The Whisper of Deceit: My Life as a Walking Lie Detector

Chapter 4: Hermes’s Prank

The walk back to his apartment felt like walking on a tightrope stretched over an abyss. Every time Thiago stepped on a crack in the sidewalk or brushed past a stranger, he braced himself for the world to peel away like cheap wallpaper. He didn’t stop until he reached his room, slamming the door and locking it with a trembling hand.

He collapsed onto his mattress, pulling the feather from his pocket. In the dim light of his room, it didn't just shimmer; it seemed to bleed violet light into the surrounding air.

"Talk to me," Thiago whispered to the empty room, his voice raspy. "You’ve been screaming in my head all day. Show yourself."

For a long moment, the only sound was the distant hum of the city. Then, the air in the center of his small bedroom began to fold. It wasn't like the distortion around Putri; it was sharper, cleaner, like a high-end projector flickering to life. A figure manifested, not quite solid, hovering a few inches above the carpet. He looked like a man in his late twenties, wearing a sharp, vintage-cut suit that looked like it had been tailored from midnight itself. He leaned against the air as if it were a physical wall.

"You took your time getting here," the man said, his voice carrying that same metallic resonance that Thiago had grown to hate. "I was beginning to think you’d gotten lost in the architecture."

Thiago sat up, clutching a pillow as if it were a shield. "Who are you? And why are you inside my head?"

The man chuckled, a sound like glass marbles rolling on a hardwood floor. "Names are such heavy, cumbersome things, aren't they? Call me Hermes. It’s a classic, even if I’m not the one delivering parcels today."

"Hermes," Thiago spat, his fear hardening into a prickly, defensive anger. "You’re the one who calls me a pawn? The one mocking me in the mirror?"

Hermes waved a hand dismissively. The bedside lamp floated into the air, spinning slowly before slamming back down onto the nightstand. "I’m the one who’s been trying to wake you up. Do you have any idea how exhausting it is to watch you stumble through life, ignoring the obvious rot in the foundation?"

"I don't care about your metaphors!" Thiago shouted, standing up. "I want to know what you did to the professor. I want to know why I can see... whatever this is."

"The professor was a fraud," Hermes said, his expression turning cold. "He lied about his dedication, his research, his very existence as a man of integrity. The fire was just the universe correcting a dissonance. You happen to be the lens that focuses that correction."

Thiago paced the small space, his boots scuffing the floor. "I’m not a lens. I’m a student. I have an essay due on Friday. I have a life."

"You had a life," Hermes corrected, his form flickering into a blur of static. "You have a reality now. And you’re failing at it. You let that girl walk away."

Thiago stopped. "Putri? You know her?"

"I know what she is," Hermes said, his eyes darkening. "She’s the reason the air smells like ozone and dead dreams. You think she’s a biology student? You think she’s human?"

"She lied to me," Thiago whispered, remembering the feeling of the temperature dropping, the way the rain had curved around her. "She’s a liar."

"She’s a master of it," Hermes said, circling him. "She doesn't just bend the truth, Thiago. She rewrites the script. When she speaks, the universe pauses to listen, and if she tells it that the sky is purple, the sky turns purple. Her lies are divine in scale."

Thiago shook his head, his hands clenching into fists. "Why are you telling me this? Are you trying to help me or are you just using me to get to her?"

"Does it matter?" Hermes asked, his voice dropping into a mocking, intimate whisper. "You’re already in the game. Look at your chair."

Thiago turned. His desk chair was hovering three feet off the ground, its wheels spinning aimlessly in the empty air.

"Stop it!" Thiago yelled, feeling the familiar, high-pitched whine of pressure building in his skull.

"Why should I?" Hermes countered, his smile widening. "You’re the one providing the energy. You’re angry, you’re confused, and you’re leaking power everywhere. If you don't learn to harness this, you won't just move furniture. You’ll snap this entire block in half."

Thiago stared at the chair, forcing himself to breathe. He closed his eyes, visualizing the stillness of the room, the weight of the objects, the solid, boring predictability of his previous life. He pushed his will against the chaos, feeling the static in his veins settle, forced back into his own skin.

With a heavy thud, the chair dropped to the carpet.

"Better," Hermes noted, his tone bored. "But you’re fighting the symptom, not the source."

"And the source is her," Thiago said, keeping his eyes fixed on the entity.

"She is a breach," Hermes agreed. "She’s here to dismantle the consensus. If you want to survive, you need to stop being a mirror and start being a wall. You need to stop reflecting her lies and start shattering them."

"How do I do that?"

"By knowing the truth," Hermes said, beginning to fade. "But the truth is a jagged, ugly thing. Are you sure you can handle it?"

"I’m already in this deep," Thiago said, his voice steadying. "Tell me."

Hermes leaned in, his face inches from Thiago’s. "Then start by looking at what’s in your pocket. That feather? It isn't a trophy. It’s a key. And someone is coming to take it back."

As the last word left Hermes's lips, his form dissolved into a shower of white, static-filled sparks that vanished into the floorboards. The room fell into an oppressive, heavy silence. Thiago stood in the center of the dark, feeling the cold weight of the feather in his pocket.

He was alone again, but the silence felt different now. It felt expectant.

He walked over to his window, peering out at the street below. The streetlights flickered in a rhythmic, stuttering pattern—a Morse code of light he couldn't decipher. The campus, usually quiet at this hour, seemed to be holding its breath.

Then, he heard it.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Three precise, heavy raps against his apartment door.

Thiago froze. He checked his phone. It was 2:14 in the morning. His roommate, Sam, was away for the weekend, and no one visited him this late.

He moved to the door, peering through the peephole.

The hallway was empty. The motion-sensor lights were dark, casting the long, narrow corridor into deep shadows. He waited, his pulse hammering against his throat.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

He flung the door open.

There was nothing but the scent of damp earth and something metallic—the same smell that had followed Putri into the library. A single, small petal—the same violet hue as the feather—drifted slowly down from the top of the door frame, landing silently on the threshold.

Thiago looked down the empty hall. His heart was a drum, his blood a river of cold static. He wasn't just observing the seams of the world anymore; he was stepping into the stitch. And he knew, with a terrifying certainty, that whoever—or whatev

er—had knocked, it wasn't the delivery service, and it certainly wasn't an accident.