Messages

The morning was ordinary. That was the first sign.

Dæmon sat in a stiff hotel chair, freshly dressed, still brushing sleep from his eyes. The city outside blinked—cold sunlight glinting off digital signage, the noise of traffic filtered through thick curtains.

He unlocked the phone. Checked for updates. A notification waited. It was an email.

From: Jarrod Black 647ac291a4e95f47f3e291aa@mythophor.com

“You’ve seen it now.”

No subject line. The metadata was present, but useless.

Another ping.

From: Mirrorwish 649b712aef476bb0c88d13c2@mythophor.com
CC: Thomas Jefferson Stone 64acff12cf118dbd7efc2a99@mythophor.com, Thoth 64efcc13c4a9ff32a2bd213f@mythophor.com, Kenan Curtis 64d1e7abf429b0027b118b2f@mythophor.com

“It’s not new. Just buried.”

Then a third:

From: Thoth 64efcc13c4a9ff32a2bd213f@mythophor.com

“Don’t trust their framing.” “They’ll sell you illusion and call it consensus.” “That’s the first game.”

The timing was uncanny—each message arriving just after he finished reading the last.

And finally:

From: Thoth 64efcc13c4a9ff32a2bd213f@mythophor.com

“Go to the tower at Burnside and 12th. Now. Skip breakfast. There’s no time.”

He hit reply and typed a message—kept it short: "Who are you?" Then he hit send. Fifteen minutes passed. He refreshed the inbox. Nothing.

He scanned the email headers again. Everything checked out, technically—but none of it made sense.

With a sigh, he set the phone down and crossed the room to the window.

Below, the city churned—traffic lights shifted, a bus exhaled, a dog barked at a man carrying coffee. Burnside and 12th echoed in his mind. A tower. Now. Skip breakfast.

He stood there a while longer, considering.

Then he turned, pulled on his coat, pocketed the phone, and stepped out into the crisp, blinking morning. Two blocks later, he paused.

There was a café.

He went inside.