The knocks came again.
Five. Three. Five.
Steady.
Measured.
Like a code I wasn't supposed to understand… but did.
Because something inside me responded—not just with fear—but with recognition.
Like muscle memory.
Like I'd knocked that pattern before.
---
I pressed my palm flat against the wall that divided 4A from 4B.
It felt warmer than the rest of the apartment.
Not heat exactly—breath.
As if something was exhaling just on the other side.
---
> "Hello?" I whispered.
No answer.
Just a soft scratching.
Like someone dragging fingernails across old plaster.
I stepped back.
Stared at the wall.
Then ran into the hall barefoot, journal in hand.
Apartment 4A was directly next to mine. I'd never seen anyone enter or leave.
No mail. No sounds. No footsteps.
Just the plaque: 4A
Dusty. Slightly crooked. Like it had forgotten how to hold weight.
I knocked once.
Nothing.
Knocked again.
The door opened before my fist landed the third time.
---
Inside: empty.
No furniture.
No dust.
Just a room lit by soft amber bulbs that didn't cast shadows.
And in the middle of it, sitting cross-legged on the floor…
Was her.
Dr. Isabelle Sayer.
Exactly like the photo on my phone before it died.
Wrapped in white gauze, face partially exposed.
Mouth stitched closed.
Hands ink-stained to the wrist.
She looked up as I entered.
Didn't move.
Didn't flinch.
Just held out a sheet of paper.
---
I approached slowly, heart jackhammering.
The paper was a drawing.
Crude. Charcoal.
A spiral split in two—mirrored around a vertical line.
On the left: a smiling reflection.
On the right: a bleeding one.
Underneath, in careful lettering:
> "If reflection cannot bleed, you are still outside."
> "But if it cries, you are already inside."
---
She pointed to the floor beside her.
I sat, journal open on my lap.
No words exchanged.
Only this strange silence, full of meaning.
She reached out and touched the cover of my book.
The moment she did, her stitches began to drip.
Black liquid.
Not blood. Not ink.
Memory.
---
The walls around us responded.
The light dimmed.
The wallpaper peeled back.
Revealing a second layer beneath—
Old medical charts. Scans. Handwritten notes.
Patient ID:
> Ian Foster, Subject 13B – Early Phase Re-entry Failed.
> Recommendation: Assign containment unit. Apartment 4B.
---
I stepped back.
What?
What the hell was I reading?
I was… a patient?
No.
No. This wasn't real.
This was part of it—the Room trying to rewrite me again.
I looked at Isabelle.
She was watching me carefully.
She opened her stitched mouth—not with a rip, but with something beneath the thread. A voice not tied to breath.
She whispered directly into my head:
> "You didn't survive the first version."
> "Only the Room did."
---
I stumbled away.
The journal fell open behind me.
Pages flipping in a whirlwind.
And on the last one, in fresh ink:
> "Final Version False. Memory Leak Detected."
> "Patient Foster cannot leave while echo remains."
---
I ran.
Out the apartment.
Back into 4B.
Slammed the door.
Locked it.
Breathed.
Shook.
Checked the mirror.
Only me.
Only Ian.
But—
As I stepped closer, my reflection blinked a half-beat too soon.
---
That had never happened before.
Not even the mirror was sure who I was now.
---
I paced the apartment.
Tore through drawers.
Found an old shoebox under the bed.
Inside: Polaroids.
Ten or twelve of them.
All of me.
Same face.
Different names written on the bottom edges in ink:
> "Liam"
"Dr. Foster"
"Patient 9A"
"Eli"
"Elijah"
Only one photo was blank on the bottom.
My fingers started trembling.
It was me. The same apartment. The same clothes as now.
But no name.
And behind me in the photo, barely visible in the reflection of the window—
Dr. Isabelle Sayer.
---
The journal lit up again.
New page.
New line:
> "She's not real. She's the Room's mouthpiece."
And right below that:
> "Neither are you."
---
The lights began to flicker.
Not randomly—rhythmically.
Five. Three. Five.
Same pattern as the knock.
I looked out the peephole.
Nothing.
Then slowly, fog rolled in beneath the doorframe.
Not smoke.
Not gas.
Memory.
It moved like water, thick with names.
I heard them now. All of them.
Spoken softly.
Begging.
> "Let me out."
> "I remember."
> "Please—I remember now…"
---
The mirror cracked.
Down the middle.
My reflection smiled.
And bled.
One drop.
From the nose.
Dark. Thick.
Real.
---
I touched my face. Nothing.
No wound.
But in the mirror?
It cried.
---
Which meant what Isabelle said was true.
I was already inside.