Jack takes back the glasses and turns them over and over in his hands. “What do you mean,’them?’”

Mr. Aspen exchanges a knowing look with Mr. Roots. “It was rumored that some people had created glasses like these. Glasses that can see things we can’t. That can build upon reality, and make predictions about it.”

“It’s not as complicated as you might think,” Mr. Roots says. “It’s just a merging of the technologies that we already have.”

Mr. Aspen takes the glasses back. “What’s different about this is how people will react. For most people, seeing is believing. And if you can control what they see.”

“Then you can control what they believe,” you whisper.

He smiles, but his eyes are more of a squint than a shine. “Of course, with fake news everywhere, it’s already begun. This is just the start.”

“There was a woman,” Jack says. “A woman without a face. But the glasses made her look like my neighbor.”

“Without a face?”

“A void. A void filled with shark teeth.”

All sign of mirth leaves Mr. Aspen’s face. He passes the glasses back to Jack and marches towards the nearest opening in the shelves. “This is not good. I think we should go.”

You and Jack run after him, exchanging confused looks. What does he know that you don’t? He walks like he owns the place, like everything is under his control. Even the sneaky shelves seem to obey him, staying perfectly still as he passes. Like they’ve finished their job, and are waiting patiently for the next one. Or maybe they’re intimidated by him in the same way your classmates often were in the first few weeks of school.

It’s only a few short minutes before you’re at a grand spiral of escalators that swirls upwards in an ever tightening spiral like the corkscrew of a conch. There’s a part-robot, part-human being standing by the escalator, who holds out an arm before you can enter. It makes unnerving eye contact with you. One eye is a fisheye camera lens that winks through dark glass. The other appears to be a perfectly human eye — but with a brilliantly turquoise iris. Both move ever so slightly out of sync, scrutinizing your little troop of explorers.

The figure steps in front of the escalator, plants its bare feet, and folds its arms. “Petrichor,” it says.

Mr. Aspen says, “Excuse me?”

“Petrichor. Define the word petrichor.”

“I see no need --” Mr. Aspen attempts to brush past the robot, but it flings its arms outward. It doesn’t push him back, but it’s planted as solid as a rock. When Mr. Aspen tries to duck under, its hands go down to block.

“Petrichor. Define the word petrichor. You are in a library. You should learn.”

You stifle a giggle, surprised at seeing Mr. Aspen blocked like this. “The smell of dust after rain,” you say.

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“You may enter.” The robot steps aside again. You pass through and up the spiraling staircase, snickering.

The walls, stairs, and machinery of the escalator are of such a thin, pure glass that you for a moment almost believe that they aren’t there. Below you the floor falls away, spiraling downwards dozens of vertiginous feet, covered with the crawling of people. Above you, the staircase twists onwards, but the people are more sparse. For now, you’ve escaped the crowds.

You’re been riding the escalators for a minute when all your phones buzz. Mr. Roots is the fastest.

“With Miles Dane confirmed missing, the search is on for the heir to his trillion-dollar fortune,” he reads. “Announcement from his press secretary Camila Fern coming soon.”

The sound of glass shattering fills your ears. Instinctively, you duck and cover your head with your hands. A wave of heat sears your skin. You wait for it to abate before turning around. The library, now several floors below you, is covered in shards of broken glass. Fires nibble at the bookshelves; books tumble off of their perches, their torn pages fluttering to the ground.

The whine of the fire alarm turns on, and you hear people scream from the floors above and below you. They pour onto the escalators, pushing and shoving to get anyway -- anywhere -- as fast as they can. Above you, a woman is pushed off the escalator, screaming. Her body flails in the air, tumbling past you. Moments later, you hear a sickening thud, and the crunch of broken bones. You will yourself not to look down.

The sprinkler system engages, doing its best to douse the flames. But it doesn’t quite stop the fires that have climbed up the bookshelves, and are devouring thousands of tomes in the blink of an eye. The carpet of the library soaks up as much as it can take, and then in great heaving sobs, releases the water, forming an ocean above it that pours down the escalators. People scream as they slip downwards, rolling like bowling balls and pilling on top of each other like fallen bowling pins. You avert your eyes from the sight.

A whistle splits the air like a knife, making you press your fingers over your ears to block out the noise. As quickly as it starts, it stops.

“Good afternoon, people of Midtown,” a glossy voice reminiscent of fashion magazine covers says. “As you have heard, we must now search for the heir to Miles Dane’s fortune. Thankfully, he left us a framework: a game. That game is his brainchild, his masterpiece. This mall. From now on, you have one objective: make it to the top. The first person to do so will become Miles Dane’s heir.”

“A game?” Jack yells over the screams, the roar of rushing water, and the hungry cackles of overblown fires. “A game? People are dying, there’s a fire, and she’s talking about a game?”

Mr. Aspen stares upwards at where the voice seemed to have come from. “And what if we don’t want to play your game?” He yells. “What’s our way out?”

There’s another crash; the sound of glass being shattered, accompanied by the screams of twisting, cracking metal. You sneak a glance below, scared to know what’s happening, and see a jagged gap in the escalator below you, where the supports broke from trying to take the weight of so many people. There are bodies surrounded by a sea of red, sparkling with the snow of glass shards.

You feel your stomach turn. You sway on your feet. Jack steadies you, looking you in the eye. “Are you ok?”

“No…”

Mr. Roots has seen the pile of bodies below and is thinking the same thing you are. “We need to get farther up,” he yells. “We won’t be safe down here.”

Jack looks down, and his face goes pale. He shifts his weight to the center of the step, trying to stay light on his feet. “The elevators,” Jack says. “We need to get to the elevators. These escalators are fracturing.”

Part of you pulls you to look, needs you to look to know if what he says is true. But you’re shaken by the sight of the blood, of the bodies, of the death, and in the end, you can do nothing but take his word for it. With Jack behind you, Mr. Aspen and Mr. Roots in front of you, you step off the escalator and onto the 34th floor.

Rows of clothes stores.

For once, it looks like a mall.