, and sweaty. Just like him.

"Get a grip," he hissed.

He grabbed his towel and fled the bathroom, the heavy door swinging shut behind him. He didn't see the condensation on the mirror begin to pool, forming a shape that looked disturbingly like a hand pressing against the glass from the inside.