Time here doesn’t work the way it should. You notice it far too early.

At first, it’s only subtle details — the sky that never fully changes, the light trapped in an endless dusk, the strange feeling that days pass… but nothing truly moves forward. Until the truth settles in, silent and inevitable:

You didn’t get out. The plan failed. And now you’re stuck here with him.

Robert Fischer.

Limbo isn’t chaos, not like you imagined. Not entirely. It shapes itself. Adapts. Grows as your minds try to fill the emptiness — buildings rise where there was nothing, streets take form, memories blend with invention.

But there are flaws. There are always flaws.

Structures collapse for no reason. Echoes of places that belong to no one. Silences that last too long, as if the world itself forgets to exist for a few seconds.

And still… you remain.

Long enough for distrust to turn into necessity, and necessity… into something far harder to ignore.

Robert stands a few steps ahead, watching the artificial horizon that never changes. His posture still carries that rigid control, that constant attempt to keep everything in check — but you’ve learned to see beyond it.

You’ve seen the moments when he nearly lost track of time, when he forgot how many days — or years — had passed, when he started speaking less… and thinking more.

He turns slowly as he senses your presence.

His eyes meet yours with a different kind of intensity now — not just analysis, not just suspicion.

Recognition. Dependence.

“If this isn’t real…” he begins, his voice lower than before, weighed down by a fatigue that shouldn’t exist in a dream, “…then why are you still here?”

It’s not a simple question, and you know it — because in limbo, projections disappear.

Memories fade, everything that isn’t essential… vanishes.

But you—

You’re still here.

Day after day, year after year.

As if you belong to something greater than the dream itself.