Nothing. Only darkness. A suffocating void that devours all sense of time, space, and self. I hear nothing—nothing but the pounding of my heart, hammering inside my chest like it's trying to escape.
My hands? My legs? I can't feel them. A heavy, creeping numbness spreads upward—from my limbs to my neck—until my entire body feels like a corpse: dead weight, bound and still.
Who am I? How did I end up here? I don't know. Only one emotion remains vivid—fear. Raw, primal fear.
Footsteps. Slow. Measured. Echoing on hard, hollow ground. Then a metallic creak—the sound of a door opening somewhere unseen. The footsteps grow louder… closer...
I try to scream. I try to move. Nothing.
Then—suddenly—light. A piercing, unkind beam strikes my eyes, stabbing into them like ice. I recoil inside myself, blind, overwhelmed.
Someone is here. I don't see him, but I can feel him—like a shadow breathing. He kneels. Starts untying me. Blood returns to my limbs, hot and sharp, like snakes writhing beneath my skin.
He sets something beside me. A tray? Food? Water?
Then, without a word, he turns... and leaves.
No! Don't go! Wait! Please... I try to speak, to beg, but my voice betrays me—only silence comes out.
Flashes.
I'm standing. A body lies at my feet. Lifeless. Still. My hands are stained with blood. I stare down in silence. My heart is racing—wild, panicked.
Another flash.
I'm running. Carrying someone in my arms. Blood everywhere—slick, hot, endless. I scream for help. I shout. No one comes. No one hears.
I stumble. Fall. Get up. Keep running.
Another flash.
We're sitting at a cold, metal table. Eating cotton candy. A strange moment of peace in a world long since gone mad. I laugh. I smile.
Then—a gunshot.
He drops to the floor. Eyes wide in shock. Lips forming my name, then... stillness.
I open my eyes. A splitting headache, like shards of glass piercing my brain.
Who am I? What is this place?
The images keep coming.
A white room. Surgical lights. I walk out of an operating room. Faces greet me. They're smiling.
"You did it," someone says.
Did what?
I nod, offer a faint smile. But something weighs heavily in my chest. Guilt? Regret?
Smell.
Subtle... but real.
Close. Right beside me.
I turn my head—painfully, inch by inch, as if my spine has turned to rust.
A jolt of agony shoots down my back.
But I manage to see it.
A metal tray.
Bread, burned slightly along the edges. A cold slab of meat—unappetizing, scentless. A half-glass of water, condensation clinging to the side.
Is it safe? Is it a trap?
I don't know.
But my stomach is a hollow scream. My throat—parched, cracked like desert stone.
I crawl. Dragging my body like a puppet without strings.
My hand trembles as I reach.
I eat.
No thought. No hesitation. Just instinct.
I chew, swallow, breathe.
It hurts. Every motion is a small punishment.
But I don't stop. I can't.
Like an animal awakening from a century of hibernation.
When it's gone, I slump back, my spine pressed against the wall.
Breathing heavily.
Pain still lingers, but there's something else now—something faint.
Life.
I look around.
The room is bare. Stone walls, cracked and silent. A low ceiling presses down like a weight. The light—gray, tired, hopeless.
No windows. No escape.
Only one door. Sealed.
I stand.
My legs resist. They shake, unsteady. I press against the wall, take one step. Then another.
Each joint burns like fire.
I walk.
I feel the walls—rough, cold.
I circle the room, searching.
Nothing.
But then—scratches. Etched into the stone.
I lean closer.
One word.
"Run."
Carved with urgency. Desperation.
I move toward the door.
Examine it with what focus I have left.
The lock—iron, aged, centered.
I touch it. Rust peels off with a light brush.
Fresh rust. Weak.
Between the seams—a strange, brown residue.
I smell it.
Rot… and spices?
I taste a tiny smear.
Salt.
A realization dawns.
The one before me wasn't insane.
They used the salt. Bit by bit. Day by day.
A slow, quiet rebellion.
I walk away.
Back to the center of the room.
The floor—dusty, untouched. My footprints remain clearly behind me.
The lamp overhead flickers, barely alive.
The ceiling—lower than I thought. Crooked.
Then, more marks. Not words this time.
Vertical lines. Repeated, deliberate.
I count.
Someone was marking days.
I reach out, fingers tracing them.
A history I cannot know… but can feel.
Then—gunshots.
One. Two. Three.
I freeze.
Stillness follows. Heavier than the sound itself.
Then… wings.
Birds startled into flight.
I slide to the ground, breath held.
Nothing else.
No more sound.
The silence wraps around me again.
I sit. Fold into myself.
I sleep.
When I wake, the light is different.
Soft.
Warm.
Morning.
Golden slivers slip through a crack above the door.
I rise.
Move to the lock.
The rust is deeper now. Spread wider.
More fragile.
I press it. Wiggle it.
It resists.
But only just.
I take the remaining food. Dip it in the broth.
Apply it to the edges.
Slowly. Repeatedly.
Again and again.
A ritual now.
I watch the lock.
Wait.
Evening comes. Fades into night.
Footsteps.
A flashlight.
The hatch opens.
Food is placed.
He leaves.
Gunshots.
One. Two. Three.
Then… silence.
Days pass.
Then weeks.
The same cycle.
Eat. Apply. Wait.
Gunshots. Silence.
Always three. Always spaced.
But on the twentieth day…
Something changes.
The lock—when I touch it—it shifts.
Subtle. But real.
I feel it.
The silence is unchanged.
But the lock is not.