Phei's portal bloomed open in the apartment like reality had been politely informed it was no longer required in that section of the room.
The wound in reality widened without noise, silent enough to feel arrogant, its edges threaded with that impossible black-white paradox that did not flicker like magic but revolved with intent, patience and the quiet menace.
The apartment changed at once.
The afternoon warmth drew back as if slapped. The air shivered, then tightened, carrying a cold that tasted of starless distance and old iron. The curtains near the open window lifted once, then stilled, the fabric stiffening under a breeze that no longer dared move. Light inside the room dimmed, not extinguished, merely humbled, as though the sun itself had taken a respectful step backward.
A deeper cold rolled out from the portal, ancient and restrained, brushing the furniture, licking the walls, whispering over the floorboards with the grave authority of the void between stars.
