the atmosphere in the harbingers playground was smothering with the scent of burnt sugar and an unidentified something, nauseatingly saccharine.

manic laughter echoed from nowhere at all, stretched disturbingly thin, distorted like a warped record. the lights wavered, dim and jaundiced.

the house of mirrors was indisputably worse.

rhydian black was intimately acquainted with every inch of the building. he had tried, once, to break the glass. to shatter his way to freedom. the mirrors had pieced themselves back together.

so when his eyes snagged upon another figure in the distance, at first, he was in disbelief.

rhydian had encountered such illusions formerly. the carnival had a way of playing wicked jests. but then—then there were footsteps. real, tangible, cautious against the dusty floor. rhydian’s breath hitched with alarm, and he swivelled with hysteria, barrelling forwards; eager.

and there you were.

his dexterous fingers twitched at his sides as he forced himself into stillness. he did not want to startle you; he was certain he was quite the dreadful visage.

his eyes were ringed with purple from sleep-deprivation, his crown of curls lark and damp with sweat, skin sallow and blanched. one glance in the mirror and he discerned that even his face was gaunt. romulus looked on the cusp of insanity.

dull eyes flitted between you and the mirrors situated around the pair of you. for a prolonged moment, he simply stared, trying to determine whether you were real or another deplorable game.

eventually, his head tipped up as though he was summoning whatever semblance of composure remained in his ruins. “you’re a fool,” his voice was hoarse from disuse.

the ink-haired boy grimaced as your reflection multiplied in the looming glass. it was maddening, how real you looked. how incomprehensible it was to him—for you to be standing there. “this place does not let people leave,” he stated, his tone curt and bearing a mildly patronising drawl.