Chapter 3: The Office That Doesn’t Sleep

The city blurred past in streaks of pale gold and red, neon signs bleeding across rain-streaked windows. Sera sat quietly in the passenger seat, her pale fingers curled into the sleeves of her denim jacket. It was hers—Brenda had said so, and found her wearing it. And yet… it didn't feel like hers. It felt like a costume, a role she'd been forced into, the fabric clinging awkwardly to her sensitive skin, a constant, irritating reminder of a life she couldn't grasp.

Brenda said nothing during the drive. Her eyes stayed fixed on the road, sharp and unwavering. Now and then, they flicked to the mirrors, scanning for threats that might shimmer in the reflection. The silence wasn’t cold, but it was thick—weighted, like the air before a storm.

Eventually, the sedan turned down a narrow alley, tires crunching softly over wet asphalt. A steel gate buzzed, then groaned open, revealing a dim underground garage. The engine faded into a quiet tick, then silence.

Sera followed Brenda out, her steps light and uncertain. Together, they climbed a concrete stairwell, the damp, echoing walls closing in as they reached a narrow hallway. At its end stood a heavy reinforced door, marked only by a tarnished brass number plate.

Brenda unlocked it with a practiced motion. “This is it,” she said, pushing the door open. “My office.”

Warm air spilled out—dusty, lived-in, nothing like the sterile brightness of the hospital. The place smelled of old books, faint metal, and the lingering ghost of cigarettes. Dust motes danced in the lone shaft of light slicing through a grimy window. A wide, battered desk stood at the far end, littered with folders, ashtrays, and a compact mirror. Tall shelves hugged the walls, packed with case files and reference books, their spines a chaotic rainbow of forgotten truths. To the side sat a worn couch with a folded blanket resting neatly on one arm.

Sera stepped inside slowly, eyes trailing over the clutter. She hugged her jacket closer, a small anchor in the overwhelming newness.

“…Do you live here?” she asked softly, her voice barely rising over the stillness.

Brenda stepped in behind her, shutting the door with a firm click. She shrugged off her trench coat and hung it on a nearby coat stand.

“Technically no,” she said. “I’ve got an apartment uptown.” A slight, almost imperceptible pause stretched before she continued, her gaze distant for a moment. “But I don’t go back there much. Feels too quiet. Too empty. Everything I need is already here anyway.”

Her boots clicked across the hardwood as she walked to the desk. She slid aside a section of the bookshelf, revealing a narrow hallway behind it. A single bulb buzzed overhead, casting a flickering light.

“There’s a bedroom at the end. It’s yours for now.”

Sera hesitated. “But… shouldn’t you…?”

Brenda shook her head, not looking back.

“I’ll be out here. Couch is fine. I like being close to the desk… to the shelves.” She sat down, fingers brushing across scattered papers. “Got a few hours to kill before I head out.”

From a drawer, she pulled a lighter and cigarette. The strike of flame, followed by the soft hiss of smoke, echoed in the quiet.

Sera lingered in the middle of the room, feeling the weighty silence. She watched Brenda, an unreadable figure in the dim light. “…Can I come with you?” she asked at last, a desperate curiosity overcoming her shyness. “Wherever you’re going tonight?”

Brenda glanced up, the faintest smirk tugging at one corner of her mouth.

“Appreciate the enthusiasm, kid,” she said, exhaling a slow curl of smoke. “But no. Where I’m going isn’t exactly kid-friendly; it’s a downtown casino, a gritty Wonderland kind of place. And last I checked, they don’t let minors past the security desk.”

Sera’s shoulders slumped, a familiar pang of being lost, alone, and useless. “Right. Makes sense,” she mumbled, embarrassed.

Brenda turned and reached for a small hook on the wall. From it, she plucked a single key—plain silver, with a chipped pink tag dangling from it. She crossed the room and placed it in Sera’s hand, her fingers lingering for just a moment longer than necessary. “Spare key,” she said, her voice dropping slightly. “It used to be my sister’s. She’d stop by sometimes when I still… made time for people.”

Sera looked down. The key was small. Cold. Real. A tangible piece of something stable in her chaotic new existence. It felt heavy with Brenda’s unspoken history.

“…You’re giving this to me?” she whispered, disbelief coloring her voice.

“Yeah. You need something that’s yours.” Brenda leaned back in her chair. “Even if it’s just a key.”

Silence returned, broken only by the occasional turn of a page or the quiet pull of smoke from Brenda’s cigarette.

Brenda nodded toward the back hallway. “Water’s in the fridge. Towels are under the sink. You can rest.”

Sera lingered a moment longer, then gave a small nod. She padded softly toward the bedroom, the key gripped gently in her hand, a fragile symbol of belonging.

The bedroom was simple but clean. A modest bed. A nightstand. A faded lamp.

Sera sat on the edge, still wrapped in the denim jacket. It fit her, superficially. But it still didn’t feel like hers, a fact that grated against her missing memories.

“Was this… really mine?” she whispered to the empty room.

She glanced down at the key again, then set it beside the pillow and lay back, eyes open to the ceiling above.

Across the room, the window reflected her faintly in the dark glass.

And then—for just a moment—it shimmered. A faint hum seemed to vibrate just behind her eyes.

The shape in the window didn’t move quite like she did. Its head tilted differently. Its eyes were too still.

She sat up with a start, a faint nausea churning in her stomach from the strange visual distortion.

The reflection had returned to normal.

Back in the main room, Brenda sat in her worn chair, half-shadowed by the amber glow of her desk lamp. Her compact mirror rested beside her as she flipped through a thick, well-worn folder. Smoke curled lazily between her fingers.

The file’s cover read:

Subject: Regina Heart – Case File #2716

Inside: blurry photos of a woman dealing poker downtown, her hands a blur of motion. Notes scribbled along the margins read:

“Unnatural dexterity.”

“Every trick passes as sleight-of-hand—but not all of them are.”

“Uses red Bicycles, standard cut. Seen her produce them from nowhere—no sleeve pull, no misdirection.”

Brenda tapped one photo—the clearest shot. Regina, auburn waves draped over one shoulder. Her dark blue eyes half-lidded, as if daring the camera to understand her. Brenda's own expression, usually stoic, held a hint of grim recognition, perhaps even a shadow of something personally understood.

Beneath the photo was a separate note, scrawled quickly: “Her father vanished eight years ago. No body. No farewell. Just gone. Like he pulled his last great trick and never came back for the curtain call.”

Brenda leaned back. Cigarette to lips. Slow inhale.

“Something’s off about you, Heart,” she murmured to the photograph, her voice low. “A father vanishing like smoke… I know that tune.”

“I don’t know squat about cardistry… but that’s not just finger speed. That’s Image-level precision. And you’ve been hiding it behind poker tables and showy distractions.”

Looking Glass stirred faintly in the compact mirror—flickering like a thought she hadn’t spoken.

Brenda looked up at the wall clock.

9:12 PM.

She shut the file and slid it into her worn black bag. A glance at the mirror. A flick of ash into the tray.

Then she stood.

Trench coat on. Sidearm checked. Compact mirror snapped shut and pocketed.

But instead of heading straight for the door, Brenda paused.

Her gaze drifted to the hallway.

After a moment of stillness, she crossed the room in quiet, measured steps. The boards barely creaked beneath her practiced weight.

She moved to the narrow hallway behind the shelf, past the buzzing bulb, stopping just short of the bedroom door. Her hand hovered over the handle—but she didn’t open it.

Instead, she leaned in, ear inches from the frame.

No sound. Then, the softest shift of sheets. A shallow exhale.

Brenda allowed herself a breath of relief. “Good,” she murmured under her breath, barely audible. “Get some rest, kid.”

She turned away, her boots making no more noise than a sigh.

Back at the threshold of her office, she gave one last glance over her shoulder—toward the darkened hallway, toward the sleeping girl who’d stumbled into her life like a question with no answer.

Then she stepped out into the night.

Her heels echoed down the stairwell, swallowed by the murmur of the city beyond.

Downtown awaited.

So did the Queen of Hearts.