She says the name again.
> "Arjun…"
It doesn't sound wrong.
It just… doesn't fit anymore.
Like someone calling out into a cave—
and the echo returning in a voice slightly deeper.
Slightly off.
---
My head aches when I hear it.
Not from pain.
From shedding.
---
The spiral on the wall has dimmed, but its grooves still pulse with leftover memory.
Each thread of it, a sentence I once lived.
> "You ran before the blood dried."
> "You filmed her dying and called it remembering."
> "You fed the archive."
I touch the wall.
It's warm.
Alive.
---
Nisha sits beside me, shivering.
The invisible thread that once sealed her lips now lies in a coil near her feet.
Still pulsing like a small, blind thing.
Trying to grow back into her.
She kicks it away.
---
> "They told me you'd never come," she says, her voice hoarse.
"They said you were already part of the footage now."
I don't know what to say.
So I say what I can.
> "I forgot my name to bring you back."
She looks at me with eyes that aren't quite hers anymore.
> "That's the only way this place lets anyone leave."
---
We stand.
The door to the vault is still open, but the hallway outside isn't the same one we came through.
The stairs are gone.
Now there's only a long tunnel—lined with blinking red lights.
And down the center of the floor, carved deep and endless:
The Spiral.
---
> "It's leading us out?" I ask.
Nisha doesn't answer.
She walks ahead.
I follow.
The walls twitch every so often—like lungs adjusting.
Like the whole structure is breathing us in.
---
My camera starts humming again.
Not filming.
Not watching.
Just… humming.
It's reacting to something ahead.
---
We pass doors.
None of them labeled with names.
Only timestamps.
> "03:13:01"
"03:13:02"
"03:13:03"
Thousands of them.
Each a second long.
Each one sealed.
I stop at one, feeling a pull.
I try the handle.
It doesn't budge.
Until Nisha places her hand over mine.
Then—click.
---
The door opens to static.
Literal, visual static. A room made of noise.
Like stepping inside an old TV.
And floating at the center—
A reel.
Unspooling itself midair.
Playing backward.
Inside it—frames flash quickly.
Too fast to process.
But in one of them, I see it:
Me. Holding the camera. Looking at something I shouldn't have.
And then—Nisha screaming.
Blood running from her eyes.
---
She gasps and shuts the door.
I can tell she saw it too.
> "We filmed something we weren't supposed to," she whispers.
"And the building punished us for remembering."
I nod slowly.
But something still claws at my mind.
Not a memory.
A voice.
Low. Crackling. Like old tape stretched too tight.
> "Names are echoes."
> "You lost yours."
> "Now you must earn the next one."
---
We walk deeper.
The spiral beneath our feet glows faintly with each step.
Like it's guiding us.
Or calculating.
---
Then—we see it.
A room without a door.
Just a tear in the wall.
Beyond it: the editing chamber.
Dozens of screens line the walls.
All playing different versions of us.
One shows me screaming.
Another shows her never arriving.
A third shows the camera melting into my skull.
And above them all—
A single large screen with one red message blinking:
> "RENDER FINAL VERSION?"
> [ YES ] — [ NO ]
---
I step closer.
The camera shakes in my hand.
Warm. Almost feverish.
It knows the choice matters.
So do I.
But I don't understand why.
> "What does it mean?" I ask.
Nisha's face darkens.
> "We were never the real ones."
> "We're just the cleanest playback."
> "The others… they're trapped in the wrong edits."
> "We were filmed surviving. That's why we're here."
---
It hits me like a punch to the chest.
We didn't live.
We were edited to live.
Chosen by the tape.
Finalized.
Everyone else… wasn't.
---
The screen pulses again.
> "RENDER FINAL VERSION?"
> [ YES ] — [ NO ]
And below it—something new:
> "Rendering will overwrite all alternate tapes."
"Only one version will survive."
"This version cannot be undone."
---
I turn to her.
She stares at me.
Then down at the floor.
The spiral glows hotter.
Red, now.
Not gold.
> "If we say yes," she says slowly, "we become real."
> "But everything else gets deleted."
> "All the others. The other versions of us. The ones that didn't make it."
I raise the camera.
She raises hers.
We look at each other.
> "What if we don't press anything?" I ask.
> "What if we just… walk away?"
---
A third option.
Not offered.
Not acknowledged.
Not programmed.
---
But real.
---
We lower the cameras.
Step away from the screen.
The room goes dark.
The spiral burns white for just a second.
Then—
Silence.
---
We turn back the way we came.
But this time, there are no doors.
No lights.
Only a hallway of mirrors.
Each one reflecting us as we are—
Not perfect.
Not broken.
Not final.
---
And in the last mirror—etched in reverse:
> "The camera only remembers what it's told to."
> "You chose not to speak."
> "So this memory remains… unfinished."