The young man woke to silence.
No—silence wasn't the right word. The space hummed, as if the walls themselves breathed. His eyes blinked open to blinding white. A ceiling stretched endlessly overhead, smooth and seamless, without lamps or sun, yet somehow glowing.
He sat up. His breath left him in sharp clouds of panic he tried to swallow back down. The floor was polished stone—cold enough that it burned his skin through the thin white robe draped over his body. He did not remember putting it on.
He did not remember anything.
A choked cry echoed nearby. The young man turned, vision swimming, and saw others scattered across the room. Dozens—maybe more. Men, women, children—every one of them robed in the same white, sprawled in uneven heaps, groaning, trembling, some still unconscious.
A girl scrambled backward on her hands, eyes wide and terrified. A boy clutched his head and screamed until his throat broke. Two others collided, arguing instantly in voices that cracked from fear.
The young man only sat. His chest was tight, but his face betrayed nothing. He looked at his hands. They were steady, though his heart was not.
What is this place?
He pressed his palm to the stone. The ground shivered faintly, as though reacting to his touch. He pulled back. No one else seemed to notice.
Someone ran toward a wall and slammed their fists against it. The surface rippled, not solid, not liquid, bending away as though resisting. A chorus of gasps followed.
"Where are we?!" a voice screamed.
The question hung in the air. Dozens of eyes darted, desperate, searching for an answer no one could give.
The young man lowered his gaze, letting the chaos wash over him. Fear rattled the others; they shook, cried, shouted. He breathed slowly, deliberately, letting calm carve itself into his face even as unease gnawed his gut. He could not remember his name, but instinct whispered to him: do not break where others can see.
Not yet.
The white expanse seemed endless. No windows, no doors—just walls that bent away when struck, denying escape yet refusing solidity.
The people began to gather in trembling groups, instinct pulling them closer to one another. Some called out words in desperation, each time receiving only silence or a shake of the head. Others pressed their hands to their faces, as though touch could force recognition to surface.
Nothing.
The young man rose to his feet, legs heavy but steady. His gaze swept across them: the old, the young, the frightened. Their eyes darted like animals cornered. A girl whispered, voice raw, "I don't… I don't know who I am."
That admission cracked something fragile.
Soon the words repeated around the room in shuddering variations:
"I can't remember—"
"Who am I?"
"Why can't I—?"
Their voices overlapped into a low tide of fear.
The young man touched his chest, hoping for a name to spring forth, something—anything. There was nothing. His mind was a fog. His heart thudded heavy, hollow, each beat mocking the emptiness in his head.
Another boy, younger, clutched at his robe. "Maybe this is a dream. It has to be a dream." His laugh cracked high and sharp, brittle as glass. No one corrected him.
In the far corner, a woman curled against the wall, rocking, whispering nonsense syllables. A tall figure stood frozen, refusing to sit, refusing to look at anyone. A group near the center argued, anger bubbling to cover fear.
The young man stood apart. Not because he wanted to—but because his body refused to move closer. A part of him wanted to join them, to reach out, to speak. Another part whispered that words were dangerous when he had nothing to give.
He caught sight of the far wall.
For a moment, faint black letters crawled across its surface like ink seeping through paper. A number.
[73]
The digits glowed, steady, then faded. The young man blinked. No one else seemed to notice.
His hands curled into fists at his sides. Whatever this place was, it was keeping count.
The whispers turned to cries. Someone pounded on the wall until their fists bled. Another screamed at the ceiling, demanding answers. The sound spiraled—panic feeding panic—until the whole chamber seemed alive with dread.
The young man pressed his nails into his palms. He wanted to shout too, but the words caught in his throat. He looked back to the wall.
The number returned.
[73]
No voice explained it. No pattern revealed itself. Only the silent, glowing digits.
The people screamed louder.
The young man stayed silent.
And for the first time, he wondered if this place had already decided how many of them would survive.