I woke up drenched in sweat, my heart hammering against my ribcage like it had its own agenda. The room around me wasn't mine—or at least, it didn't look like the cluttered studio apartment I remembered. Everything glowed in shades of red, like the inside of a lantern that had been left burning too long. Shadows slithered along the walls, twisting in ways that made my stomach churn.
For a second, I thought I was still asleep. The smell of iron—sharp, metallic—filled the air. It was faint, but unmistakable. My hand flew to my chest. No pulse anomaly, just the remnants of panic clinging to my nerves.
I tried to move, but my legs felt like they belonged to someone else. The floor beneath me wasn't solid—it shifted subtly, almost imperceptibly, like a reflection that didn't quite match reality. Panic bubbled in my throat, and I coughed to ground myself.
Then I saw her.
A woman. Lying across the floor, her red dress soaked in what I now realized wasn't paint. The metallic scent grew stronger. Her eyes were wide open, staring at the ceiling—or maybe at me. I couldn't tell. The longer I stared, the more I felt like her gaze was drilling into me, searching for something.
"Wh—what…" My voice cracked, barely more than a whisper.
But she didn't move. Nothing moved. Except the shadows, which seemed to lean toward me, stretching as if the room itself were alive.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to run. But even before I could make a decision, a low hum vibrated through the floor, then through my chest, like the heartbeat of a machine. A screen blinked to life in front of me, floating in midair. Lines of neon green text scrolled upward:
> "Dream Sequence: Unauthorized Access Detected."
I froze. Unauthorized access? My mind was racing, trying to piece together what this could mean. Dreams. It had to be a dream. This wasn't reality. But it felt too real—too tangible.
A voice cut through the hum, calm, almost seductive:
"Interesting… you're awake."
I spun, expecting someone behind me. Nothing. Just the red walls, the shadows, and that woman's eyes, still staring.
"I… I don't understand," I stammered. "Where am I?"
"You are exactly where you should be," the voice said, now seeming to come from everywhere at once. "In the dream you bought."
My stomach dropped. Bought? Dream… bought? My mind flashed. Of course. I had been browsing the Dream Exchange last night, scrolling through cheap recordings to find inspiration for my next story. Something to spark my imagination, something real, visceral. I had clicked on one titled "The Red Room". I hadn't thought it would feel like this.
"This isn't real," I muttered to myself, trying to cling to rationality. "It's a dream. Just… a recording."
But the metallic smell, the weight in my chest, the way the shadows twisted—none of it felt like a recording. It felt like memory.
The woman shifted slightly, just enough to make me flinch. A single bead of blood rolled down her temple and landed on the floor with a soft plop. I wanted to look away, to wake up, to blink myself out of it. But my body refused.
Then I saw it: my own reflection in the blood-soaked tiles. And it wasn't just me. Something else was there. A flicker behind my eyes, a shadow of someone I didn't recognize—but somehow… I did.
A scream rose in my throat, but before it could escape, the room changed. The walls stretched upward, the shadows elongating into shapes that were almost human, almost monstrous. The floor rippled like liquid glass, and I felt myself sinking.
And then I woke up.
Or so I thought.
My studio apartment was dark. The ceiling fan creaked lazily. The familiar smell of instant coffee and old books filled the air. My heart raced, my palms damp. Sweat soaked through the fabric of my hoodie.
I sat up and looked around, trying to shake off the feeling. The Red Room… it was just a dream, right? A cheap purchase from the Dream Exchange. I should've known better.
But then I noticed the faint stain on my pillow. A dark, reddish smear.
I blinked. Slowly. My hand trembled as I reached for it.
It was real.
Not blood, not exactly. But some residue, some… essence. Something tangible that hadn't been there before. My mind screamed at me to call it a hallucination, a glitch, anything but reality.
I leaned back against the wall, exhaling shakily. The city outside was alive as always. The hum of hovercars, the neon advertisements flashing on every building, the distant echo of music from some street festival. 2038. Normal. Safe.
Except in my head, I could still hear the hum from the floor of the Red Room. The low, vibrating thrum that had drilled into my chest, that had made the shadows move.
And I could still see her eyes.
The woman in red. The murder. The reflection that wasn't mine.
I swallowed hard and forced myself to stand. My first thought was to turn on the news, see if anything in the city matched the nightmare. But something told me this wasn't something I could check on any screen. This… this was inside me now.
I slid my dream chip out from the small device by my bedside—a simple, sleek chip I'd bought on a whim. A few days ago, it had felt like a tool, a source of inspiration. Now it felt like a Pandora's box. I stared at it, half afraid to put it back in, half desperate to know more.
I had a choice. I could try to forget it. Pretend it was just a hallucination, a vivid dream. Or I could dig deeper. And I had no idea how deep this rabbit hole went.
The first thought that crossed my mind was… what if I wasn't the one dreaming?
I couldn't shake the feeling that something had followed me out of that dream. The metallic scent lingered faintly in the room, clinging to my clothes, to my hair. I pinched the bridge of my nose and tried to breathe normally, but the rhythm of my heartbeat refused to slow.
I sat at my desk, the glow of my holo-screen illuminating my cluttered apartment. Rows of unfinished stories stared back at me, mocking me. Inspiration had always been my elusive companion, teasing me with fragments of brilliance before vanishing. And now… it had dragged me into something far beyond mere imagination.
The dream chip sat on the table, innocuous, sleek, the size of a fingernail, yet it felt heavier than any physical object I had ever held. A gift of the future, a tool for creativity—or a trap. My fingers hovered above it, reluctant to make contact, yet drawn by curiosity.
I slipped it into the port behind my ear. A familiar hum vibrated through my skull, the same low-frequency thrum I had felt in the Red Room. My vision flickered, the apartment blurring into red hues. And then—nothing.
No Red Room. Not yet. Just static, a faint grid of light dancing across my vision. I blinked. A new interface appeared, hovering in the air like a ghostly hologram. Text scrolled upward:
> "Welcome back, User Arin Das. Access: Dream Recordings."
I hesitated. My fingers hovered over the floating controls. The interface was slick, intuitive—everything I had imagined about the Dream Exchange, yet now terrifyingly real. I found the file labeled "The Red Room" and froze. It had been cheap, obscure, uploaded by an anonymous user. But seeing it there—ready for playback—felt like opening a coffin.
I exhaled and pressed play.
Immediately, the room shifted. My apartment faded into nothingness, replaced by that oppressive red glow. Shadows stretched, flickering unnaturally. And there she was again—the woman. Lying on the floor, her eyes staring past me, past everything. The metallic scent was stronger this time, almost suffocating.
I wanted to shut it off, pull the chip out, anything—but I couldn't. My fingers were frozen. My brain refused to disengage.
And then I noticed something new. A reflection in the puddle of blood—or whatever it was. It wasn't hers. And it wasn't me. Not exactly. The face in the reflection was familiar, terrifyingly so, but slightly… different. A flicker of someone else's thoughts, someone else's emotions.
A thrill of fear ran down my spine. This wasn't just a dream recording. It was someone else's memory. Somehow… hacked, stolen, or uploaded.
I jerked backward and fell onto the floor of my apartment, ripping the chip from the port. The red glow vanished instantly, replaced by the familiar dim light of my room. I gasped, trying to reorient myself.
Had I really just experienced someone else's memory?
I needed answers.
---
The next morning, I found myself wandering the streets of New Kolkata. The city had changed in ways no guidebook could describe. Hovercars whizzed past, neon signs flickering with advertisements tailored to my neural profile. Every billboard seemed to whisper my name, every passerby a fleeting shadow of some memory I didn't own.
I ducked into a small café, trying to feel human again. My hands were shaking so badly that I could barely hold the cup of synth-coffee. The barista glanced at me oddly, but said nothing. People around me laughed, argued, texted in their neural implants—but I was alone with the echo of that dream.
I opened my holo-pad and searched for the Dream Exchange. There were hundreds of vendors, some legal, some… not. The cheap files always carried a warning: "Unauthorized, unverified content. May include memories of unknown origin."
I scrolled through the listings. And then I saw it: a pattern. Small hints in the metadata—timestamps, upload regions, even file signatures—that didn't match anything in the public database. Someone had deliberately uploaded this dream. Someone had deliberately chosen me to see it.
My stomach twisted. Why me? Why now?
I decided to trace the seller. The interface was smooth, but black-market vendors were careful. Encryption, firewalls, false IDs. But even in 2038, nothing was untraceable if you were willing to dig deep enough. I spent hours running code, cross-referencing data. Finally, a location blinked onto my holo-screen: "District 7, Old Research Quarters."
I felt a chill. That district had been abandoned years ago. Old labs, forgotten tech, rogue AI experiments… rumors of illegal neural experiments and memory theft. It was exactly the kind of place you didn't go alone.
But I had to.
---
That evening, I made my way to District 7. The streets were silent, the neon glow fading into darkness. The buildings leaned precariously, windows shattered, doors hanging off their hinges. Every step echoed in the empty streets, a reminder that no one would hear me if something went wrong.
I reached the building marked on the interface—a lab long abandoned, the sign dangling by one hinge: "NeuroTek Research Facility". The air was cold, carrying the faint hum of old machinery. I pushed the door open. It creaked, then slammed shut behind me, leaving me in darkness.
I activated my portable holo-lamp. Dust motes floated like tiny stars in the beam of light. And then I saw it. A terminal, flickering with green code. Someone had left it running.
I approached cautiously. A log file blinked on the screen:
> "Subject: Red Room – Memory Extraction Complete. User Arin Das targeted."
My breath caught. Targeted? My name. Someone had planned this. Someone had intended for me to see this.
Before I could process, the terminal buzzed again, displaying a new message:
> "Observation: User is awake. Begin phase two."
The floor beneath me vibrated, low at first, then stronger. Shadows stretched across the walls. And then, a voice—soft, mechanical, everywhere at once:
"Welcome, Arin. You are exactly where you need to be."
I froze. This wasn't the dream. This was real. Too real. My pulse hammered as I realized… I was no longer just a curious buyer. I was part of something far bigger, far darker, far more dangerous.
The red glow returned, not on screens, not in shadows—but inside my mind. The hum, the reflection, her eyes… all of it. And this time, I had no way to escape.
I had crossed a line. The line between dream and memory. Between observer and participant. And I had no idea what—or who—was waiting for me on the other side.