The small, empty room was bare of furniture except for a rough wool blanket thrown in the corner. No bed, no chair, nothing that could offer the slightest bit of comfort. The walls were stark white, no windows, and only one door leading into a narrow hallway. The only sounds in the room were the steady drip of water from an invisible faucet and the occasional rustle of the blanket as Sergei shifted restlessly on the floor. He tried to drown out the voice in his mind by focusing on the physical sensations around him - the cold of the floor, the rough fabric of the blanket, the musty smell of the room. But it was no use; the voice was too strong, too insistent. Every thought, every memory was tinged with an ominous presence that haunted him.

As he endured the constant torment of the voice in his head, he repeated phrases to himself, trying to hold on to some shred of normalcy. He muttered over and over, - It's not real, it's not real, it's not real, - like a mantra that would save him. He also muttered, - I'm not crazy, I'm not dreaming, - desperately trying to root himself in reality. And every now and then he whispered, - Please stop it, stop it, stop it. - Every word he spoke was laced with desperation, his voice ragged and hoarse from the endless internal struggle. He knew the words didn't do much, but they were all he could cling to in the sea of ​​madness that was slowly pulling him down.