I awaken in darkness.

My thoughts are hazy; my eyes see only blurs. In place of my wings I find my shoulders and arms; in place of my butterfly tongue I find my head, drooping downwards; in place of the flower I find a stiff steel chair.

As I come to, I find myself in a room full of shadows.

The man whom I've seen before – with the trenchcoat, spiky crew-cut, and small sunglasses without earpieces – observes me from a chair across mine, arms folded. Behind him rests a folding screen with paintings of the woods in an inkbrush-style; a small table with a bonsai tree and hibiscus flowers wilting in the glass rests between me and the man, demarcating our separation as the interrogator and the interrogated. A single ray of light shines down from above, illuminating the both of us in a soft, shimmering white, while specks of dust waft in and out of the shaft of light.

The man unfolds his arms and leans in minutely, lightly gathering his fingers in front of his chin.

"Kang Reza," he speaks. "16 years of age, defected from North Korea with her family in 1984, arrived in South Korea in 1986. Attended Dobong Middle school, attending Dobong High. Currently wanted by police in connection with her parents' and little brother's death. Presumed missing since October 11th. A current suspect regarding their murders, but presumed unlikely due to unclear motives."

He continues.

"Killed one-hundred-and-four – one-hundred-and-five Jopok in their underground base of operations at Seoh-go, 1st street on October 13th. Upon escape, defied police orders to submit and used the powers of an unregistered mirror for purposes of combat, collapsing five low-rise buildings, 2 commercial sangas, 1 office building, injuring sixty-five and killing a grand total of three-hundred-and-ninety-one people."

He pauses, and leans back slightly. He raises his eyebrows beyond his sunglasses.

"Well?"

"...Well what?" I ask warily.

"Now's your chance to dispute any of the facts," he replies plainly.

"If I don't?"

"Execution."

I instinctively flick to my left arm, but find both of my arms bound to the side and back of the chair by a thick, lustrous rope of purple. It digs into my skin; my mirror is gone. I dart my eyes back to him.

"Execution by who? You?"

He chuckles. "Not by me. I don't kill people. I only show them the way."

"Oh yeah? You an agent? A prosecutor? The court? The police?"

He shakes his head. "Ms. Kang, your actions on October 13th go beyond what can be arraigned by regular police, let alone the special forces, or even INTERPOL, or any governmental body by that matter."

"What?" I didn't know any of those names. Wait, I'm caught by an authority higher than that? "Then... who are you?"

"That is beyond my authority to tell. All you need to know is this: do you confirm the details of your exploits, or dispute them?"

"I dispute," I grumble in a low voice. "I only killed one-hundred-and-five no-good Jopok at their base. All these other three-hundred and whatever people you are talking of, shove that gaekotgumuhng elsewhere. If it weren't for me, do you know how many more would've died?"

"Yes, I have a precise answer," says the man. "The answer is zero."

"Zero?" I blurt out, flabbergasted. "Do you – puh – you – you were at the scene. You were the one that made the vulture thing's head explode, didn't you? You did that without much effort, so I guess you know a great deal more about that creature than I do."

"Correct."

"And that these demonic creatures exist in the first place."

"Correct."

"So you know that this vulture demon thing was going to go around and eat more people."

"Correct."

"That not even guns work on it."

"Correct."

He was saying so many "corrects" that I could scarcely imagine as to what exactly I was wrong about, or how literally no one else could have died if I hadn't intervened.

"You're still missing a critical question," says the man, adjusting his sunglasses.

"And what is that?" I ask, cautiously.

"Think. You probably didn't know about the existence of those demons before. Anyone sane would have asked the question by now."

A thought clicks in my head.

"Where the... demon comes from?"

"Correct."

"Okay, where?"

"From you."

A palpable chill rushes down my spine, makes me dizzy.

"Nonono, wait," I retort, shaking my head. "Nuh-uh, no. You messed with my mind the last time, turned me into a butterfly. You ain't messing with my head this time."

This is what interrogators love to do: plant the seeds of doubt in the victim's mind through constant and confusing questioning, until the victim begins to believe in the crafted lie, and eventually confesses.

The man sighs a little, takes off his earpiece-less sunglasses and lays it to the side. Cold and discerning blue pupils meet my vision. He... looks Korean, certainly has the facial features of a Korean, but his eyes and a bit of his nose looks foreign.

"This is my mirror," the man calmly states, tapping his sunglasses. "Called Zhuangzi Nabi. It's what I used to calm you down the last time. It needs to be in contact with my body in order to work. I've laid it to the side. Does that earn your trust?"

A... mirror? Yes, I remember now – so many mirrors surrounded me back then, so he could be...

"Yes, a person like you. A person who can wield mirrors to bend this world."

So it wasn't just me!? He talked just now about there being people outside of authority of world governments, so there's an –

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He nods, as if reading my thoughts. "No one in the last thousand years has been able to do what you did."

I remain silent.

"Avenge their family by dispatching two murderers? Typical. Killing their bullies at school and about half a dozen lackeys? Average. Killing the boss of the company and all the upper management for withholding pay while they suck all the profits like mosquitos? A bit unusual, and suspiciously specific, but it happens. Explode a building into pieces? Very rare, but still not out the realm of possibility. You know what unifies every case? Two things," he enunciates, stressing each syllable.

I gulp.

He continues. "First, is that the person is subject to grave danger, and a cursed mirror is nearby. The mirror lends that desperate person a power that enables them to save themselves, or perhaps exact their revenge."

"Second, is that the person usually falls to a coma or dies as a result of using the powers granted by the mirror. The likelihood of death increases with the frequency and intensity of powers used."

"What if they don't die?"

"And therein lies the question," he states, leaning forward slightly. "We seek those who don't, and assess them to have potential. We then recruit them. But the problem in this case is you."

"You're telling me I should've died, but didn't. Is that why you're going to kill me?"

"No. I'm not telling you should have died. I'm telling you should have died a thousand times over."

My mouth is dry. I swallow painfully.

"I've seen the aftermath of your exploits," the man continues. "First, Seoh-go, 1st street, the surrounding areas. The carnage and destruction caused by your battle with the Vulture guemul. Resembles a warzone. Second, your... feats underground. Hundred-and-five Jopok reduced to piles of organs and blood, grinded down to bone. Some looked like they'd been eaten and chewed. Also, the total mass of blood doesn't add up to 105 people, so something strange must have happened in between thanks to your mirror."

"Next, hyo-ri, 7th bend in some godwhoever knows postal code. Three dead Jopok men, and one old shopkeeper. Manhole sized cavity in one Jopok. The other was seen hanging out the wall by his head. The other we can't even find, other than flabs of skin and some clothes nearby. The old man – "

"The old man wasn't me," I interject. "He died protecting me from them."

The man holds up his hand. "I'm getting there. Regular wounds, whereas the people you've killed have suffered otherworldly wounds."

I look away.

"And we found corpses of two men in an abandoned restroom in a sanga, a few hundred meters away. One is missing a head, and the other looks like a split ice-cream bar. Also your doing, correct?"

I do not react.

"My point being: Each action you took, each person you killed, would have released enough force to kill you several times over. But you didn't. So we have three possibilities: one, either you are special, two, either the mirror is special, or three, both. A defiance, an unholy inversion of the rules of this universe."

"There are no rules that are sacred," whispers a voice, its holder kicking open the metal gates behind me. A relatively youthful figure of a man dressed in baggy plum robes – a modern interpretation of those worn by Buddhist monks – slides into the room.

"Mireuk..." The man in front of me palms his face, annoyed. He speaks through his clenched teeth. "You. Can't. Just. Barge. Into. Interrogations. Like. This!"

"Well then, it would suck for anyone who's going to enforce the rules now, isn't it?" He makes a lighthearted chuckle, setting on the table what appears to be three exquisite wooden boxes wrapped in maroon cloth. His hair, a shade of white tinted purple, is tied up in a long, loose, and rather messy ponytail; a rather interesting effort at taming his hair, which was wild and could have been spiky. But his most prominent feature is his eyewrap, an eyepatch, that covers his right eye.

"Hold on a sec," assures the man named Mireuk, carefully undoing the maroon cloth and unstacking the boxes. He opens each of them to reveal what appears to be multicolored rice-cakes.

"Mochi from Kyoto, fresh. Picked them up 37 minutes ago. Brought a box for you, Shin. And our guest as well. The very first batch from Master Miyamoto's esteemed fall collection! Took it off from his hand myself," he woos, whispering. "Spent a fortune."

Wait. Kyoto? Japan? Are we in Japan?

"No, to answer your question," says Mireuk, carefully rearranging the minute sculptures made of glass. "We are still in Seoul. You'll get used to it soon enough, though."

"Mireuk, what the fuck..." the man in front of me silently mouths.

"Heeeey, relax a bit," assures Mireuk, straightening the boxes against each other. "Ah, ah, ah, cannot forget tea. What's your choice? Chinese, Japanese, or Korean?"

I am a little bewildered by the unfolding situation. One moment, a life-and-death level of interrogation. The next situation, this guy. As much as I am wary and confused, I can't help but feel a little less on edge. I'm normally adept at reading people, but this man named Mireuk exudes such an unabashed cheer and honesty that I... really don't know what to say.

"Try matcha. Never a bad choice, though not the perfect choice," answers Mireuk. "What about you, Shin?"

The man in front of me – who must've been named Shin – just purses his lips and shakes his head.

"Also matcha, got it," Mireuk says.

"Oolong," Shin retorts under his breath.

"Oolong?!" Mireuk cocks his head, raising one eyebrow as if finding the choice rather odd. "A little... peculiar. Alright, I'll let it slide this time."

The man named Shin remains silent, looking to the floor. He closes his eyes and pretends to nap until the man named Mireuk returns with the tray of tea.

"So, start with the cream-flavored ones, and – " pauses Mireuk, spying ropes binding my hands behind the chair. "Are those ropes? Goddamn, I hate the higher-ups. Lemme untie you. Shin?" He asks, turning for Shin's approval.

Shin begrudgingly nods. Mireuk snaps his finger; my thick ropes are undone in an instant.

I rub my wrists and forearms, impressed with red.

"Sorry about that on behalf of our Goryeo Musha," Mireuk apologizes, hand to his heart. "Geriatric higher-ups tend to get paranoid about the youth."

Shin nods.

"Allow us to introduce ourselves. I'm Mireuk, and..." says Mireuk, trailing off to let Shin take the spotlight.

"Shinhak. It's Shinhak, not Shin."

"Right..." I trail off, a little befuddled.

"So, as I was saying," Mireuk continues in earnest, "there are no sacred rules. All of them can be broken. In fact, made to be broken. As to how it's relevant, well, let me guess. You were near a mirror," Mireuk begins.

Shinhak closes his eyes and grimaces. "Keep it short. I want to get to bed."

"Keep it short? Guess what, this meeting just got longer by five minutes," says Mireuk.

"Oh, come on."

"Ten."

"Fuck."

"Fifteen...~" whistles Mireuk in a melody.

Shinhak stifles a puff of disdain and sighs, throwing out his hands. Mireuk makes a smile bordering on the mischievous.

"Well then, you were near a mirror," continues Mireuk, snapping his eye back to mine. "Presumably in your bathroom or a public restroom. Or perhaps your bedside table in front of the vanity. And then, BOOM!"

He shouts so loud I nearly flinch in my seat.

Shinhak looks at me, looks back at Mireuk, then back at me. He purses his lips and slowly shakes his head.

"...You want twenty?" Mireuk comments under his breath, still smiling.

"Ehem, uhm, nope," Shinhak coughs, folding his arms and pretending to doze.

"The CATALYST being – something that drove you to the edge. Beaten and bullied by mates at school? Check. Some armed burglar holding you at knifepoint or gunpoint? Check. A freak accident like a gas pipe explosion? Check. A couple of guys running after you with machetes? Check. And –"

Mireuk pauses lightly, examining the look of my expressions, or perhaps my minute reaction when he pronounced 'machete'. He must have seen something in my eyes – a light, a glint, the way the shadows fall upon the pupils, because he leans back, puts his feet up on the wooden table, and closes his eye. He makes a puff from his mouth upwards.

"...Seems like you're very different from the rest," he says, slapping Shinhak hard in the back to jolt him awake.

"I am awake, you imbecile! Keep your spicy hands to yourself."

Mireuk continues nonchalantly mid-speech. "Third-case."

"What?" Shinhak mumbles bluntly.

"The third case you stated. It's insufficient for only one to be extraordinary. Both are, and must be."

Shin's expression changes. He looks swiftly at Mireuk, then back to me, locked in deep thought.

Mireuk continues. "We may be looking at the only person to have come in contact with a Demiurgic Mirror in the last 1,957 years."