Thea wasn't sure how long they stood there in the dark, but if she had to rank her top ten moments of "Definitely About to Be Murdered by a Sentient Vending Machine", this was ranking uncomfortably high.
"Igor," she whispered, "do you have a flashlight?"
"No, but I have a very judgmental glare that's surprisingly effective."
A soft click echoed around them.
Then lights.
But not normal lights.
A flickering overhead glow revealed they were no longer in the spiral room. Somehow, without moving, they were now standing in the middle of what looked like…
…their old school hallway.
"Okay," Igor said, already backing away. "No. Absolutely not. I graduated. I paid my trauma dues."
Lockers lined the corridor exactly like the ones from their high school. Even the smell was accurate — a lovely mix of floor polish, burned plastic, and desperation.
"This isn't possible," Thea said, stepping closer to one locker. Her fingers trembled as she traced the number: 342. Hers.
She yanked it open.
Inside, instead of books, there was a blinking tablet. It booted up on its own.
REPLAY INITIATEDPlease proceed to Room 106. The test begins in 3 minutes.
"Of course it's timed," Igor muttered. "God forbid we explore our trauma at our own pace."
They walked together down the hall, passing classrooms filled with shadowy, still figures. Teachers frozen mid-sentence. Students staring blankly ahead.
Thea stopped outside Room 106.
"I don't want to go in," she admitted.
"Me neither," Igor said. "So naturally, let's do it anyway like rational adults with questionable decision-making."
She pushed open the door.
The room inside was — again — their real classroom. But this time it was filled… with them.
Dozens of versions of Thea and Igor, sitting at desks.
Some were younger. Some older. Some wearing weird outfits from memories they'd forgotten — like Igor's eighth-grade "wizard phase." (He denies it. There are pictures.)
All the copies turned to look at them.
"You're late," one said in unison.
The real Thea stiffened. "What is this?"
One Igor-copy stood. "This is your audit. Your failures. Your patterns. Your excuses."
Then it pulled down a projection screen with a flourish like it was hosting trauma karaoke night.
EXHIBIT A:The time you skipped finals to break into a botanical garden.("It was a noble cause," Thea muttered. "We freed the orchids.")
EXHIBIT B:That time Igor microwaved metal on purpose to 'see what would happen.'("Science demands sacrifice," Igor replied solemnly.)
Each "exhibit" played in grainy, surveillance-style video.
But then the tone changed.
The screen glitched, and a memory played neither of them remembered.
They were… older. Sitting in a sterile office. Speaking with someone whose face was blurred.
"You're ready now," the figure said.
"You understand what you have to do."
Thea felt cold. "That's not real," she said quickly. "We never did that."
"Didn't you?" asked a Thea-copy.
"Reality is relative," said an Igor-copy, now wearing a monocle and sipping invisible tea.
Suddenly, the desk lights shut off. A red light glowed from the ceiling. Sirens.
ALERT: IDENTITY STABILITY FAILING. PLEASE EXIT TO RECALIBRATION.
The room split down the center like a cracked egg.
Half the desks tumbled into darkness.
And from that void crawled something.
Not a person. Not a thing.
Just… glitch.
Thea and Igor grabbed each other instinctively.
The creature — if it could be called that — flickered in and out of sight. A jagged form of static and limbs bending the wrong way. Its voice came like a broken record:
"You don't belong… You don't belong… You don't…"
"Alright," Igor whispered. "I think we've overstayed our welcome at existential group therapy."
They ran.
Thea didn't remember opening the next door — or if there even was a door. One moment they were in the classroom; the next they were in…
…a mall.
But the lights were dim, and the escalators bled upward into fog. The shops had names like "Denial Depot" and "Regretbucks."
A kiosk cart sold screaming stuffed animals.
Igor pointed to a flickering sign.
LEVEL 7.2: The Consumer of Memory.
"Well, I hate it," Thea said instantly.
"Same," Igor agreed. "Let's burn it down."
They walked past a display window where mannequins acted out their lives. Only — it was wrong.
The scenes were slightly off. Thea's childhood bedroom had bars on the windows. Igor's family had too many smiles. It felt… forced.
A mannequin-Igor waved at them.
"Yikes," Igor muttered. "That is not my good side."
Then the mannequins twitched.
Turned their heads.
And began banging on the glass.
"You ever feel like your trauma's trying to break out?" Igor said.
"Only every Monday," Thea replied.
They sprinted again, turning corners, trying to outpace the surreal logic. At one point, they passed an "Employee of the Month" wall. Every photo was of Thea. In different wigs. All smiling too wide.
"I'm starting to think the system has a weird crush on me," she muttered.
A final corridor opened to a freight elevator.
No buttons.
Just one phrase etched above the doors:
"TRUTH INBOUND. HOLD TIGHT."
They exchanged a look.
"You ready for this?" she asked.
Igor took a deep breath.
"Absolutely not."
The doors opened.
And inside?
A mirror.
But only Thea's reflection looked back.
No Igor.
Just her.
Alone....