Episode 9: The Mirror Room

Previously on Renzo: After Hours:
The reel left behind by Jules revealed the existence of Project Muse—a secret archive linking art, sex, and power among Paris’s elite. Renzo, Xander, and Sebastian found the red ledger, only to learn their own names were written inside as “assets.” They escaped with the book, but a final line appeared in golden ink: Next: The Mirror Room.

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They spent the night in Montparnasse, in a narrow apartment borrowed from one of Xander’s old contacts. The air still smelled of fixer and dust. The ledger lay open on the table, the gold letters refusing to fade even in the weak dawn light.

Sebastian poured coffee, eyes never leaving the page. “So what—this thing just writes new entries when it feels like it?”
“Maybe it reacts to whoever holds it,” Xander said.
Renzo shook his head. “No. Jules left it alive on purpose. The ledger was part of the project—a living archive. It records choices, not events.”
Sebastian snorted. “Then we’d better make the next one worth writing.”

Xander brushed his fingers across the words The Mirror Room. “I remember that name. It was one of Marcel’s exhibitions. Invitation-only. No photographs allowed, which was ironic considering every surface reflected you back a hundred times.”
“Where?” Renzo asked.
“Rue Saint-Roch. A townhouse built over an old photography studio.”

Renzo shut the ledger. “Then that’s where we end this.”

By evening, the street was quiet, rain making mirrors of its own on the pavement. The townhouse rose between two galleries, façade restored, windows curtained in black. There was no sign, only a single gaslight flickering above the door.

Sebastian ran his gloved fingers over the lock. “New tech, old frame. Someone’s still using it.”
“Then they’ll be home,” Renzo said.

They entered anyway.

Inside, silence had weight. The air smelled faintly of cedar and perfume. The foyer gave way to a wide room ringed with tall mirrors, each tilted slightly inward as if the house itself were staring at them. In the center, a pedestal held an antique camera under glass.

Xander approached first. “This was his pride. A Daguerreotype, restored by hand.”
Renzo traced the glass with his eyes. “That’s the same model Jules used when we started.”

A soft click echoed from somewhere above—a shutter, mechanical but unseen. They froze.

Sebastian whispered, “Tell me that was the house settling.”
“It’s not the house,” Renzo said.

The mirrors brightened, each blooming faint light from within. The reflections shimmered—and shifted. Instead of three figures, the glass showed four. A man stood behind them in the reflection, but not in the room.

Marcel.

He looked exactly as before—immaculate suit, faint smile, eyes like polished steel. His reflection lifted a glass as if to toast them. Then his voice came from a hidden speaker, calm, intimate.

“Welcome home, Renzo. The Mirror Room remembers every face that once needed to be seen.”

Renzo’s hands tightened. “He recorded this.”
Xander scanned the corners. “Or he’s watching now.”

The mirrored images flickered, cycling through scenes: Renzo and Jules at the atelier, Marcel in the background arranging clients, flashes of unnamed patrons. Each mirror showed a different memory, all anchored by the same camera now sitting silent on the pedestal.

Sebastian swore softly. “It’s a gallery of ghosts.”
Renzo stepped forward. “No—it’s evidence.”

He pulled the RVB key from his pocket. On the pedestal’s base was a small lock shaped to match it. When the key turned, the glass lifted with a hiss. The camera’s back compartment opened by itself. Inside, a single undeveloped plate, wrapped in tissue, marked with the same gold ink as the ledger.

Xander read aloud: “You can destroy the mirrors—but one of them looks ahead.”

A vibration tremored through the floor. Somewhere in the walls, gears began to move. The mirrors shifted angle, aligning toward the center of the room—toward them.

“Trap,” Sebastian hissed.
“Or test,” Renzo said.

The central mirror flashed. In its surface, they saw a scene that hadn’t happened yet: the three of them standing at the edge of a bridge, the red ledger in Renzo’s hands, and Stephan’s figure behind them, gun raised.

Xander stepped closer. “It’s showing the future.”
“No,” Renzo said. “It’s showing the choice.”

He lifted the camera. The light in the mirror flared white-hot, burning silhouettes onto the glass. The house’s mechanical hum stuttered and stopped. When the light faded, half the mirrors were cracked; the others showed only their true reflections—three men, alive, defiant, unowned.

Sebastian exhaled. “You just fried a fortune.”
“Bought our freedom instead,” Renzo said.

They turned to leave—but the ledger in Renzo’s jacket began to vibrate faintly, like a heartbeat. When he opened it, new words bled through the soaked pages:

“Final exhibit: Pont de la Tournelle. Midnight. The collector awaits.”

Renzo’s throat went dry. “That’s the bridge Jules mentioned in his first letter.”
Xander met his eyes. “Marcel’s final move.”
Sebastian smiled grimly. “Then we go to the bridge—and we end the show.”

Renzo closed the ledger. In its sheen, their reflections looked older already.

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Next On Renzo: After Hours:
At midnight on the Pont de la Tournelle, the past and present collide. Stephan returns with the truth behind Project Muse, Marcel’s final demand, and one last reel that could expose them all—or burn Paris clean.