Jin wasn't sure when the light changed or what happened.
One moment, he stood blood dripping from the gash and static in front of the bathroom mirror looking for something to plaster on his gash. The next, he hovered outside himself—untethered. Weightless. Watching.
His body below was still. Breath shallow. Eyes wide and glassy. But his mind floated above it, suspended in some invisible tether, like a puppet cut loose but not quite dropped.
This… is what happened to Ark.
The thought didn't belong to him. It came from somewhere behind his eyes, too calm, too distant. Time staggered, fragmented. His reflection no longer looked back. It waited.
Somewhere in the house, something knocked.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Slow. Rhythmic.
The sound echoed, not like wood-on-wood, but like a hard object striking glass. His focus drifted toward the hallway. He couldn't move—only observe. Like a ghost watching its own haunting.
"Subject #003 has initiated RC-1."
The voice came from nowhere. Cold, sterile. Mechanical.
RC… Reset or Reboot Cycle.
The term settled into his consciousness with unsettling familiarity. Like it had always been there, filed under the things he wasn't allowed to remember.
"Memory echo detected," the voice continued. "Stabilization required. Loop integrity failing
Then—
Everything snapped back.
His body slammed into him like gravity reclaiming a tossed stone. He gasped. Cold sweat covered his skin. The mirror was fogged now, the reflection distorted but whole.
What the hell was that?
Another knock. Closer now. Not on the front door.
It was coming from inside the walls.
Jin stepped into the hallway, legs trembling. The house was dim, color leeched from its corners. Every shadow felt like it was watching. The knock came again—this time, from beneath the wallpaper in the upstairs hall.
Knuckles against something solid.
He didn't think. He ripped at the edge of the floral print. The wallpaper peeled back in long strips, revealing something impossible.
A screen.
Embedded into the wall. Cold, matte black. No seams. No wiring.
The moment his fingers touched it, it lit up.
A cracked boot screen. A flicker. Then a line of text appeared, pulsing with sterile light:
GLITCH.EXE DETECTED. REBUILD FAILED.
RC-1 STATUS: COMPROMISED.
AWAITING USER INPUT.
Then, a faint whisper behind him.
"You never did let go, Kai."
Jin spun.
There—at the foot of the stairs—a woman stood. Her features blurred at the edges, shifting like an oil painting before it dries. She wore a long coat, too heavy for the season. Her voice was softer than the sound of breath, but it slammed into him like a memory he wasn't supposed to carry.
"Kai," she repeated.
His mouth moved before he could think. "My name's Jin."
The woman tilted her head. "Is it?"
Static crackled along the hallway walls.
He stepped back from the screen, but she didn't follow.
"Who are you?" he asked.
She looked at him with pity. And something else. Recognition.
You're close. That's why it's slipping. The illusion. The anchors they gave you—routine, people, time—none of it's holding anymore. The more you remember him, the more they'll come."
"Them?"
"The Overseers," she said, voice thinning into a whisper. "You've already seen them. But they're not the worst of it."
A deep, vibrating thud echoed below. Something moved in the pipes. A pressure began to build in the floorboards.
The woman continued, unaffected.
"There's no real escape, not through the front. You've seen that. But there are seams. Cracks in the frame."
He glanced back at the embedded screen. "Like this?"
She nodded.
"They won't let you see the whole picture. That's why they reboot you. Reset you. Again and again. Until the loop holds. Until you forget."
Jin's pulse raced. "Why call me Kai?"
She smiled sadly. "Because that's what you were. Before this version. Before RC-1."
Jin blinked, his mind spinning.
Then—another knock. This one thundered through the walls like a warning shot. The house groaned as if straining under pressure. The woman stepped back, into the shadows.
"They're almost here. I'm out of time. You'll remember more soon. But only if you survive the next cycle."
"Wait—!" he stepped toward her.
But she was already gone. As if she'd never been.
Alone now, Jin turned back to the screen. It had changed.
**ACCESS GRANTED
ARX-PROTOCOL // FILE TREE RECONSTRUCTED
Open: NULL_GATE_001
Open: GLITCH.EXE**
Below that, a small prompt blinked:
"Do you wish to proceed with MEMORY RESTORATION?"
Y/N
He hesitated. Then tapped "Y".
The screen flickered.
Then—Ark's voice, distorted but clearer than before.
"If you're here… then they didn't wipe everything. That means there's still time. Listen to me, Jin. You're not crazy. You're caught in a loop."
Glitch. Static.
"I call it RC—Reset or Reboot Cycle. Every time we get too close, they pull us back. Wipe the event. Rebuild the world. You've probably felt it already—deja vu, missing time, rooms not where they used to be."
Ark paused.
"I didn't survive RC-3. But I left a way out. You'll find it. Just… remember who you are. They gave you a new name. A new timeline. Don't trust it."
Then silence.
Then silence.
Until:
"Wake the forgotten."
The screen cut to black.
The hallway dimmed. And then—
A voice, not Ark's. Deep. Mechanical.
"SUBJECT #003 HAS BREACHED RC BARRIER.
DELETE OR REASSIGN?"
A cold presence unfurled through the house like a draft.
They're coming.
Jin bolted. Downstairs. The front door wouldn't budge. The windows showed only static, as if the world outside had stopped rendering.
He dashed into the basement—only darkness. Dust and mold and memory. The shadows pulsed.
Another screen flickered to life in the corner, mounted on what looked like an old fuse box.
SUBJECT #003
NODE STATUS: FAILING
NEXT RC IN: 00:04:59
A timer began.
"Shit," Jin whispered.
Another reboot.
But now he knew. Now he remembered too much.
He looked at the screen—and realized: this basement didn't exist in his house. Not really.
None of this did.
They built this.
The screen clicked to the next prompt:
"Run NULL_GATE_001?"
Y/N
He didn't hesitate "Y"
A low rumble tore through the walls. The countdown froze. The basement floor beneath him vibrated—then split open like paper.
Light burst through.
And a cold voice echoed from the house above:
"Subject #003 has exited containment.
Engage Overseer Class Delta."
Then—
The ceiling crashed inward. The floor buckled.
And Jin fell.
Down. Through light. Through code.
Through the fracture in the frame