I returned to the corridor. The napkins on the walls had shifted. Their stains had rearranged themselves — cranberry blotches now formed spirals, gravy smears stretched into jagged lines, grease halos pulsed faintly. The glyphs were still unreadable, but they felt closer to language.

The figure was waiting. Its cloak had changed. QR codes shimmered faintly across its folds. Some napkins were stitched with binary, others damp and curling at the edges. It did not speak. It only raised its hand.

From the folds came the second sandwich.
It flickered violently. The bread shifted with each blink — ciabatta, then naan, then brioche, then nothing at all. The fillings dissolved into streams of numbers, then reassembled into turkey, then vanished again. Cranberry became red error messages. Stuffing became corrupted files.

I reached out. The sandwich glitched against my fingers, then stabilized just long enough to bite.

It was sweet, then bitter. Warm, then freezing. The bread was soft, then brittle, then gone. The turkey tasted like memory, then like static. The cranberry burned like code. The stuffing was ash, then sage, then ash again.

I chewed slowly. The corridor pulsed. The glyphs rearranged themselves again. Somewhere behind the walls, I heard a printer whirring.

The sandwich dissolved before I could finish. The taste lingered. So did the static.

Final Score: ★★★☆☆