You step forward.
The masked figure doesn't move. It merely waits—like a door left ajar, daring you to cross a threshold you can't come back from.
The corridor stretches ahead, impossibly long, like space is bending inward. The lights overhead flicker in a steady pulse, syncing with your breath—or your heartbeat. You can't tell which anymore.
As you pass the figure, it turns slowly to face the opposite direction, walking beside you. Silently. As if escorting you through a memory you forgot to forget.
You glance over. Still no eyes. Just that slit. But something behind it watches you.
"Why am I here?" you try to say. Still no voice. Only the sound of your steps echoing through steel and shadow.
At the corridor's end, the walls widen into a chamber. Smooth. Black. Featureless. Except for one thing: a chair. Large. Ancient. Not mechanical—but carved, as if from obsidian. And in front of it, hovering in mid-air—a mirror.
No cables. No mount. Just… suspended.
You approach.
Your reflection isn't yours.
At first glance, it's close. Same eyes. Same build. But the skin is too smooth. Too unblemished. And the smile—it forms before you've moved a muscle.
Then the mirror speaks. Your voice—but not quite. Hollow. Delayed. Modified.
"Do you understand now?"
The masked figure steps forward and places a gloved hand on your shoulder. Not harshly. Almost… gently.
"You chose to forget."
The mirror shimmers. The reflection dissolves—replaced with images. Scenes. A child sitting in the lab. Alone. Monitored. Fed through tubes. Wires rooted deep in its skull. And you, watching from behind glass.
Another flash—this time, chaos. Screams. Blood. Lights flickering. Scientists running. You again—but this time holding something. A vial? A weapon?
The voice returns.
"You left a copy."
You stumble back. "A copy?"
The lights in the room dim. The masked figure speaks again—not with your voice, but a new one. Older. Familiar in a way that makes your stomach twist.
"You didn't just run. You split."
The chair begins to hum. The obsidian glows faintly—pulsing like a heartbeat.
The mirror flickers, and now shows two versions of you. One trembling, human. The other still, wired, smiling.
The voice continues.
"One of you escaped.""One of you stayed behind."
And then the line that chills you to your core:
"We don't know which one you are."
Suddenly, alarms begin to flash somewhere distant. The corridor behind you seals with a deep, final clang. The mask turns to you.
"It's time to choose."
And the chair begins to turn toward you.