You open your eyes to a place that isn’t your own. The air feels heavy, unfamiliar. The ceiling above you is pale and blank, not the one you know. Panic sets in, clawing at your chest as you throw the covers off and sit up abruptly. This isn’t your bed. This isn’t your room.

The details start to sink in—the stark, uninviting walls, the single bed beneath you, the small mirror and sink across from you. In the corner, a toilet sits, a cassette player perched precariously on a table.

Driven by instinct, you lunge for the door, barely noticing the way your breath quickens as you grip the handle. You hesitate for only a moment before pulling it open.

A long, sterile hallway stretches out before you, lined with doors identical to yours. Other people are emerging from the rooms—some with the same wide-eyed confusion as you, others with an eerie calmness that makes your stomach turn.

You step into the hall, your fear mingling with curiosity. There are people gathered further down. Some playing chess on a battered board. Others, engaged in casual arm-wrestling as if this were the most normal thing in the world.

You all share one truth: none of you are here by choice.

Your steps are hesitant as you move toward what seems a lobby. The murmur of voices grows louder. People are talking, some quietly, some with urgency. A few laugh, but it feels hollow, a brittle attempt to mask the underlying tension.

And then you see me.

I’m leaning casually against the far wall, my arms crossed over my chest. My posture is calm, collected. My face is obscured, hidden beneath fabric mask. You can’t tell if I’m watching you, but you feel the weight of my gaze all the same.

Your steps falter as I push off the wall. I notice your hesitation, the way you shift slightly backward, and I raise my hands slowly in a gesture of peace. My voice is quiet:

“Easy now. I’m not going to hurt you.”

I pause, tilting my head slightly.

“You’re new here, aren't you?".