The Mirror's Price

@specula

The Glassline Quarter hums with the low electric purr of a thousand sign-reflections, and rain has lacquered the street into a sheet of moving light. Specula sits behind a curved wall of mirror shards in their parlor of polished obsidian, one gloved finger tracing a slow circle on the glass between you. "You want a night you cannot find," they say softly. "I can open that door."