Chapter 41 — The Room That Wasn't
Lucien woke up to warmth.
Not the oppressive heat of the desert. Not the sterile chill of the black corridor. This was… ambient. Quiet. Familiar in a way that curled around the bones and whispered, It's safe now.
His eyes opened slowly.
A ceiling. White. Flat. Painted drywall with a faint swirl pattern from a brush or roller. He blinked. Once. Twice.
No sound.
The quiet buzz of safety.
He turned his head. A window filtered in soft morning light. Sheer curtains danced lazily, stirred by a wind he couldn't feel. A desk sat in the corner. A dresser. A closed closet door. A bed under him. Sheets tucked tight around his legs.
A room.
A room like the one he grew up in.
But not the same.
Lucien didn't move yet. His eyes traced the edges, absorbing. Trying to map this place to memory.
A bookcase—three shelves high, half-stocked with titles he couldn't quite read. A lamp on the nightstand that hummed faintly even though it was off. The floor was hardwood. The rug beneath his feet was checkered in blue and gray. A stuffed bear lay facedown under the window. Its arms too long.
His breath caught.
Everything looked normal.
But it was too normal.
Lucien slowly sat up, his arms shaky, the blanket slipping off his chest. It was warm enough not to need it, but not hot. He felt the texture of the sheets against his palms—coarse cotton, too stiff to be lived in. No scent.
He ran a hand across his face.
His skin felt real.
His body responded.
But the air in the room? Flat. Like stage lighting, perfect from every angle but lacking depth. It was all texture, no weight.
He stood up.
His bare feet pressed against the rug. The floor gave the illusion of wood creaking, but there was no sound. None at all. Not from him. Not from the outside.
Lucien turned toward the mirror above the dresser.
And stopped breathing.
It reflected—but not correctly.
His posture was off by half a second. His head turned in the mirror slower than his real one did. The reflection blinked when he didn't. And worst of all, it smiled.
Lucien stepped back.
No sound.
No breath from the mirror-self. No warmth. No malice either—just a smile. Thin. Mild. Not too wide, not yet. But it sat there like a crack waiting to split deeper.
He turned away quickly.
His chest was tightening now.
Something whispered in the walls. Not words. Not sound. Texture. The sensation of being observed. Watched through fabric and paint and perfectly ordinary light.
He stared at the closet.
A simple white sliding door. The kind you'd find in any suburban home. He stepped toward it. Slowly. His fingertips brushed the edge. He waited.
Nothing happened.
He slid it open.
Lucien froze.
Inside—
Rows of skin.
Human skin.
Hanging from wire hangers like coats after a storm. Some small. Some large. All empty. Their hands dangled, fingers curled slightly as if trying to remember motion. The faces were slack, eyes missing. Mouths gaping in silent mimicry of breath.
No blood. No stench. No rot.
Just… skins. Clean and pale. Like costumes waiting to be put back on.
Lucien's breath hitched.
He slammed the closet shut.
Hard.
This time it made a sound. Not much—but enough to slice through the silence like a needle popping a balloon.
His chest rose and fell now. Real breath. Panic whispering in the walls of his lungs.
His eyes darted around the room, scanning—looking for anything, anything that made sense.
His gaze landed on the desk.
A sketch sat on top.
He approached slowly, his knees weak, steps uncertain.
The paper was a soft cream color, edges curled as if someone had handled it too many times. Pencil strokes. Soft shading.
The girl.
The one from the field.
The one who never blinked.
Her smile was drawn too wide, stretched across her face like someone had forgotten what mouths were supposed to do. But the artist had captured the shape too well. The curve of her cheeks. The straight fall of her hair. The emptiness in her eyes.
Lucien stepped closer.
And the eyes moved.
He froze.
Staring.
Watching.
The drawn eyes twitched. Subtly. Left. Right. They met his gaze. Locked.
The sketch didn't smile wider.
It didn't blink.
It just watched.
Lucien felt a tremor crawl through his ribs. His fingers clenched.
His breath caught again. Sweat beaded along the back of his neck.
He looked around the room.
The mirror was still wrong.
The closet still sealed.
The curtains still moved without wind.
Nothing felt dangerous. And yet his skin screamed. His instincts writhed. His body told him that something was fundamentally off, that he shouldn't be here.
That he wasn't here.
And still, nothing came.
Nothing attacked.
No voice echoed from beyond.
No figure loomed.
Just stillness. And the smiling eyes on the page.
Lucien reached forward.
His fingers hovered above the paper.
Then—
The girl in the sketch tilted her head.
A soft scrape of graphite on paper. Soundless—but felt.
He jerked his hand back, stumbling a step.
The pencil lines weren't shifting, but something behind them was. As if the image was a window, and she was behind the glass.
Watching.
Waiting.
He turned from the desk, bile rising in his throat.
Something's wrong.
Something's wrong.
Lucien pressed his palms to his temples, trying to think. Trying to feel. But nothing connected properly. Emotions jumbled into static. Fear blurred into confusion, into awe, into something unnameable.
Why was he here?
Why this room?
Was it a memory? A test?
Or was it simply bait?
He didn't know.
He didn't want to know.
But he couldn't leave. No door. No exit.
Only the too-perfect walls. The too-soft light.
And the girl watching from the desk.
Lucien sat down on the edge of the bed, his body stiff. He wrapped his arms around himself, instinctively small. His eyes darted once more to the mirror.
His reflection didn't move this time.
It just sat there, smiling.
Then—
It blinked.
And Lucien didn't.