When I was led inside, the corridor lights shut down one by one behind me.
Not flickering.
Not failing.
They went dark with intent.
Each section extinguished itself cleanly, as if responding to a silent command, until the space behind me dissolved into layered darkness. It felt less like walking forward and more like being sealed in—like the world itself was being folded up in segments, packed away neatly, leaving only a narrow strip of light ahead.
I didn't look back.
The sensation alone was enough.
The door at the end of the corridor had no handle.
No seams that suggested human use.
A faint scan passed over my face, warm and quick, like a breath against the skin. There was no confirmation sound, no spoken prompt. The door simply slid apart, smooth and soundless, its panels disappearing into the walls as if they had never been there.
The room beyond waited.
It wasn't large.
That was my first impression—not cramped, not spacious, just… contained. The dimensions felt deliberate, calculated down to the last centimeter. Not built for comfort, but not for punishment either. Built for function. For compliance.
The walls were a cold, uniform white. No texture. No decorative seams. They reminded me of a hospital room, but even cleaner—too clean. Hospital rooms at least had signs of human presence: scuffs, faint discoloration, the suggestion that people had passed through.
This place felt unused.
Or rather—perfectly maintained.
The air carried a light scent of disinfectant, diluted to the point of subtlety. It didn't sting the nose or burn the throat. It lingered just enough to be noticed, like a reminder rather than a warning. I found myself breathing more quietly without meaning to, as if raising my voice—or even inhaling too deeply—might count as a disturbance.
Directly ahead, pressed flush against the wall, was a desk.
Not placed there.
Integrated.
The surface and the wall were a single piece, seamless, with no visible joints. I couldn't tell whether it had been assembled later or constructed as part of the building itself. Either way, the message was clear: this desk was not meant to be moved.
In front of it sat a chair.
Metal frame. Industrial finish. The cushion was firm, almost stubbornly so. When I tested it with my hand, I could already tell what sitting there would feel like—straight-backed, attentive, alert. Not painful. Never painful.
Just enough to keep you aware of your posture at all times.
In the far corner stood a white water dispenser, its internal system humming at a barely audible level. Next to it was a stack of disposable paper cups. They were placed with unnatural precision, rims facing downward, edges aligned so cleanly it felt like they'd been measured rather than stacked.
Someone had cared about their position.
Too much.
On the right side of the room was a bathroom, separated by a plain sliding door. When I pushed it open, the space inside revealed itself as another exercise in efficiency. Compact. Rational. Every element positioned exactly where it needed to be—and nowhere else.
The showerhead was fixed into the wall at a permanent angle. No adjustment. No customization. The sink beneath it was spotless, and underneath were disposable toiletries: toothbrush, toothpaste, soap, all sealed, all unused.
Everything was "just right."
Just enough space.
Just enough supplies.
Just enough freedom.
Nothing more.
Nothing unnecessary.
I stood in the center of the room and slowly turned in a full circle.
"Uh…"
The sound slipped out before I realized I'd spoken.
It was absurd, in a way. The longer I looked, the harder it became to find something to complain about. That, somehow, made it worse.
This layout.
This atmosphere.
This meticulous neutrality—
It looked exactly like a single room in a business hotel.
The kind meant for short stays.
The kind designed to discourage attachment.
Except—
There was no window.
The person who had brought me here remained at the doorway. He didn't cross the threshold. His shadow stretched long across the floor, distorted by the overhead lighting, cutting the room into uneven sections.
"It's already late," he said calmly. "Use whatever's here."
The way he said it was casual. Too casual. Like offering a guest a drink, or pointing out where the towels were kept.
As he turned to leave, he paused.
Just for a moment.
Then he looked back at me, his gaze sharp and amused, the corner of his mouth lifting into a smile I couldn't quite decode.
"Oh, right."
"There's… video content on the computer."
"Remember to keep it in moderation."
The door slid shut immediately after.
No hesitation.
No follow-up.
I stood there, staring at the now-blank wall.
…What?
My body reacted before my thoughts did. I turned my head toward the desk, where an all-in-one computer sat embedded cleanly into the surface. The screen was dark, reflective, waiting.
Video content?
A series of very inappropriate possibilities surfaced in my mind before I could stop them.
Then another realization hit.
Wait.
I froze.
I'm not even an adult yet, am I?!
My heart jumped hard enough to make my chest ache. A strange mix of panic and disbelief tightened my throat. Was this a joke? A test? Some kind of trap?
I swallowed and approached the desk anyway.
When I sat down, the chair produced a faint metallic scrape—soft, controlled, but painfully loud in the silence of the room.
The screen lit up.
The desktop was blank.
No wallpaper.
No personal customization.
No clutter.
Just a single folder, placed dead center.
The name wasn't even subtle.
I stared at it.
Two seconds passed.
Reason told me to stop.
To step away.
To pretend I hadn't seen it.
But reason has never been humanity's strongest defense.
I moved the cursor and clicked.
The folder opened.
Inside were video files.
So many that my brain refused to register them at first.
Rows and rows.
Pages upon pages.
The sheer quantity made my stomach flip.
My face heated instantly.
"Th-this is…"
My voice died halfway through the sentence.
My mouth felt dry. I swallowed again, licking my lips without realizing it.
Just one, right?
Just a glance.
It wouldn't hurt to look—
The cursor hovered.
Click.
The screen went black.
A split second later, a bright red warning filled the display.
[Access Denied]
[Minor Protection System Activated]
[Screen Locked]
A sharp electronic beep echoed through the room as the system locked completely.
I stared at the screen, frozen.
Then laughter exploded from outside the door.
"HAHAHAHA—!"
"No way we'd let a minor watch that stuff!"
"This kid's curiosity is ridiculous!"
The sound punched straight through the walls.
My face burned like I'd been dropped into boiling water.
"…You assholes!!"
I covered my face with both hands, wishing—desperately—that I could dissolve into the floor and disappear forever.
This wasn't just embarrassing.
It was catastrophic.
The kind of humiliation that rewires your memories.
The laughter faded eventually, retreating down the corridor until it vanished completely.
Silence returned.
I stayed where I was, hands still over my face, breathing slowly until the heat subsided.
After a while, I stood up.
Pretended nothing had happened.
No one saw it.
Probably.
I went to the bathroom.
The lights activated automatically the moment I stepped inside. The water temperature was locked—warm enough to be comfortable, cool enough to keep me alert. No extremes allowed.
When the water hit my head, I exhaled deeply.
For the first time since arriving, the tension in my shoulders eased.
Just a little.
After washing up, I slipped into the disposable slippers and sat on the bed.
The mattress was… precise.
Not soft.
Not hard.
Engineered.
It supported my body without inviting relaxation, holding me in a state somewhere between rest and readiness. Even lying down felt monitored.
I planned to stay awake for a while.
Instead, my consciousness slipped away.
When I opened my eyes again, the room felt different.
"Please wake up."
The voice was cold. Neutral. Mechanical.
It didn't come from any one direction. It felt like the walls themselves were speaking.
I turned over, pulling the blanket closer.
"Please wake up."
Same volume. Same tone.
I buried my head under the covers.
"Please wake up."
No irritation.
No impatience.
Just repetition.
"…Seriously?"
I sat up, rubbing my eyes.
The voice stopped immediately.
Then—
"Please proceed with washing."
I stared at the empty air and sighed.
Fine.
In the mirror, my reflection looked unfamiliar. Red eyes. Messy hair. Someone who'd been pulled out of safety without warning.
The shower was shorter than the night before. The water shut off automatically, cutting me off mid-thought.
After I dried off, I returned to the chair.
The wall in front of the desk shifted.
A compartment opened silently.
A boxed meal slid out.
Bread.
Milk.
Salad.
Plain. Balanced. Efficient.
I stared at it.
And realized something that made my stomach sink.
No one had come.
Not once.
Only systems.
Only instructions.
I ate quietly.
When I finished, I placed the empty container back.
The compartment closed.
A message appeared on the screen.
[Please wait for staff]
I sat upright.
Waiting.
I didn't know how long it would take.
Or what would come next.
But I knew one thing—
From the moment I stepped into this room, something fundamental had shifted.
And there was no going back.