The White Room

The White Room | By: Max Colomb | Prologue | He woke in white. Not walls, not light—just white. Endless, suffocating, infinite. The kind of white that presses against your skull, seeps into your eyes, and refuses to let go. It was everywhere. He could not tell up from down. Forward had no meaning. The air tasted faintly metallic, sour, like rust and blood he couldn’t place. He tried to remember… something. His name. But it was gone. The memory had been stolen—or never existed. He could not even remember if he had a name. A shiver of panic crawled up his spine. Who was he? Who had brought him here? The question echoed in the whiteness, but there was no answer—only silence and that unbearable, empty white. A faint pulse began in his temples, soft at first, then insistent, echoing like the slow tick of some unseen heart. The white seemed to respond, subtly shifting, stretching, folding at the edges of vision. He blinked. It was still there. But it had moved. Or had he? He spoke his name—tried to. His own voice mocked him. Hollow, distant, fragile. It bounced back distorted, a whisper that wasn’t quite his own: “You forgot… you belong…” The white walls—or air—or nothingness—seemed to breathe. Something pressed just beyond perception. He felt it crawl under his skin, brush along his spine. His pulse raced, lungs burning, yet he could not move. Panic bloomed inside him, spreading like rot. Then came the faintest whispering at the edge of his mind. Not words, exactly. Not yet. But voices—countless voices, overlapping, sighing, almost chanting. “Not ready… not ready… too late…” They slid through his thoughts, eroding his grip on reality. He stumbled, claws scraping against the floor, hands pressing against the shifting white. It offered no purchase. He could not escape. Every motion felt delayed, disjointed, as if he were moving through a dream made of water. The white began to throb, to pulse with a heartbeat not his own. And in that pulse, he felt something watching him. Patient. Waiting. Invisible eyes boring into his skull. His mind raced. Memory slipping. Self slipping. He laughed. Or screamed. He could not tell. His own face in the white seemed to stretch impossibly, grin too wide, eyes hollow. He tried to scream again, but no sound emerged. Then the white moved. Slowly at first. A fold here, a shadow there, almost imperceptible—but undeniably alive. It pressed closer. Around him. Inside him. The pulse in his head quickened. He fell to his knees. Hands trembling. Breath ragged. Eyes tearing. Darkness swallowed him. And when he woke, it would not be white anymore. It would be… the Loiner Zone. Chapter One: The Loiner Zone When he opened his eyes again, the white room was gone. He was somewhere else entirely. The air was heavy and musty, carrying a strange combination of damp carpet, mildew, and something… metallic, just faint enough to make his stomach twist. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, buzzing softly, as if unsure whether they even wanted to illuminate the space. The walls stretched on in endless, crooked corridors, their stained wallpaper peeling at the corners, curling like the edges of forgotten memories. The floor was uneven beneath his feet, soft in some spots, rigid in others, giving each step an uncertain rhythm. He rose unsteadily, the muscles in his legs trembling, and looked around. A sign hung crookedly, almost apologetically, from a nail that barely held it in place: “Welcome to the Loiner Zone.” He blinked. The words seemed to pulse faintly in the dim light. The tone of the sign wasn’t welcoming—it was expectant. Patient. Waiting. He took a step forward. The corridor ahead stretched impossibly, twisting slightly in ways that made his stomach lurch. Every turn promised another turn, and yet each hallway felt vaguely familiar, as if he had been here before, though he could not place it. With each step, the air grew heavier. It was not just thick—it pressed against his chest, filling his lungs with a damp, stale weight. He wanted to call out, but his voice seemed swallowed immediately, the sound vanishing into the endless corridors. Even the echo betrayed him; it was delayed, slightly distorted, as if mocking his presence. Shadows moved at the edges of his vision. He spun abruptly, trying to catch them, but there was nothing. Only the flickering light, and the impossible geometry of the hallways, stretching and contracting in ways that hurt his eyes. Time began to unravel. Minutes or hours, he could not tell. There was no sun here, no window, no reference point. The corridors looped back on themselves. A corner he had passed moments ago seemed to appear again, though subtly changed—the peeling wallpaper slightly higher, the tile cracked in a new place. His mind resisted. This was impossible. Logic itself seemed to fray under the fluorescent hum. A dragging sound appeared somewhere far behind him. Slow. Soft. Deliberate. He froze, heart pounding, and listened. The sound moved at a rhythm that did not match his own footsteps. It was patient, patient and waiting. He tried to ignore it. Tried to convince himself that it was nothing but his imagination. But the corridors themselves seemed to lean toward him, walls narrowing imperceptibly, air thickening as if the building itself had taken a breath. He ran. Not with purpose, but instinct. Down one corridor, another, turning corners that all looked identical. The fluorescent lights flickered faster now, casting long shadows that seemed to pulse and breathe. Sometimes, in the corner of his vision, he caught glimpses of shapes—silhouettes that disappeared when he looked directly. His reflection in a warped mirror—one that appeared suddenly, halfway down a corridor—was not quite his own. His eyes were hollower than they should be, his skin paler, lips cracked. He recoiled, stepping back. The mirror rippled slightly, like water, and for an instant, he thought he saw the dragging figure behind him, just at the edge of perception. He pressed his back against a wall and sat down heavily, chest heaving. Sweat slicked his palms as he traced the peeling wallpaper with trembling fingers. The Loiner Zone was infinite. He had already walked in circles—he could feel it in the tightening coil of his stomach—but each corner promised something new, something subtle, something that made his skin crawl. He whispered to himself. Words barely formed. Names he could not remember, fragments of sentences, his own thoughts alien in his mouth. He felt his mind bending, stretching to fit the space, trying to map the impossible. Minutes—or hours—passed. The dragging sound continued, unrelenting, patient. He began to hear other noises, soft and distant, like faint scratching or whispers just out of comprehension. Perhaps it was the building settling. Perhaps it was him. Perhaps not. A corridor to the left looked different. The walls were closer together, and the light flickered so violently he had to shield his eyes. Against every instinct, he stepped in. The floor sagged under his weight, a deep, hollow groan echoing through the halls. He tripped over something—or someone?—but there was nothing visible. Only the suffocating sense of being watched. His breathing became shallow, rapid, as he forced himself to walk again. Every step echoed, every sound magnified. His mind screamed for order, for logic, for reason—but the Loiner Zone refused. He reached a junction and froze. Three corridors stretched before him. Each one identical, and yet he could feel subtle differences. A smell, a shadow, a temperature. The dragging sound paused. He didn’t know why, but he stepped into the corridor on the right. The walls closed slightly, almost imperceptibly. The air thickened. His pulse thundered in his ears. And for a brief, terrifying instant, he felt something brush against his shoulder. Nothing. The corridor stretched on. The walls seemed to breathe. Every flicker of the fluorescent lights cast new shadows, and each shadow seemed alive, curling toward him. His mind fractured further, memories dissolving, the sense of self splintering. He stumbled into another junction. And there, carved crudely into the wall, were words written in a hand he didn’t recognize: “YOU’RE ALREADY TOO LATE.” Panic surged. He tried to scream, but only a strangled whisper escaped. The corridors pressed closer, the lights buzzed violently, and the dragging sound began again, louder this time, circling, moving with him. He ran blindly, heart hammering, senses screaming, every turn a mirror of the last. The Loiner Zone was endless, impossible, and patient. And he was alone. The corridors twisted again, and he stumbled into a narrow passage so low that he had to hunch his shoulders. The walls were closer here, lined with what looked like peeling wallpaper—but now he noticed that some of the shapes on it resembled faces. Distorted, blank-eyed, twisted into silent screams. Every time he blinked, the faces seemed to shift, closer, staring at him. He pressed his hands to his ears, trying to block out the soft hum of the lights, but there were other sounds too—a faint scratching, like fingernails running along drywall, just beyond comprehension. His feet dragged as he moved forward. The dragging sound was back, persistent, slow, deliberate, yet always staying just behind him. He could feel it, in the air, in his shadow, in the way the fluorescent lights flickered unevenly. He paused in the center of a hall, breathing hard, trying to make sense of the space. A mirror appeared at the end of the corridor, warped, distorted, yet strangely reflective. He approached cautiously. His reflection stared back, but it wasn’t him. Not quite. His eyes were wider than normal, his skin ghostly pale. For a fleeting instant, his reflection smiled at him—and then the image blinked, even though he hadn’t. He stumbled backward. His heart hammered in his chest. He tried to force himself to remember what had happened in the white room, but the memories slipped through his mind like water through fingers. Every thought fragmented, every recollection fading. The Loiner Zone seemed to feed on his memory, twisting and consuming it. A corridor opened to his left, darker than the others. He felt compelled to enter. Each step made the floor groan beneath him. The walls were slimy, as though they were breathing, pulsing slightly under his touch. He ran his hand along them, and for a second, they felt alive—muscle beneath paint, something moving, something breathing just beneath the surface. He recoiled, nearly falling. Whispers began to form around him. Soft, hissing, unintelligible at first, but gradually becoming words—or fragments. “Not alone… you belong… can’t leave…” The voice wasn’t human, yet it mimicked language, taunting him, eroding his sense of reality. He pressed himself into a corner, shaking. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered violently, casting his shadow across the walls in monstrous forms. He turned his head—and in the reflection of a warped tile, he saw not one shadow, but dozens. Each moving independently, twisting, reaching, writhing. And for a moment, one of them lifted a hand toward him. The dragging sound grew louder, circling him. He spun in panic, but the hallways seemed to shift and stretch, disorienting him further. Doors appeared where none had existed. A staircase descended impossibly downward, the steps warped and irregular. He hesitated, but the sound behind him—patient, mocking—forced him forward. As he descended, the air grew colder. Frost began to form along the edges of the walls, creeping toward him like slow-moving fingers. He shivered, his breath visible in the unnatural cold. Somewhere above, he thought he saw movement—shapes gliding along the upper corridors, just out of reach, just out of focus. Hours, or maybe days, passed. He had no way of knowing. Time in the Loiner Zone did not follow the rules of the outside world. The fluorescent lights hummed constantly, a relentless, maddening tone. Hunger and thirst gnawed at him, yet he could find no source of sustenance, no relief. His body ached, his mind frayed, and every turn seemed to loop back into the same endless corridor. And always, the whispers, the shadows, the dragging sound. Always present, patient, waiting. A faint light flickered ahead. He ran toward it, desperate for something—anything—familiar, tangible, real. As he approached, the light dimmed, flickered, and he realized it was not light at all, but a reflection—a pale, glowing shape, pulsing faintly. He stepped closer, trembling, and the shape resolved into a figure. Human, almost, yet impossibly elongated, limbs bending in unnatural ways. It tilted its head, watching him silently. He screamed, but his voice was swallowed instantly by the endless corridors. The figure did not move, did not speak. It simply waited. And he understood, with a sinking dread, that he was no longer in control. He never had been. The Loiner Zone was infinite. And now… so was his fear. He stumbled backward from the figure, tripping over the warped floorboards. Pain shot through his ankle, but he ignored it, adrenaline pushing him forward. The figure did not follow, did not speak. It simply watched, head tilting unnaturally, as if amused by his terror. The corridor ahead stretched impossibly long. He moved forward, each step echoing as though the space were hollow, infinite. His reflection in the warped tiles along the walls seemed to lag behind him, delayed by fractions of a second, twisting subtly with every movement. At one point, he caught the reflection wink—but he hadn’t. Sweat poured down his face. He pressed a hand against his temple, trying to stop the constant ringing in his ears, the whispers that now formed nearly coherent sentences: “You’re too late… You belong… You can’t leave…” He turned a corner and nearly collided with a door that hadn’t been there before. The wood was splintered and ancient, the handle cold and slick with something he could not identify. He flinched, but curiosity—or perhaps desperation—pushed him to grasp it. The door swung open silently, revealing… another corridor. Identical to the last, identical to all the last, yet subtly wrong. He moved forward. Something brushed against his arm, soft, wet, almost human—but gone before he could turn. Shadows clung to the corners of his vision, writhing, twisting, pooling unnaturally on the floor. Each time he blinked, the shadows seemed to grow closer, stretching, reaching, observing. He began to lose track of himself. Thoughts fragmented. Memory disintegrated. He could not recall his name, or the faces of those he loved, or even the steps that had led him here. His own body felt foreign, a puppet, a vessel slowly breaking under the Loiner Zone’s pressure. Then came the whispers again. Not random this time, but deliberate. “Look behind you… Look behind you…” He spun. The corridor was empty. Yet, in the reflective tiles, he saw dozens of him—or creatures that mimicked him—standing silently, watching. They didn’t move, didn’t breathe. They simply waited, grinning faintly, their eyes hollow. Panic seized him, and he ran blindly, heedless of direction. The dragging sound resumed, louder now, circling around him like a predator stalking prey. He pressed himself into a corner, chest heaving, palms slick with sweat. The air vibrated softly, as though the building itself were whispering secrets into his mind. He thought he heard laughter, distant and hollow, echoing just beyond comprehension. Ahead, the corridor split into three paths. Each identical, yet he felt in his bones that one was wrong. The right path seemed to breathe subtly, the walls expanding and contracting as though alive. The left path emitted a faint, sickly glow, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat. The middle… he could not see, swallowed entirely by shadow. Compulsion overtook him. He chose the left corridor. The glow intensified as he moved forward, revealing walls covered in indecipherable markings. Symbols etched deep into the plaster, writhing slightly as though the walls themselves were alive. Some resembled faces, others shapes he could not identify. His fingers brushed them, and a shiver ran through him. The markings pulsed faintly, reacting to his touch. A door appeared suddenly at the corridor’s end. He approached cautiously. Its surface was smooth, white—entirely featureless, except for a single word etched deep into the surface: “INSIDE.” His hand trembled as he reached for the handle. The moment he touched it, the air changed. The Zone seemed to exhale, the corridors behind him vanishing in an instant, replaced by absolute silence. The dragging sound paused. The whispers ceased. Only the hum of the lights remained. The door swung open silently. Beyond it… nothingness. A void, pale and luminous, stretching infinitely. He stepped in. His foot sank slightly, like walking on soft fabric or water. The void stretched in all directions, and he realized—terrifyingly—that he could see nothing beyond a certain distance. It was as though the Zone had narrowed reality, focusing only on him. And then, without warning, the dragging sound returned, now directly behind him. He spun, heart hammering—but there was nothing. The void remained empty. Yet he felt it. Felt the presence. Patient. Watching. Waiting. The slow, suffocating dread seeped into him, gnawing at his mind. He was trapped. He was alone. And the Loiner Zone had just begun. Chapter Two: The Endless Corridors The void behind the door seemed infinite, yet impossibly close at the same time. He stepped forward, and the floor beneath him groaned softly, as though the building itself were exhaling. The air had a damp, metallic taste now, thick and heavy. Each inhale burned his throat. He turned slowly, trying to map the space. The void extended in all directions, yet the edges seemed to shift whenever he blinked. A corner that had appeared solid one moment would vanish the next, replaced by a hallway that stretched impossibly long. It was then he noticed the whispers again. Subtle, almost melodic, curling around his mind like smoke. “You shouldn’t be here… You’re not ready…” The words repeated, over and over, teasing him, eroding his sense of self. He tried to move, but his legs felt heavy, weighted as if the air itself had grown thick. Shadows flickered at the edge of vision—shapes that were almost human but stretched in ways no human could be. He blinked, and they vanished. He was certain of it. Or maybe not. He could no longer trust his own eyes. A faint light appeared in the distance. It was warm, almost inviting—a cruel contrast to the oppressive cold of the corridors around him. He ran toward it, desperate for something real, something tangible. As he approached, the light resolved into a door, old and wooden, its surface warped and slick with some dark, wet substance. He touched it. The moment his hand made contact, he felt a shock—not physical, but mental. A rush of memories, of voices, of screams that weren’t his own, flooded his mind. He staggered backward, clutching his head. The corridor behind him had changed. It twisted unnaturally, stretching into impossible angles. The floor sagged and rose underfoot. Walls appeared where there had been none. The fluorescent lights flickered violently, casting shadows that seemed to move with a mind of their own. A sound—low and dragging—echoed from somewhere deep in the Zone. It was patient, deliberate, circling him, keeping pace with his heartbeat. The whispers returned, now forming sentences he could almost understand: “Don’t look… Don’t blink… They see you…” He pressed himself against the wall, shaking, and realized that he could see multiple versions of himself in the reflections of the warped tiles. Each one mimicked him perfectly, but with subtle differences: the tilt of the head, the wideness of the eyes, the curve of the lips. One of them smiled when he did not. One of them raised a hand he did not lift. The Zone was alive. He ran. Corridors twisted impossibly, looping back, yet subtly different each time. A door appeared suddenly, leading downward into darkness. He descended cautiously. Each step made the floor groan under his weight. The air grew colder, frosting the walls slightly. He shivered, but he could not stop. Something was following him, something patient and aware. The stairs opened into a long hall lined with mirrors. Dozens of reflections stared back at him. Some moved independently, some grinned faintly, and some… whispered. “Welcome… You belong…” The reflections were alive, mocking him, echoing his fear. He collapsed to the floor, breathing heavily. His mind felt frayed, splintered into fragments. Time had no meaning here. The Loiner Zone had no rules—only endless, twisting halls, whispers, dragging sounds, and the oppressive weight of being watched. And he was alone. He stayed on the floor for what felt like hours—or maybe seconds; time had no meaning here. His breathing came in shallow, frantic gasps. The mirrors lined along the hall mocked him silently, reflecting versions of himself he could not recognize. One reflection stepped forward while he stayed still. Another leaned closer, whispering words he could not understand. Their mouths moved in unnatural ways, stretching and twisting, forming grimaces of amusement and horror. Shadows pooled at the edges of the mirrors, flickering in impossible shapes. Sometimes they appeared humanoid, thin and elongated, moving on all fours. Sometimes they were amorphous, curling tendrils that pressed against the walls as though testing the boundaries of the space. He dared not move. A soft, dragging sound began behind him, circling. He spun, but the hall had changed. The mirrors were gone, replaced with long, featureless corridors. The walls were smooth now, entirely white, pulsating faintly like the rhythm of a heartbeat. The light above flickered irregularly, buzzing, making his eyes water. Panic rose inside him. He ran. Every turn brought a new corridor, slightly different from the last, yet all the same. The smell of wet carpet and mildew intensified, making him gag. Every so often, a faint metallic tang would cut through, making him wince. Then came the whispers again, louder now, insistent: “You shouldn’t be here… You can’t leave… They see you…” He clutched his head, trying to force the sounds away. His mind fractured further, memories dissolving like mist. He could not remember how he had arrived in the Loiner Zone. He could not recall a single name, a single face, a single memory he could trust. Even his own body felt alien, limbs heavy and unresponsive at times, as if the Zone itself was warping him from the inside. Ahead, a corridor split into three paths. He hesitated, feeling each corridor pulsate differently, as though aware of his choice. He picked the middle path, hoping instinct would guide him. The walls here were slick, almost wet, and faint shapes rippled beneath the surface. Faces? Hands? He could not tell. He pressed forward, every step echoing unnaturally, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. The dragging sound returned, circling faster now. He felt it brush past his shoulder, but when he spun, there was nothing. Only the corridor stretched endlessly, narrowing and widening as though breathing around him. Then the walls whispered, faintly at first, then louder: “You’re ours… forever…” A door appeared suddenly, hanging crookedly in the corridor. Unlike the other doors, it seemed ordinary, wooden and unremarkable. But he felt the Zone’s awareness in it, pressing against him, urging him forward. His hand shook as he reached for the handle. The moment he touched it, the walls shivered, the floor beneath him groaning. Whispers exploded in his mind, a cacophony of voices repeating a single phrase over and over: “Inside… inside… inside…” He stumbled backward, falling, but the door swung open on its own. Beyond it… a room. Not white. Not black. Something in between, dimly lit, walls smeared with shadow that seemed to pulse. Shapes lurked in the corners, impossibly still, yet alive. He stepped inside. The door slammed shut behind him. Silence. Absolute. But he was not alone. From the far corner of the room, a shape moved. It was tall, impossibly thin, its limbs bending at wrong angles. It tilted its head, staring at him. He tried to scream, but only a strangled sound emerged. And then, in the corner of the room, he saw a mirror. His reflection was gone. In its place… something else. Something smiling. Something patient. Waiting. The Zone was not just around him. It was inside him now. He backed away from the mirror, every nerve screaming, but the room seemed to shift around him. Shadows pooled in the corners, stretching and writhing like living smoke. The walls throbbed faintly, as though the room itself were breathing. He could hear faint whispers, soft and melodic, curling through his mind like tendrils of fog. “You cannot leave… You are ours…” The tall, thin figure in the corner remained still, head tilted unnaturally, limbs bending impossibly. Yet he could feel its awareness, the way its gaze weighed on him even when he turned away. Panic clawed at his chest. He stumbled toward the door—but it was gone. The walls had shifted, swallowing the exit entirely. He ran blindly, feeling the floor warp beneath his feet. Corridors stretched and twisted with each step. What had been a straight hall now looped impossibly, returning him to the same room he had just fled—or at least a version of it. The Loiner Zone was alive, and it toyed with him. The air grew colder, and a thin mist began curling along the floor. Shapes moved in the haze, never fully visible, always just out of reach. Some seemed to mimic him—walking, running, turning, frozen in impossible poses—but always delayed, always wrong. The whispering grew louder, faster, overlapping in chaotic harmony: “Inside… inside… cannot escape… belong…” A faint light appeared ahead, small and flickering. He ran toward it, hope flaring briefly, only for the light to distort as he approached. It stretched, elongated, bending the corridor like a funhouse mirror. The walls seemed to pulse in rhythm with his heartbeat, every beat sending a ripple through the air, a low vibrating hum he could feel in his bones. Then he heard a soft dragging sound behind him, closer now, patient and deliberate. He dared not look back. He pressed himself against the nearest wall, heart hammering, chest rising and falling erratically. The dragging stopped, then moved along the ceiling, then beneath the floor. His own reflection appeared in warped tiles on the walls, but his reflection wasn’t doing what he was. It grinned faintly, raising a hand he did not raise. Shaking, he forced himself forward, turning corners that all looked identical. The corridor narrowed suddenly, walls pressing inward like soft flesh. He gasped for air. The temperature dropped sharply, breath visible in puffs. He felt something brush against his shoulder—soft, wet, but not human. He spun, and there was nothing. A low, moaning sound began to echo from deeper within the Zone. It was far away yet too close, reverberating in his chest, in his skull, in his very bones. The whispers were now constant, overlapping, forming words he could almost comprehend: “You are ours… never leave… inside forever…” He reached another junction. Three corridors stretched out before him. Each pulsed faintly, alive. The left one shimmered slightly, walls seeming to bend in and out. The right one throbbed darker, the floor slick, glistening faintly. The middle corridor… swallowed the light entirely. He did not want to choose. But something within him—fear, instinct, or madness—urged him forward. He took the middle corridor. The walls seemed to close slightly behind him, sealing off escape. Shapes pressed against the surface, faces and hands appearing, then vanishing. Whispers intensified. He could feel the Zone pressing inward, testing, probing. Every step was agony. Every breath burned. At the end of the corridor, a door appeared—featureless, entirely smooth. He reached for it, and the moment he touched the cold surface, the Zone shifted violently. Corridors behind him stretched, looped, folded impossibly, and the air was filled with faint laughter, soft but insistent, circling him in every direction. He pulled the door open. Beyond it… nothing but darkness. The floor beneath him sagged slightly, like walking on water. The faint outlines of walls stretched beyond comprehension, bending in ways that made his stomach twist. The dragging sound resumed immediately, somewhere beneath the floor, somewhere above, somewhere inside him. He tried to scream, but no sound emerged. His reflection appeared suddenly in the darkness, flickering—sometimes his own face, sometimes something else, something grinning, patient, waiting. The Zone had not just trapped him. It had begun to consume him, warping his perception, eroding the boundary between himself and the endless labyrinth. And somewhere, deep in the distance, beyond all corners and halls, he felt a presence—patient, waiting, inevitable. The Loiner Zone was alive. And now… so was his fear. He forced himself to move, though every step felt heavier than the last. The Zone shifted beneath his feet, corridors stretching impossibly, folding in ways that made his stomach lurch. Every corner promised escape, yet every turn led him deeper into the labyrinth. The dragging sound persisted. Not behind him, not ahead—everywhere at once, circling, breathing, patient. He spun around, panic blazing in his chest, but there was nothing. Only corridors stretching endlessly, narrowing, widening, impossible angles folding into one another. Whispers clawed at his mind. First soft, barely audible: “You’re not ready… you forgot… you belong…” Then louder, overlapping, unintelligible, a chorus of voices pressing into his thoughts. He pressed his hands to his ears, but it did no good. They were inside him now, threading through every nerve, every memory—or what passed for memory here. Shapes appeared in the corners of the corridors. Tall, impossibly thin figures that lurked just beyond vision, disappearing when he tried to focus. Shadows moved independently of the light, stretching and bending in ways that made his eyes ache. One shadow—no, one shape—seemed to mimic him exactly, moving with a heartbeat’s delay, grinning faintly with hollow eyes. The corridors twisted again. A narrow passage opened to his left, walls slick and pulsating, like the skin of some massive, sleeping creature. He squeezed through, fingertips brushing the wet surface. The walls responded—soft, pliant, warm. A low hum vibrated through the corridor, in tune with his heartbeat, amplifying each thump until it felt like the world was shaking inside him. He stumbled into a room, dimly lit, filled with warped mirrors. Reflections stared back at him—but none were right. Some grinned, some screamed silently, some simply mimicked his every move with a second’s delay. One reflection raised its hand when he did not. Another blinked when he did not. The whispers crescendoed: “Inside… inside… forever…” He tried to run, but the mirrors multiplied, forming a corridor of infinite reflections. Every step he took echoed, bouncing off surfaces that should not have existed. His own face stared back, hollow-eyed, lips cracked, grinning faintly at his terror. A shadow moved across the ceiling—too fast to be human, too fluid to be solid. The dragging sound became deliberate, pacing him now, circling above, below, inside. He pressed his back to the nearest wall, gasping, sweat streaming down his face. The air was cold, yet his skin burned. A faint mist curled around his feet, smelling faintly of mildew and something… coppery. Blood? Or something worse. Ahead, a narrow staircase appeared, descending into darkness. Against every instinct, he went down. Each step groaned under his weight, bending unnaturally. The walls closed in slightly, forcing him to hunch, to squeeze through. Shadows clung to him, brushing lightly against his arms, cold and damp. The staircase opened into another corridor, longer and narrower than any before. Faint lights flickered overhead, casting impossible shadows. Some walls were warped, folding inward and outward, some surfaces reflecting what was not there. He could see glimpses of figures far down the hall—moving slowly, but impossibly. He couldn’t tell if they were alive or part of the architecture, but the feeling of being watched pressed against him like a physical weight. He paused, chest heaving. The dragging sound halted. Silence. Absolute. Too absolute. Then, behind him, a faint whisper: “You cannot leave… not yet…” He spun. The corridor had changed. Mirrors now lined the walls, but these were darker, opaque, showing not his reflection but fleeting images—glimpses of endless corridors, screaming faces, impossible geometries. One image moved independently, grinning with wide, empty eyes. He stumbled backward, nearly falling, and the corridor stretched, folding impossibly, the floor sagging beneath him like liquid. Something touched his shoulder—a soft, wet brush, deliberate. He spun, and there was nothing. Only the air pressing in, the Zone watching, waiting, patient. The whispers became clearer: “Inside… yours… ours… belong…” He ran. Again. Corners twisted unnaturally. Floors sagged, walls pulsated, shadows shifted with every heartbeat. The Loiner Zone was alive, aware, and intent on consuming him entirely. And somewhere ahead—beyond impossible turns, mirrored corridors, and shifting walls—he could sense something waiting. Something patient. Something inevitable. The Zone had him. And he was already lost. Chapter Three: Level 2 He didn’t remember how he got there. One moment he was running through the impossible corridors of the first level, the dragging sound echoing behind him, the mirrors mocking him with impossible reflections. The next, he stumbled through a narrow door and fell forward into darkness. When he opened his eyes, the smell of wet concrete hit him first. Then the water. The room stretched endlessly. Low, dim lights glowed faintly from above, reflecting off the surface of shallow pools that covered the floor. The water was murky, brown in some areas, black in others, rippling unnaturally though no breeze stirred it. Each step he took sent small waves lapping against walls that extended impossibly high, walls that seemed to hum faintly, like they were alive. The ceiling was lost in shadow. Light flickered intermittently, revealing glimpses of rusted pipes and dripping water, but the deeper reaches of the room were swallowed by darkness. The air smelled of mildew, chemicals, and something… metallic. Blood? He didn’t want to think about it. The dragging sound from before was gone—or at least, it had changed. It was now softer, coming from somewhere beneath the water, echoing through the pipes and the concrete. He shivered. The Zone was not gone; it had simply shifted. He tested the water with a tentative step. Cold. Freezing, almost. It reached his knees in some areas, his waist in others. The depth shifted subtly, making it impossible to judge how far the pools truly stretched. Some areas seemed solid, others appeared bottomless. One wrong step and he feared he would vanish entirely. Hallucinations returned. Shadows moved under the water, long, thin forms swimming just beyond clarity. Sometimes he thought he saw faces pressed beneath the surface, staring at him with wide, hollow eyes. When he tried to focus, they vanished. But the feeling of being watched never left. The room stretched further than his mind could comprehend. He walked cautiously, stepping from pool to pool, careful not to sink too deeply. The water responded, rippling toward him as if alive, a silent reminder that the Zone controlled every inch of this place. Faint whispers returned. Softer than before, melodic, teasing. “Not yet… still inside… you can’t leave…” The sound seemed to echo from beneath the water, vibrating through his bones. He pressed his ears to the floor. The voice was not human. Or maybe it was his own, twisted by the Zone. He could no longer tell. In the distance, he noticed a staircase rising from the water, barely visible in the dim light. Concrete steps, slick with algae, leading upward toward what he hoped was an exit. He ran toward it, but the pools shifted around him. Some areas that had seemed shallow now swallowed his legs. Others, solid moments ago, were now bottomless. As he climbed the steps, the water rose around his waist, cold, relentless. The staircase seemed endless, curling impossibly upward. Shapes moved under the surface, brushing his legs, following him silently. He could hear their movements faintly, soft and deliberate, like someone swimming in silence. At the top of the staircase, he paused, gasping for breath. The pool rooms extended in every direction, endless and oppressive, glowing faintly under the dim lights. He realized the first level—the white room, the mirrors, the dragging sound—had been only the beginning. Level 2 was alive in a different way. It was patient, slow, and merciless. Here, the Zone did not chase him with shadows or mirrors. It suffocated him with scale, with silence, with the sensation that the water itself wanted him gone. He took a careful step forward. The water lapped around his ankles, the room stretching further than his eyes could see. Each step echoed, sending ripples outward, and somewhere far away, he thought he heard a faint splash—not caused by him. He was not alone. The Zone had followed him here. And the water was only the beginning. He waded deeper into the pool room, each step sending ripples across the murky water. The dim lights overhead flickered irregularly, casting long, distorted reflections on the surface. The pools stretched endlessly, merging into one another, some shallow, some impossibly deep. He could not tell where the floor ended or the water began. Beneath the surface, shapes moved. Long, thin forms, slipping through the murky depths just beyond clarity. Sometimes they lingered under his feet, brushing against his legs with wet, soft contact. Other times, faces pressed against the water, eyes wide and hollow, lips opening in silent screams. Every time he tried to focus, the figures vanished—but the sense of being watched never left. The air smelled faintly metallic, like blood or rust, and a subtle vibration pulsed through the floor. The Zone’s presence was heavier here, insistent, patient. He stumbled, slipping on algae-slick concrete, water lapping against his waist. His chest burned as he struggled to catch his breath. A staircase appeared in the distance, concrete and slick with algae, winding upward impossibly, disappearing into the darkness above. He ran toward it, but the water shifted around him. Pools that had seemed shallow now swallowed him past his knees. Others that were solid moments ago now seemed bottomless, swallowing his legs with an almost sentient resistance. Something brushed his shoulder—a soft, wet touch, deliberate and teasing. He spun, but there was nothing. Only the water, still and watching. The whispers returned, soft, melodic, but distorted, echoing from the depths: “Not yet… not ready… you can’t leave…” He climbed the staircase, each step groaning under his weight. The pools stretched further, endless, impossible. Faint shapes swam just beneath the surface, following him silently. Sometimes he glimpsed eyes staring from the darkness below the water. Sometimes he thought he saw hands reaching up, disappearing as quickly as they came. At the top, a narrow platform jutted out, but the room below seemed endless, a sea of murky water stretching in all directions. The ceiling above was high, lost in shadow, flickering with dim, unreliable light. He stepped cautiously, careful not to fall. Then he saw them. Figures in the water. Not swimming, not moving naturally—hovering, suspended just beneath the surface. They were tall, thin, grotesque, faces partially obscured by darkness. Their eyes glimmered faintly, hollow, reflecting the dim lights. And they were everywhere, stretching as far as he could see. The Zone whispered again, directly into his mind now: “You cannot leave… Level 2 is ours… inside forever…” He stumbled backward onto the platform. Water lapped at his boots. The whispers escalated, overlapping with other faint sounds—the dragging from Level 1, distant splashes, low groans from beneath the floor. The room itself seemed to pulse with awareness, ripples in the water reacting to his presence, closing in on him like a predator circling its prey. He ran along the platform, desperately searching for an exit. The pools shifted impossibly around him. Platforms appeared and vanished. Walls that had seemed solid now bent inward. Shadows lengthened unnaturally, stretching across the water like dark fingers. A faint glow appeared ahead—another staircase, leading upward. Hope flickered, fragile. He ran. The water rose suddenly, chest-high now, cold and relentless, trying to pull him down. Something moved beneath the surface, brushing against his legs with a deliberate, almost intelligent force. He screamed, but his voice was swallowed by the water, echoing faintly in the vastness. He clawed at the staircase, dragging himself up step by step. The Zone’s presence pressed closer, patient, observing, waiting. At the top, he collapsed onto solid ground. The pools stretched endlessly behind him, dim lights flickering, the whispers fading slightly—but only slightly. He knew, with bone-deep certainty, that Level 2 was alive. Patient. Insidious. And he was not safe. Chapter Four: The Rest Stop When he woke again, it was quiet. Not the cold, oppressive quiet of the first level. Not the hum of dripping water or shifting shadows of Level 2. This was stillness. Absolute, gentle, almost comforting. The Zone had shifted again, but this time, it was different. He stood on warm, soft carpet. The air smelled faintly of coffee, baked bread, and something he could not name—but it was clean, inviting. Overhead, fluorescent lights glowed softly, not flickering, not humming aggressively. They bathed the space in an even, mellow light that did not hurt his eyes. Ahead of him was a small convenience store. Shelves lined neatly with snacks, drinks, and items that seemed familiar. A single soda machine hummed quietly in the corner. He reached for it, and it worked—real liquid, cold and refreshing. The sensation of normality was jarring. There were chairs. Soft, upholstered. He sank into one, feeling his body relax for the first time in what felt like an eternity. His muscles, stiff and trembling from Level 2, loosened. For the first time, he could breathe without the oppressive sensation of being watched. A corridor led off to the side. Windows showed nothing but the faint glow of fluorescent lights reflecting off polished linoleum floors. No shadows. No movement. No whispers. He stepped forward cautiously, half-expecting the Zone to change again—but it did not. For a moment, he allowed himself to believe he was safe. The rest stop seemed endless in its calm. The hum of the lights, the faint murmur of a distant air conditioner, the soft squeak of his shoes on the floor—all were grounding, tethering him to something like reality. He walked through the small café area. Tables were set neatly, coffee cups warm as though freshly brewed. He picked one up and took a sip. The warmth spread through him, and a faint memory flickered in his mind—one of his name. He reached for it, tried to grasp it fully, but it slipped away like water. Yet the sensation was comforting. A vending machine offered a chocolate bar. He reached for it, and it dropped neatly into his hand. No tricks. No traps. Nothing unnatural. Here, the Zone had given him a reprieve. He sank into a chair by a window—though outside was only a pale, featureless landscape, nothing moving, nothing threatening. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting himself rest. His mind, frayed and stretched thin by the previous levels, finally loosened. He remembered the cold water of Level 2. The endless corridors of Level 1. The dragging sounds. The whispers. And yet… here, they seemed distant, powerless. He allowed himself to sleep for the first time. Dreamless, calm. The Zone had not stopped being aware of him, but here, it did not intrude. Here, he could be still. For now. Because the Zone always waited. And he knew, deep down, that this calm was temporary. He wandered through the rest stop slowly, letting the quiet wash over him. Every corner of the space seemed ordinary—almost painfully so. Brightly lit hallways led to bathrooms with warm water running, their mirrors clean and reflective. A small lounge offered magazines stacked neatly on tables. A vending machine hummed quietly, stocked with sodas and snacks that smelled impossibly fresh. He touched the surface of a table. Solid. Real. For a moment, he wondered if it was even the Zone, or if he had finally stepped back into reality. His hands trembled slightly, but here, the tremor didn’t feel like panic—it felt like the slow unraveling of tension he had carried for days… or weeks… he could no longer tell. A hallway led to a small kitchenette. A coffee pot burbled quietly. He poured himself a cup, the steam curling lazily toward the ceiling. For the first time, he realized how tense his shoulders had been. The weight of the corridors, the pools, the dragging sounds—they were still present in his mind, but here, they had no power. He sipped. Warmth spread through his chest, and with it, a strange sense of safety. He allowed himself to close his eyes for a brief moment. When he opened them, he noticed something odd. A figure in the corner. Small, unthreatening at first glance—a person, maybe. Sitting quietly in a chair. They did not move, did not speak. Their face was obscured by shadow. “Hello?” he whispered. His voice echoed softly in the stillness. No response. The figure remained perfectly still. He stepped closer, heart fluttering. Then the figure blinked. Or maybe it hadn’t. Hard to tell. Its eyes glimmered faintly, reflecting the fluorescent light. For a moment, panic prickled at the edges of his calm. Then the figure was gone. He blinked. The chair was empty. He let out a shaky breath, telling himself it was just a trick of the light, a hallucination from too many days in the Zone. The rest stop seemed unchanged. Calm. Inviting. Safe. He walked toward the windowed corridor at the far end. Outside, the landscape was pale and featureless—nothing moved, nothing stirred. No wind, no shadow, no whisper. Yet, for a brief moment, he thought he saw a flicker in the distance, just at the edge of perception. A figure, perhaps, watching. Or just a trick of light. He shook his head, forcing himself to breathe deeply. Here, he could rest. Here, he could think. He could remember—faintly, in flickers—pieces of who he had been before the Zone. The memory was fragile, slipping through his fingers, but the sensation of having a past, even briefly, gave him comfort. He found a lounge chair in the corner. Soft cushions, the fabric worn but comfortable. He sank into it, closing his eyes, letting the warmth and stillness settle into him. For the first time, he felt almost… human. Almost. Because the Zone, even here, remained aware. Subtle. Patient. Watching. The calm was not absolute. He could feel it in the way the light flickered ever so slightly, the faint hum of the air conditioning, the subtle vibration beneath the floorboards. He allowed himself to sleep. Dreamless, calm sleep. And while he slept, the Zone waited. Chapter Five: Level 666 He stirred, still seated in the lounge chair, the warmth and calm of the Rest Stop settling into his body. For a fleeting moment, he thought he might be safe. Thought he might finally… rest. And then it happened. The chair beneath him shifted. Not physically, exactly, but… internally. The fabric pressed against him, and he felt it sink slightly, as though it were no longer solid. His hand brushed the cushion and passed straight through. Panic surged. He tried to pull back. The chair’s arm swallowed his forearm as though it were water. A cold, unnatural sensation crept up his arm, crawling inside his bones. He screamed, but the sound felt muffled, swallowed by the very air around him. Then, the rest stop vanished. The fluorescent lights, the soft carpet, the scent of coffee—all disappeared in an instant. In its place was darkness. Not ordinary darkness. It pressed against him, dense and alive, and he realized he was still sitting… yet not. His body had phased, the chair dissolved into nothingness, and the space around him had shifted into impossible geometry. He stumbled—or tried to—but there was no floor, no ceiling, only shifting voids of black and red. Shapes moved in the periphery of vision, always just out of focus. Faces, distorted, screaming silently. Limbs that bent the wrong way, crawling through walls as if they were liquid. He tried to run, but the ground beneath him was inconsistent—sometimes solid, sometimes nothing, sometimes… a hand grasping upward from the darkness. A low, omnipresent hum filled the space. Not from a single source, but from everywhere, vibrating in his chest, in his bones, in his mind. It was patient. Watching. Judging. Waiting. He stumbled forward, and the air itself resisted him. The further he moved, the heavier the Zone became. The whispers returned, louder, more insistent: “Inside… forever… ours… you belong…” He fell to his knees. Darkness pressed in. Shapes moved closer—impossible, writhing forms, impossible geometry. Eyes blinked in impossible locations. The air smelled of rust, decay, and fire. Painful, acrid, burning just inside his nose. He tried to remember the rest stop, the calm, the warmth, the sensation of safety—but the memory felt like a cruel joke, distant, unreal, as though it had never existed. A staircase appeared in the distance. Or perhaps it was a hallway. Or nothing at all. He couldn’t tell. The Zone bent reality around him, folding corridors, stretching walls, shifting ceilings in impossible directions. From the darkness, a low, guttural voice reverberated. Not human, not quite audible, but he felt it in his chest: “Welcome… to Level 666…” The temperature dropped. Shadows lengthened, then multiplied. Shapes lunged and vanished before they touched him. The whispers formed sentences he could almost understand, fragments of a warning: “…no escape… we consume… inside forever…” He stumbled forward blindly, legs giving out on solid ground that dissolved beneath him. Something brushed against his ankle—cold, wet, and deliberate. He yelped, but the sound betrayed him here. The Zone absorbed everything, leaving him exposed and alone. The further he moved, the more reality unraveled. Gravity shifted, walls twisted, and the air itself felt viscous, resisting motion. Figures appeared in the distance, then vanished. Faces pressed against the void, eyes wide and screaming silently. He realized, with bone-deep terror, that Level 666 was alive. Not patient this time. Not calm. It was hungry, aware, and malicious. And the chair—the Rest Stop—was gone forever. He was inside it now. Level 666. And he was completely alone. He stumbled forward, though “forward” was no longer a meaningful direction. The floor beneath him twisted and buckled like molten wax, sometimes solid enough to support him, sometimes vanishing into nothing. The air felt thick, viscous, pressing against his skin, as if the Zone itself had weight. Shapes moved in the periphery of his vision, always just out of focus. Faces twisted impossibly, some humanoid, some grotesque abstractions, their mouths opening far too wide, their eyes blinking from impossible angles. They whispered in languages he did not understand, or perhaps in fragments of his own memories, warped and replayed in unfamiliar cadences. A low growl echoed through the darkness, vibrating in his chest. He spun, but there was nothing—yet everything seemed to move toward him. Gravity shifted without warning. He stumbled upward, as if walking on a wall, then fell sideways, the air itself twisting around him. His ears rang with a high-pitched hum, then a chorus of whispers: “Inside… inside… forever… ours… belong…” The more he moved, the more the environment responded. Walls stretched into impossible angles, ceilings folded downward to meet him, the floor rippled like liquid. Shadows detached themselves from surfaces and drifted toward him, curling and twisting, forming shapes that were both familiar and alien. One shadow reached for him with too many fingers, long, thin, bending at wrong angles. He recoiled, tripping into a fissure that opened beneath his feet. He fell, falling endlessly through darkness, though when he looked down there was nothing to see. Gravity itself was fractured, fluid, and every instinct screamed that he could not trust his senses. A low, guttural voice echoed from the void, in his mind now: “Welcome… we’ve been waiting…” The whispering shapes solidified briefly, forming humanoid figures that mirrored him perfectly—but wrong. Their limbs bent like wire, their heads tilted at impossible angles. They grinned faintly, hollow eyes reflecting the dim, nonexistent light. One of them lunged, phasing through space itself, brushing his shoulder with something cold and wet. He screamed, but the sound was absorbed, muffled, meaningless. Above, below, all around, the darkness pulsed. Time seemed fractured. He could not tell if he had been here for seconds or hours, or if he had been moving at all. Every step brought him deeper into the Zone’s mind, into a place that was not reality. Then the walls began to breathe. Slowly at first, then with increasing urgency, inhaling and exhaling in sync with his own heartbeat—or perhaps forcing it. The air shimmered, and fleeting images flashed at the edges of his vision: corridors of Level 1, pools of Level 2, the fluorescent calm of Level 4—but all distorted, twisted, corrupted. The Zone was mocking him, reminding him of what he had lost. A staircase—or what seemed like one—appeared ahead, suspended impossibly in the void. He ran toward it, though his legs moved through thick, resistive air, each step exhausting him. Shapes lunged from the darkness, brushing his arms, legs, and face. When he reached out, there was only emptiness. He climbed, or thought he did. Gravity was fluid here; steps twisted under his weight. The Zone’s presence pressed in, patient yet voracious. He realized the truth: here, in Level 666, there was no escape, only navigation through madness itself. He stopped at the top—or what felt like the top. The darkness stretched endlessly, a void that might have been infinite. Figures pressed against the edges of perception, whispering his name, though he could not remember it. They promised release. They promised pain. They promised him to the Zone. He fell to his knees, gasping. The void hummed around him. Shapes writhed beneath the surface of the darkness, half-flesh, half-shadow. He wanted to scream, but his voice was swallowed. The Zone had consumed him fully. And yet… he was still moving. Because in Level 666, the only way to survive was to keep moving through the impossible, the unknowable, the endless nightmare. The darkness began to speak in his voice. At first, he thought it was memory—an echo of a thought he hadn’t meant to think. Then he realized the cadence was wrong. Too calm. Too deliberate. “End it.” He clutched his head, fingers digging into his scalp. “Shut up,” he whispered. His voice sounded thin, distant, as though it belonged to someone else entirely. The sound barely existed before the void swallowed it. The walls—if they were walls—breathed faster now. In and out. In and out. Each breath synchronized with his heartbeat until he could no longer tell which one belonged to him. “You don’t have to keep going.” “You don’t remember who you are anyway.” “There’s nothing left.” He laughed. The sound cracked halfway through, collapsing into something closer to a sob. “You think you’re clever?” he said to the darkness. “You think I haven’t thought about it?” The shadows leaned closer. His reflection appeared in midair—his face, distorted, eyes sunken too deep, mouth stretching into a grin that split wider than it should have. The reflection spoke before he could stop himself. “Say it.” His chest tightened. His thoughts tangled. He felt like his mind was unraveling thread by thread, each strand pulled by unseen hands. “I’ll do it,” he whispered. The words tasted wrong. Heavy. Final. “I swear I will. I’ll end this. I’ll end me. Just let it stop.” The Zone listened. For a moment—just a moment—the whispers stopped. Then the laughter came. Not loud. Not sharp. A low, reverent sound, vibrating through the void like a prayer answered the wrong way. “That’s why you’re here.” The floor dropped out from under him, and he slammed into something solid—cold, wet, and uneven. He curled into himself, shaking, trying to remember anything real. A face. A name. A place that wasn’t this. Nothing came. The darkness pressed closer, forming vague shapes around him—tall, crooked silhouettes that leaned inward like mourners at a grave. Their mouths opened, though no sound emerged. Instead, their thoughts flooded his mind. You’re already gone. You never existed. This is what’s left. He screamed again, clutching his head, rocking back and forth. His thoughts fractured, overlapping, looping. The calm of the Rest Stop felt like a lie now—something implanted to make this hurt worse. “I’m not real,” he muttered, over and over. “I’m not real. I’m not real.” The words lost meaning as he said them. The environment responded. Reality warped. Corridors folded inward like broken ribs. Faces appeared in the walls—dozens, hundreds—each one frozen in terror, each one wearing his expression. Their eyes followed him as he crawled forward, hands slipping on surfaces that felt like skin. A voice—closer now—whispered directly behind his ear: “You can stop walking.” “You can stop thinking.” “You can stop.” He slammed his head against the ground, again and again, desperate to drown out the sound. Pain was the only thing that felt real anymore. Even that began to fade. Tears streamed down his face, but he didn’t remember starting to cry. “I don’t want to be here,” he begged. “I don’t want to be anywhere.” The shadows recoiled slightly, as if savoring that admission. “Then give up.” For a terrifying moment, he almost did. He felt himself slipping—not physically, but internally. Like letting go of the last thread holding him together. Like dissolving. And then—something snapped. A flicker of defiance. Not hope. Not courage. Just rage. Raw, desperate, animal. “No,” he rasped. The word barely existed, but it was his. The Zone screamed. The walls convulsed. The shadows tore themselves apart, reforming into jagged, screaming shapes. The laughter turned into shrill, distorted shrieks. Level 666 recoiled—not in fear, but in fury. He staggered to his feet, shaking violently, mind fractured, sanity hanging by a thread. He was still alive. And Level 666 hated that. Chapter Six: Level 9223372036854775819 Death did not feel like silence. It felt like being deleted mid-thought. One moment, he was standing—shaking, furious, barely holding himself together—inside the convulsing nightmare of Level 666. The next, the Zone reached inside him. Not physically. Something deeper. Something final. His vision fractured into sharp, blinding lines. Every sound stretched into a shrill, endless tone. He felt pressure everywhere at once, like the concept of weight had turned against him. His thoughts scattered, breaking apart before he could finish them. He tried to scream. There was no time. The shadows collapsed inward. The walls folded. Reality snapped shut like a trap. And then— Nothing. Not darkness. Not sleep. Absence. For a moment that might have been eternity, there was no body, no thought, no fear. Just a vast, empty pause—as if the universe itself had hesitated after removing him. Then something noticed the gap. He returned violently. He woke gasping, lungs burning, body slamming into a surface so cold it felt unreal. He convulsed, choking on air that tasted stale and ancient. His heart pounded wildly, as if it had forgotten how to beat and was improvising. He was alive. Or something like it. He lay still, afraid to move, afraid that movement would cause whatever this was to notice him again. The space around him was enormous—so large it defied comprehension. The floor stretched infinitely in every direction, a flat plane of dull gray material etched with faint symbols that hurt to look at too long. Above him, there was no ceiling. Instead, there was depth. Layers upon layers of structures floated impossibly overhead—rooms stacked inside rooms, corridors intersecting at angles that made no sense, staircases leading nowhere. They flickered in and out of existence, as if reality itself could not decide what this place should be. A voice—not loud, not quiet—absolute: “You have been processed.” The words did not echo. They simply were. He tried to sit up. His body responded slowly, incorrectly. His hands looked wrong—slightly delayed, as if reality needed time to catch up to him. His reflection shimmered faintly on the floor, but it lagged behind his movements, smiling when he did not. “What is this place?” he whispered. The answer came immediately. “Level 9223372036854775819.” The number felt heavy. Final. Like a value that should not exist. Memories began to leak out of him—not fade, not blur—leak. He could feel them draining away, one by one, as if something were siphoning them off. Faces he almost remembered dissolved into static. Emotions dulled. Fear became distant, abstract. Only awareness remained. He stood. The space reacted. Far away—impossibly far—something moved. Not toward him. Not away. Just shifted, like a colossal thing adjusting its attention. The structures overhead realigned subtly, responding to his presence like a system recalibrating. He understood then. This level was not meant to scare. It was meant to contain. This was where things that should have ended were stored. Punishment without pain. Existence without meaning. Consciousness stretched across an infinite, empty span, with nothing to do but be aware. A final message pressed into his thoughts: “Death was denied.” “Escape is undefined.” “You will remain.” The floor beneath him extended endlessly. No doors. No shadows. No whispers. Just infinite space… and the unbearable certainty that this would never change. And for the first time since entering the Zone— He wished he could scream. Chapter Seven: Fractured Infinity He tried to move. Or thought he tried. In this space, movement was meaningless. Each step he took stretched endlessly, then doubled back on itself, leaving him in the same place—or perhaps nowhere at all. He could feel his hands, but they were… delayed. Flickering in and out of existence, like echoes. His own reflection on the floor mirrored him, but never in sync. Time here was not linear. He counted in seconds, though they felt like centuries. A thought he had two “seconds” ago was already gone, replaced by a different fragment of memory that wasn’t his own. Faces he had once known flickered in the air, melting into static, then reforming as shapes that resembled him. He screamed. Or thought he screamed. Sound was meaningless. The echo never returned. Even the emptiness seemed to avoid him, leaving only awareness—a conscious presence stretching infinitely, untethered from the body he thought he still had. And then it happened. A shadow. Not a shadow of light, but a shadow of existence itself. It rose from the infinite floor, tall, impossibly thin, impossibly wrong. It moved without moving, occupying multiple angles of perception simultaneously. It whispered—not words, but concepts. Thoughts he had not yet thought. Fears he had not yet experienced. Memories of things that never existed. “You belong here.” “You are ours.” “Forever.” He tried to flee, though fleeing was impossible. The space stretched and folded around him. The shadow was everywhere and nowhere at once. It leaned in, pressing against his mind with the weight of a thousand forgotten deaths. He realized then: he was splitting. Not physically. Mentally. One awareness became two. Then four. Then dozens, overlapping, flickering, arguing silently in the void. He could feel his thoughts folding back on themselves, fracturing into impossible patterns. His sense of self—already tenuous—shattered further with every passing “moment.” Who am I? He tried to answer. The answer multiplied, twisting into contradictory forms. I am me. I am nothing. I am them. I am gone. Each iteration screamed silently, an infinite chorus of fractured consciousness trapped in the same incomprehensible space. The floor beneath him shimmered, revealing faint traces of other arrivals—shapes frozen in mid-motion, faces frozen in terror. He could feel them watching, still aware, still trapped, still screaming silently. He floated—or fell—or existed in some combination of both. The shadow drew closer, its presence insisting on assimilation. He realized the truth: he could not leave, could not resist, could not be himself anymore. The Zone did not kill him; it had erased the boundary between him and the level. And yet, despite the despair, a fragment of something stubborn remained. Awareness. Just awareness. Even fractured, twisted, infinite awareness. The shadow pressed closer, and the infinite floor reflected him—then multiplied him, then erased him, then multiplied again. And the final, unthinkable realization sank in: He was no longer a person. He was a node. A thought. A fragment of the Zone itself. Forever aware. Forever alone. Forever watching. Time did not exist. Space did not exist. Self did not exist. Only the infinite, numbered expanse of Level 9223372036854775819 stretched onward, absorbing, fracturing, observing… and now containing him. The last vestiges of sanity screamed silently. But the Zone had no ears. And so he remained.