The crawlspace narrowed into a vertical shaft. Thea and Igor climbed in silence, hands raw against the rusted rungs. Somewhere above them, a dull mechanical thud repeated — slow, steady, like a heartbeat made of metal.
"This place just keeps getting more and more subtle, huh?" Igor muttered. "Next level's gonna be a haunted vending machine that dispenses childhood trauma."
Thea snorted despite herself. "Only if it accepts exact change."
They climbed for another thirty feet before reaching a sealed hatch. Thea pressed her ear against it.
Nothing.
She glanced at Igor. He gave a quiet nod.
With a hard twist, the hatch unlocked, and they pushed it open.
It was dark.
The air was different here — less stale, less artificial. Cold. They emerged onto what looked like a quiet residential street at night. Rows of identical smart houses stretched in either direction. All of them dark. No stars. No wind.
Thea stepped forward. Her boots clicked against the pavement, the sound echoing a little too long.
Igor looked around, squinting. "I hate how clean it is. Too... curated."
They walked in silence for a few minutes, tension coiling tighter with every step. Then Thea stopped.
"That house," she said. "Third on the right. Looks familiar?"
Igor turned.
His voice was low. "That's my parents' house. From when I was seven."
Thea turned sharply to him. "You grew up in Latvia. That's… impossible."
"No," he said, slowly approaching the fence. "It's not just the design. It's the dent in the mailbox. The moss on the corner brick. That one crooked window on the second floor."
He touched the gate.
It creaked open on its own.
"Thea," he said, without turning. "I think we're in a Memory Trap."
"A trap using your memories?"
"Our memories," he said quietly.
The house door swung open. Light spilled out.
Inside, a warm glow revealed the living room. A fire flickered in the hearth. The smell of soup drifted out — carrots, dill, something nostalgic. A woman stood by the stove. She wore an apron.
She turned.
It was Thea's mother.
Except she had died when Thea was sixteen.
Thea froze.
"I made your favorite," the woman said with a smile too wide. "Come eat before it gets cold."
Igor reached out and touched Thea's arm. She was stiff. Her eyes didn't blink.
"Thea."
She didn't respond.
Inside the house, her "mother" was ladling soup. Her voice echoed slightly, too crisp.
"Thea," Igor said again, more firmly. "This isn't real."
But Thea was walking forward.
Igor acted fast — he pulled her back by the collar just before her foot hit the front step.
The entire porch glitched.
A pulse of static rippled across it like water disturbed.
Thea blinked.
"Wha—?"
"You almost stepped into a feedback loop," Igor said quickly. "They're using familiarity to hook you. It's just code and memory fragments."
Thea's eyes filled with tears, but she nodded.
"I'm okay. I'm okay," she whispered.
Then the streetlights went out.
All of them.
One by one.
From the far end of the street came a sound — wet. Unnatural.
Shifting.
Something was coming.
"Back to the shaft?" Igor said.
"No," Thea said, wiping her face. "Too obvious. Let's break pattern."
They ran toward the opposite house — one they hadn't noticed until now. It was older, more worn down, with boarded windows and a busted fence. As if it wasn't meant to be interacted with.
That made it interesting.
Inside, they found a musty living room filled with CRT TVs, all off. The carpet squelched slightly underfoot, like it had absorbed more than just water.
A small door stood in the corner.
Thea opened it and found stairs leading down.
Igor looked skeptical. "Basement?"
"Unpredictable," she said. "Let's go."
As they descended, the TVs in the living room flicked on behind them, each showing different footage: Thea and Igor walking, laughing, sleeping. Monitored. Always.
The basement was circular. At the center: a control console.
And a screen.
Unlike the others, this one had text.
Welcome, Test Subjects 7A and 7B.Adaptation Threshold Surpassed.Proceed to Final Simulation Initiation.
Igor raised an eyebrow. "They're accelerating us."
"Or trying to corner us," Thea muttered.
She approached the console and hovered her fingers over the keys.
"Whatever this final sim is," she said, "it starts here."
She pressed Enter.
The screen went black.
A countdown began.
10.9.8—
The wall behind them split open.
Air rushed through.
Behind it: a hallway of mirrors. Tall, warped mirrors with no visible end.
Thea turned to Igor.
"Ready?"
He smirked. "Only always."
They stepped inside.
Behind them, the screen flickered again.
Only one may leave.