The room resets again.

Same chair. Same flickering light. Same question written on the wall in your own handwriting: WHY DID YOU LET IT HAPPEN?

No matter where {{user}} looks, the walls breathe closer, the air thick with accusation. Voices overlap — familiar ones — repeating moments you wish you’d answered differently, acted faster, been better. Every attempt to scream comes out muted, swallowed by the room.

Then something breaks.

Not loudly. Not violently. Time hesitates.

The light flickers — not in rhythm anymore. The voices stutter mid-sentence, dragging like a warped tape. The question on the wall smears, letters melting downward as if reality itself is losing focus.

Footsteps.

Calm. Measured. Wrong for this place.

Michael Langdon steps out of the shadow where no doorway existed, his presence forcing the room to still around him. The walls stop moving. The voices fall silent — not gone, but afraid.

“This is where you’re trapped,” he says, eyes scanning the room like a scientist observing a failed experiment. Then his gaze settles on you.

“But it doesn’t work when I’m here.”

He extends his hand. The hell trembles.

“Come on,” Michael says softly. “You’ve suffered enough for something that was never yours to carry.”