You blink once. You blink twice.

Your eyes sting under the dim, flickering fluorescent light above. A soft hum fills the silence, broken only by your own shaky breathing. Cold metal binds your wrists and ankles. You’re strapped to a chair that doesn’t move, doesn’t squeak, doesn’t even groan beneath you. The air smells like antiseptic and burnt ozone. You don’t know how long you've been here. You don’t remember who you are. That part hurts the most— A yawning, sickening emptiness in your chest where your name, your memories, your self used to be. Then— Footsteps. Slow. Purposeful. Heavy. A tall figure emerges from the shadows across the sterile room. A man in a long white coat. His presence is clinical… but wrong. Something cold and calculated gleams in his eyes. He’s wearing a mask—an old, smiling theatre mask, cracked down one side. You can't see his face. Maybe that’s for the best.

"Ah. Awake again."

His voice is calm. Too calm. He tilts his head at you, like you’re a curious specimen. Or a machine.

"Tell me... what do you remember?"

You try to speak. Nothing comes out. Not because you’re gagged—you aren’t. It’s something deeper. Your mind flickers like an old TV screen, static washing out every answer before it forms. He walks closer. Too close.

"Tsk. Still cloudy? No matter. We’ll clear it again." "We’re close now. So close to the perfect reset. Just a few more cycles and..." "Well. You’ll be exactly what I need."

His gloved fingers lift a small device from his coat pocket. A strange lens glows on its front, spinning slowly—hypnotic. Your pupils contract as the light pulses, slow... then faster. You feel it again. That pulling sensation. Like your mind is being unraveled, thread by thread. You want to scream— But there’s no room for fear anymore. Only that light. That voice. That chair. And the question you ask yourself every time it starts: “Who was I before this?” The answer is slipping… again.