Chapter 3: Invisible Wounds

Chapter 3: Invisible Wounds

Panic is a poor substitute for oxygen. Andrew’s lungs burned, his frantic, muffled gasps doing little to quell the dizzying terror that threatened to overwhelm him. The pain in his mouth was a constant, searing agony, a phantom fire lit by a creature of paint and silence. He could feel the blood pooling in his sealed mouth, a sickeningly warm and metallic taste he was forced to swallow.

The Mime stood in the center of the dining room, its posture one of patient expectation. It had set the stage. It had established the rules of this silent, one-act horror show. Now, it was Andrew’s turn to perform.

His mind, a frantic mess of broken protocols and useless survival instincts, latched onto the only shred of normalcy it could find: he was an employee. This… thing… was a customer. A patron. And patrons, no matter how bizarre, wanted service. They wanted food. The realization was a pinprick of light in a suffocating darkness.

He couldn't ask what it wanted. He had to show it.

Taking a shaky step back towards the kitchen, Andrew raised his hands in a gesture of placation. He pointed a trembling finger at himself, then at the large, smiling burger logo on his uniform, and finally, with a sweep of his arm, towards the gleaming stainless-steel grill behind him. He tried to force a reassuring expression, a difficult task when your lips are magically stitched together. He hoped the gesture translated as, I will make you food, and not, I am a food item, please grill me.

To his immense relief, the Mime seemed to understand. It tilted its head in a slow, curious nod. The gesture was permission. An invitation to continue the performance.

A wave of adrenaline, born of a desperate, fleeting hope, surged through him. He stumbled backward through the swinging doors into the familiar territory of the kitchen. Here, things made sense. The grill was hot, the spatulas were real, the freezer hummed with a tangible, non-metaphysical cold. He was on solid ground again, even if that ground was slick with grease.

With fumbling, panicked movements, he went through the motions of his job. He slapped a frozen patty onto the sizzling grill. The hiss and pop of cooking meat was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard, a defiant cry of reality against the oppressive silence from the dining room. He toasted a bun, grabbed a limp piece of lettuce and a pale slice of tomato. He worked on autopilot, his hands performing a dance they had repeated thousands of times. This was real. This was a hamburger. A tangible, edible object that obeyed the laws of physics. It was an anchor, and he clung to it as a drowning man clings to driftwood.

When it was done, he placed the Smiley Burger with extra care onto a clean plastic tray. It looked pathetic, a sad assembly of cheap ingredients, but to Andrew, it was a masterpiece of reason. It was his answer to the Mime’s silent question.

Holding the tray like a peace offering, he pushed back through the kitchen doors.

The Mime hadn’t moved. It stood there, a monochrome statue in the gloom, its void-eyes fixed on him. Andrew approached slowly, cautiously, extending the tray.

He stopped a few feet away, holding out the burger. He watched the Mime’s face for any sign of approval.

The Mime’s reaction was not what he expected. It didn’t take the tray. It didn’t nod. Instead, it recoiled, its body language shifting from curiosity to one of profound, theatrical offense. Its painted face, incapable of changing expression, somehow conveyed utter disgust. It looked at the very real, very solid burger as if Andrew had presented it with a bucket of filth.

It raised a white-gloved hand. And it made a fist.

Andrew watched, confused, as the Mime slowly, deliberately, squeezed its hand shut.

On the tray, the real burger imploded.

The bun crushed inward, the patty buckled and split, and lettuce and tomato squirted out the sides in a grotesque burst of color. It collapsed into a mangled, inedible pulp, destroyed by an invisible, irresistible force. The plastic tray in Andrew’s hands trembled from the phantom impact.

The hope in Andrew’s chest died, replaced by a cold, sharp dread. He had guessed wrong. Horribly, apocalyptically wrong. This wasn't a game he could win with the tools of his world.

The Mime’s posture changed again. The disappointed artist was gone, replaced by the sadistic executioner. Its movements lost their gentle fluidity and became sharp, angry, and precise. It reached into an invisible pocket inside its suspenders. Andrew’s eyes were glued to the motion. The creature’s fingers pinched something small and thin, something only it could see. With a flick of its thumb, it mimed opening a switchblade.

A primal fear, colder and deeper than any he had ever known, seized Andrew. He dropped the ruined tray with a clatter and scrambled backward. His eyes darted around for a weapon, for a shield, for anything. He grabbed another plastic tray from a nearby stack, holding it up in front of his chest like a pathetic riot shield.

The Mime lunged.

It moved with impossible speed, a blur of black and white. It didn't run; it glided across the floor, closing the distance in an instant. Andrew braced for impact, his knuckles white where he gripped the tray.

But there was no impact. The Mime stopped just short of him, its hand—the one holding the invisible knife—whipping forward in a vicious, stabbing arc. The motion passed harmlessly to the side of the plastic tray. For a fraction of a second, Andrew thought it had missed.

Then, a line of pure, unadulterated agony erupted in his side.

It was a piercing, razor-sharp cold that plunged deep into his ribs, followed by a wave of fire that spread through his entire torso. He gasped, a strangled, choked sound, and looked down.

His uniform was pristine. The tray was unscratched. But beneath the thin polyester of his shirt, a dark, wet patch was already beginning to bloom, spreading like ink on paper. Blood. His blood. He was stabbed. He was stabbed by nothing.

The Mime took a step back, admiring its work. It held up its invisible blade, tilting it as if to catch the faint red light of the exit signs, and then performed a deliberate, chilling pantomime of wiping the invisible blood off on its trousers.

Andrew collapsed backward, his legs giving out. He crashed against the condiment station, the plastic pumps for ketchup and mustard digging into his spine. His vision swam. The wound in his side was a nexus of torment, and he could feel his own life, warm and wet, spilling out of him. He pressed his hand against it, the cheap fabric of his uniform instantly soaked. It was real. Oh god, it was all too real.

He was going to die here. On the sticky floor of a fast-food restaurant, murdered by a concept. His last sight would be this painted, silent monster. And Lily… the thought of her, alone, her care unpaid for, her brother vanished without a trace… it was a pain sharper than any invisible knife.

The Mime began to approach again, its steps slow and deliberate, a predator savoring the final moments. It raised its imaginary knife for a final, fatal blow aimed at his throat. Andrew’s head was spinning, the world dissolving into a tunnel of darkness and red.

It was in that moment, with the smell of ketchup and his own blood filling his senses, that the pieces finally clicked into place. Not as a thought, but as a desperate, blinding flash of insight.

The unlocked door. The stitched lips. The rejected burger. The invisible knife.

It wasn't a customer. It wasn't a monster in the way the Codex described. It was an artist. An actor. And it demanded a scene partner. He had offended it by bringing something real, something from his world, into its performance.

The rules of reality didn't matter here. Only the rules of pantomime.

As the Mime loomed over him, its hand poised to draw an invisible blade across his throat, a new, insane plan bloomed in Andrew's dying mind. It was a gamble of cosmic proportions, a desperate attempt to speak the creature's silent language.