As the cunning king of Ephyra, Sisyphus cheated death twice.
First by binding Thanatos.
Then by persuading Persephone.
The gods answered with something colder than death.
A hill.
A stone.
A task that could never end.
Push.
Slip.
Fall.
Repeat.
Forever unfinished.
Forever aware.
"You are awake."
The voice came soft.
Measured.
It pulled me out of the drifting weight behind my thoughts.
The girl stood a few steps away.
Still.
Watching.
Her hand trembled.
Just slightly.
"Not quite right…" she murmured, almost to herself. "Since you were never asleep."
She corrected it gently.
Like she was adjusting a fact, not a feeling.
A tear slid down her cheek.
Slow.
Uninterrupted.
For some reason—
absurdly—
I felt concern.
Concern.
That can't be right.
The thought surfaced immediately, clean and sharp against everything else.
I shifted.
The chair resisted.
My wrists—
Cuffed.
Cold metal pressed tight against skin, anchored into the armrests.
I tested the tension.
No give.
The room settled around me as my focus widened.
A shack.
Small.
Contained.
Clean—unnaturally so.
Not a trace of dust. No clutter. No sign of use beyond necessity.
One bed against the wall.
A table.
And the chair I occupied.
Bolted.
Fixed.
A gas lamp flickered overhead.
The flame stuttered, weak but persistent. Its light pooled unevenly across the room, leaving corners dim and undefined.
Too dark.
The shadows stretched longer than they should.
My eyes adjusted.
Tracked the light.
Then stopped.
Her shadow—
It didn't align.
The lamp cast its glow from above.
But her shadow angled elsewhere.
Subtly.
Wrong.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
The question slipped out before I could stop it.
The urge behind it felt misplaced.
Intrusive.
Like a thought that didn't originate from me but passed through me anyway.
"It's quite alright," she said.
Her hands folded together in front of her.
They didn't stop shaking.
"My body simply seems to have its own ideas."
Fear.
The signs were immediate.
Her pupils were wide.
Breathing shallow.
Fingers trembling in uneven pulses.
Every physical marker aligned.
And yet—
Despite the restraints.
Despite the situation.
Despite the fact that I had been taken—
I was still worried.
For her.
I slowed my breathing.
Measured it.
Tested the thought forming at the edge of awareness.
"The understanding and the feelings are mine to keep," I said carefully.
My voice stayed even.
"But the emotion… is not."
Something shifted.
Not her.
Her shadow.
It peeled.
Like wet ink lifting from paper.
The shape separated from the wall and stood.
Tall.
Defined.
It wore a white mask.
Smiling.
The expression carved too cleanly into its surface.
It turned its head.
Looked directly at me.
Then—
It raised a hand.
A cheerful thumbs-up.
The gesture was casual.
Almost playful.
It began to circle me.
Slow steps.
Curious.
Observing.
"How did you pull it off?" I asked.
She tilted her head slightly.
"Kidnapping you?" she asked.
Behind her, the smiling shadow reached for the table.
It picked up the teapot.
Poured.
The liquid flowed steadily into her cup without a single spill.
"Yes," I said.
"Kidnapping me."
She lifted the cup.
Her hand shook violently now.
Porcelain rattled faintly against the saucer.
But her voice—
Remained calm.
"Why should I tell you?"
The contradiction sharpened.
Her body betrayed fear.
Her tone did not.
Another movement caught my eye.
The corner of the room.
A second shadow.
It stood apart.
Shaking.
Violently.
Mirroring her hands.
"Happiness… now fear…" I murmured.
The pattern began to form.
My amusement surfaced before I could question it.
That—
was wrong.
My mind should have been racing.
I should have been afraid.
But nothing aligned.
Emotion.
Feeling.
Logic.
Three systems.
Separate.
And refusing to cooperate.
I looked back at her.
Pale.
Rigid posture.
Shoulders locked tight.
Tears continued to fall.
Uncontrolled.
She drank.
Carefully.
Deliberately.
From her shadow—
Another figure emerged.
This one wore a mask marked by a single tear.
It stood close.
Silent.
Observing.
The structure became clearer.
The shadows carried what her body could not.
Hers.
And others.
"So what you're left with," I said slowly, "is logic… deep grief… and pure terror."
Everything else—
had stepped away.
Joy.
Fear.
Excitement.
They lingered outside her.
Detached.
Orbiting.
Like fragments of a person that refused to return.
"It seems you've figured it out," she said.
Her voice did not waver.
Her hands did.
Tears kept falling.
Unstoppable.
"What do you want with me?" I asked.
"There's no reason to deny the obvious."
She lowered the cup slightly.
"Your emotions were low," she said.
"So low I couldn't see them."
Another sip.
The cup rattled again.
"Almost like her… m—"
She stopped.
The word cut short.
A brief silence followed.
"It was interesting," she finished.
Her hand rose to her face, brushing away a strand of hair.
The motion lacked control.
They did say playing with emotion could get one in trouble.
The thought came easily.
Detached.
I had been experimenting.
Recently.
Testing limits.
Like building strength.
Suppressing spikes.
Flattening reactions.
Reducing variance.
Apparently—
I had gone too far.
I had become difficult to read.
"How did you get everyone not to react?" I asked.
"Apathy," she answered immediately.
"The brain refuses to register events it cannot emotionally process."
"It filters them out."
Her trembling hand pressed against her cheek.
Warm tears met cold fingers.
"I understand human beings very well," she whispered.
Her voice softened.
But her eyes—
Her eyes held something deeper.
Something already broken.
Something that had seen too much.
"Why did you make those people in the village kill themselves?" I asked.
The question surfaced suddenly.
Unplanned.
My reports.
My paperwork.
My case file.
I had written part of this.
Without knowing.
She didn't react.
Not visibly.
"I wanted what they own," she said.
"In spirit."
"And in flesh."
I waited.
For something.
Disgust.
Fear.
Anger.
Nothing came.
The absence felt louder than any reaction.
"Are you a cultist?" I asked.
She shook her head.
Behind her—
A shadow with a mask of excitement burst into applause.
Loud.
Exaggerated.
Hands clapping with enthusiasm that didn't belong in the room.
"Have you heard of—"
I stopped myself.
No clear motive.
Not yet.
"No matter your intentions," I continued, choosing each word carefully, "our organization will not ignore this."
The air shifted.
In a blink—
Shadows moved.
They closed in.
Masks surrounded me.
Different shapes.
Different expressions.
Too many to track.
Then—
Impact.
Not physical.
Mental.
Emotion crashed into me.
Panic.
Sharp.
Immediate.
Love—
warm and suffocating.
Jealousy—
tight and bitter.
Rage—
burning.
Grief—
heavy.
Each wave struck without warning, overlapping, colliding, refusing to separate.
My breath caught.
Not from lack of air—
But from overload.
"For I have dealt," she said quietly.
Her hand wiped at her tears.
"Collected."
Another shadow stepped closer.
"And now keep—"
Her voice softened.
"A living archive."
The gas lamp flickered.
The flame dipped low.
Light faltered.
Beyond it—
There was only darkness.
Thick.
Endless.
The sun had long since vanished.
And yet—
Even as everything pressed inward—
Even as the emotions flooded through me—
They still weren't mine.