I stare at the final question, my pencil hovering over the paper as a cold sweat breaks across the back of my neck. Fifth question: Are you aware of your surroundings?
a) Yes
b) No
My mind goes completely blank. What kind of psychological trap is this? If I choose 'Yes', I would be lying to their faces, because I don't know about the sorroundings..But if I choose 'No', am I failing a basic awareness test, proving myself to be a broken asset in whatever sick option this is?
The text on the paper seems to shimmer faintly, the black ink vibrating against the cheap wood of the desk. My heart thumps violently against my ribs. I can hear the ticking of the classroom clock, but when I glance up at it, the hands aren't moving. They are stuck at 8:00 AM, twitching back and forth like a dying insect.
"Come on, Enzo, just pick one," I whisper to myself, my voice barely a breath. My social anxiety makes it hard enough to breathe in a normal classroom, but here, under the invisible microscope of the system, it feels like drowning. The minutes are bleeding away.
I look down at my hand, still feeling the faint ghost of whatever force had locked it to the desk moments ago. If I make the wrong choice, will I glitch back to the entrance? Will I have to dodge those terrifyingly cold hallway people all over again?
I close my eyes, the pressure building behind my temples. My fingers tremble over the options. Yes or No. Aware or blind.
"Oops! Silly me, wrong question paper!"
The teacher's booming voice suddenly cuts through the heavy silence of the room, shattering my panic. I flinch violently, my pencil skidding across the page.
"But congratulations to everyone on passing the quiz anyway!" the teacher announces cheerfully, his voice carrying an artificial, synthesized pitch.
Before I can even process the words, the test paper on my desk vanishes into thin air, leaving nothing but a faint smell of burnt paper. A familiar, clean text box pops up directly in front of my vision.
[Congratulations! You have passed the quiz. Prize awarded: +1 Sanity Point (Temporary)]
Sanity what now?
A sudden wave of cool relief washes over my mind, taking a fraction of the choking anxiety with it. I let out a long, ragged breath, slumping forward onto the desk. I don't know what a sanity point does, but I'll take it.
The teacher immediately transitions into the lecture. I still haven't looked at his face—and I refuse to—but from the peripheral vision of my downward gaze, I can see his chalk-stained tweed jacket moving back and forth along the blackboard. He starts writing equations, but the sound of the chalk scraping against the board doesn't sound like math.
It sounds like a low, rhythmic droning noise. Like static on an old television set.
Buzz... hummmm... buzz...
The sound is hypnotizing. Combined with the exhaustion of dying and restarting in the hallway an infinite number of times, my eyelids grow incredibly heavy. The white tiled floors and the clean wooden desk blur together into a warm, hazy smear.
I try to force my eyes open, but the droning voice of the teacher acts like a heavy blanket pulling me down into the dark. My chin drops onto my chest, and within seconds, I drift off into a deep, dreamless sleep.
A sharp, metallic clack wakes me up with a violent jolt.
I gasp, my eyes snapping open as I sit up straight in my chair. The classroom is dimly lit now, the artificial light buzzing overhead. My hand instinctively twitches toward my desk, but it grabs nothing but empty air. My pencil. It had rolled off the edge.
I look down at the floor, keeping my gaze strictly away from the rest of the classroom. There, lying right next to a pair of pristine, polished black loafers, is my pencil. A pale, unnaturally long hand reaches down from the desk beside me, its fingers jointed like a spider's, and slowly picks up the pencil.
My breath hitches. My body goes entirely stiff, that familiar dark, strangling sensation creeping right back up my throat. I don't look up.
I can't look up. If I look at their face, I know whatever rules protect me in this seat will instantly break.
The pale hand holds the pencil out in the space between our desks, perfectly still.
Suddenly, a glowing blue prompt flashes in my peripheral vision, hovering right over the outstretched hand.
[A classmate is offering your pencil back. Choose your action:]
[Take it from him]
[Don't]
My mind races. If I take it, do I trigger a social interaction? What if his skin is as freezing cold as the people in the hallway, and touching him resets me to the beginning of the day? My social anxiety screams at me to avoid contact at all costs. I don't want to engage. I don't want to play whatever game this classmate is playing.
With a trembling finger, I reach out and tap the air where the [Don't] option shines.
The prompt vanishes. I keep my eyes glued to the floor, ignoring the pale hand. After a agonizingly long ten seconds, the hand slowly retracts, pulling the pencil back into the shadows of the neighboring desk.i hear a slight 'tch' as if he clicked his tongue.
The person doesn't make a sound, but the air between us feels noticeably colder. I swallow hard, staring at my empty desk for the remainder of the period, pretending to pay attention to a lecture I can no longer hear over the roaring sound of my own pulse.
When a loud, distorted bell finally rings, signaling the end of the class, the tension in the room breaks. I wait until the sound of shuffling feet clears out before I dare to move.
Pulling open my locker at the far end of the hallway, I find a folded piece of paper tucked inside the door—a school map. It's drawn in stark black ink, mapping out a massive, labyrinthine layout. Right now, all I want is to wash the cold sweat off my face and have a moment of absolute isolation.
I locate the nearest bathroom icon on the map and hurriedly walk down the corridor, keeping my eyes fixed firmly on the floor tiles.
I find the door and push it open. The moment the door swings shut behind me, the clean, sterile atmosphere of the school completely vanishes.
The bathroom is incredibly shabby. The air smells heavily of rust, mildew, and something sweet and rotting. The white tiles here are cracked and stained with a yellowish grime, and the walls are entirely covered in frantic, erratic handwriting. I step closer to one of the stalls, my eyes scanning the weird text carved deeply into the paint.
HELP ME
DON'T LOOK AT THE CEILING
IT HUNGRY
A shiver runs down my spine. I quickly duck into the middle stall, sliding the rusty metal latch into place. I slide down against the graffiti-covered door, burying my face in my hands. How am I supposed to survive this place? The rules keep changing, the environment is hostile, and my own mind is actively trying to shut down from panic.
Thud.
I freeze.
THUD! THUD! THUD!
Someone—or something—begins violently banging on my stall door from the outside. The metal frame rattles violently, the rusty latch groaning under the sheer, abnormal force of the strikes. It doesn't sound like a human fist; it sounds like a heavy, solid block of wood slamming against the door with terrifying speed.
"Hey! Stop it!" I try to yell, but my voice catches in my throat, coming out as a pathetic squeak.
I pull my feet up onto the toilet seat, pressing my back hard against the wall, terrified the door is going to burst inward. The frantic, erratic rhythm of the banging fills the small bathroom, echoing off the dirty tiles.
Then, I look down.
From underneath the partition dividing my stall and the one to my right, a thick, dark crimson liquid begins to pour. It's blood. It flows rapidly, pooling across the grime-covered floor, staining the bottoms of the stalls. It smells intensely metallic, filling the small space with the sickening scent of copper. The blood keeps coming, rising higher and higher, threatening to submerge the entire floor.
My heart is hammering so hard I think it might burst out of my chest. I squeeze my eyes shut, gripping my knees, waiting for the worst.
And then, just as suddenly as it began, the banging stops.
The silence that follows is deafening. I slowly open one eye and look down. The blood is gone. The floor is completely dry, save for the old yellowish grime that was there before. It vanished in a single frame, like a visual asset being deleted from a program.
I wait for a full minute, breathing heavily, before I finally muster the courage to slide the latch open. My hands are shaking so badly I drop the latch twice before it clicks. I slowly step out of the stall, the air still smelling faintly of copper.
I walk toward the sinks to wash my hands. As I reach for the faucet, my side-eye catches the large, cracked mirror above the basins.
Standing perfectly still directly behind my reflection is a tall, pitch-black silhouette
It has no features, no face, no clothes—just a void shaped like a person, staring directly at the back of my head.
A jolt of pure adrenaline hits my system. I don't think, I don't look back, and I definitely don't wash my hands. I turn on my heel and sprint out of the bathroom, tearing the door open and bursting back into the hallway, gasping for air.
The moment the bathroom door slams shut behind me, a familiar, crisp box appears in front of my face.
[Find the cafeteria for the lunch break. WARNING: Do not enter the red cafeteria.]
The narrator's warning is clear, printed in a distinct, ominous font. I wipe the cold sweat from my forehead with the sleeve of my jacket and look down at the school map still clutched in my hand. Following the lines, I navigate through a series of twisting, dark red hallways, my anxiety spiking every time I hear a distant footstep.
After a few minutes of walking, I turn a final corner and stop dead in my tracks.
Ahead of me are two massive, identical double-door entrances to the cafeteria zone, situated right next to each other. But as I stare at them, a knot of absolute dread forms in my stomach.
The hallway lighting is flickering violently, casting bizarre, distorted shadows across both entrances. Because of the glitching light, the shifting shadows, and the strange, monochromatic tint washing over the walls, both sets of doors look completely identical. I blink rapidly, rubbing my eyes, trying to find a single distinguishing feature, a red tint, a sign—anything.
But I can't. To my utter astonishment and horror, I look between the two entrances, completely unable to distinguish which one is the forbidden red cafeteria from the outside.
"They both look the same..."
To be continued