Alec Lightwood had a hole in his wall. So did Magnus Bane. Neither one knew it yet, but Alec was about to find out.
He stumbled into his flat, the argument still ringing in his ears. Still jostling for space in his already full mind.
It had been his mother again, telling him that he needed a proper job, and a proper girlfriend, and a proper life. Alec disagreed, as always. Right now, all he needed was some peace and quiet.
Alec sank into his second-hand bed, staring blankly up at the ceiling, where fingers of damp were beginning to stretch. Finally, sleep. Finally, peace.
"And therefore, as a stranger, give it welcome. There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy."
Alec jumped awake, groaning into his pillow - what time was it? Who's voice was that? It came again, muffled but close.
"But come, here as before, never, so help you mercy..."
Alec felt the voice manifest itself around him like smoke. It was vapour, curling under the floorboards, everywhere, with a lilting, musical quality.
Perhaps, were Alec feeling a little more tolerant, he'd have enjoyed the voice. Maybe he would have followed the words, and recognised that it was Hamlet. But Alec was exhausted, and he felt too full to take anything else in.
So, naturally, he was annoyed. He propped his tired body up onto one elbow and squinted at his alarm clock. One in the morning. Just great.
"How strange or odd soever I bear myself..."
Maybe Alec did need a proper job - not to please Maryse, but so that he could move into a flat with better soundproofing. Or just a flat away from the mystery Hamlet-reciter. He got up from the bed clumsily, knocking over a pile of books on his way across the room. He pressed his ear against the wall, feeling it cold against his skin.
It was coming from that side. Now the voice had stopped, but he could still hear the shuffling of paper, as if the speaker were turning onto the next page.
"There are...more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of-"
The speaker broke off. There was another shuffle of pages. Alec knew what he was doing - he was experimenting with the words, seeing which tone sounded right. An actor, he presumed. An insomniac actor with an affinity for Shakespeare's tragedies.
The light in Alec's flat was limited, so he felt his way along the wall, trying to find the exact source of the voice. His fingers traced the outline of a poster - he couldn't see it, but he knew that it was a poster of his favourite band, The Mortal Instruments. No one he knew had ever listened to them, and to Alec, that was one of the great injustices of this world.
For some reason, here was where the voice rang the loudest. Alec carefully untacked the poster from the wall, leaning in closer. It took him a few surreal moments to work out that the wall wasn't moving, but rather that something was moving behind it.
How long had there been a hole in the wall?
Crouching down on one knee, Alec peered into the hole, which was about the size of his fist. Through it, the mystery Hamlet-reciter continued his twilight soliloquy, oblivious to being watched.
The reciter's back was facing him, and he looked dressed up to go out: tight-fitting trousers, gelled hair, and a dress jacket which subtly changed colour depending on how the light hit it. He was pacing his room restlessly, swinging his hips to and fro.
Alec was going to tell him to shut up, but he was already unconscious, slumped against the wall. The same voice that had woken him up, had put him back to sleep again. No one could blame him - the mystery Hamlet-reciter had a way with words, spinning them out in the air, smoothing them out like velvet.
Said Hamlet-reciter stopped. Put his script down on his desk. Turned to his own wall, his eyes settling on the painting that hung there. Had he heard a sound come from that direction - a shuffling, perhaps, or snoring?
He pointed at the painting wearily. "Don't be haunted. I've only just moved in."