The girl’s face goes pale, then red, then pale again. She clutches her rough yellow robes and stammers out something that sounds like music mixed with fear: “我在哪里？这是什么地方？” I don’t understand a word, but I know terror when I hear it. She’s backing away from me like I’m a leper.

The lightning-clothes man lets out this long, exhausted breath, the kind I used to make when dealing with particularly stupid clients. He looks at me, then at the girl, then shakes his head. The iron beast starts slowing down. That woman’s voice comes back, 「新橋、新橋です」this time. The serpent hisses louder and grinds to a stop. Where in the world am I? The doors, sweet Mercury, the doors just slide open by themselves! No slaves, no pulleys, nothing! Lightning-man stands up. He mutters something in… well, I don’t know what language that is either. He steps through the magic doors without looking back.

The doors start making a warning chime, and suddenly everyone around us surges toward the opening. The girl’s eyes dart between me and the exit - she’s calculating something. Not just scared. Thinking.

That’s when I notice the crowd isn’t moving randomly. They’re flowing around us like water around stones, giving us both a wide berth. Even in their rush, nobody wants to get close to the people with the floating arrows.

The girl decides first. She grabs my arm - strong grip for someone so small - and pulls me toward the doors. Smart. Whatever this place is, being trapped in a moving metal box isn’t going to help us figure it out.

We spill out onto a platform that defies all logic. Stone arches soar overhead like the Pantheon, but the walls are covered in glowing pictures that move and change. People stream past us in rivers, all heading somewhere with purpose I don’t understand.

The girl releases my arm and starts scanning the crowd with the focused intensity of a hawk hunting mice.

The girl’s head snaps toward me. She doesn’t understand the words, but she caught my tone. She nods once, sharp and knowing, then points upward over my head. I look up where she’s pointing, and my blood turns to ice water.

There it is - my own purple arrow, hovering three feet above my head like some divine judgment. The girl sees my expression and nods grimly. She understands.

“We’re being watched,” I mutter in Latin. Whatever marked us, we’re in this together.