The chair turns toward you with a slow, reverent motion—like it's not a piece of furniture, but a throne. A judgment seat.
You don't sit.
Not yet.
Your gaze flicks to the mirror. It still shows two of you—two versions standing in parallel. The one on the left trembles, wide-eyed, human. The one on the right is… serene. Unmoving. The wires coiled behind its scalp seem to twitch as if aware of your hesitation.
"Which one am I?" you whisper, though your voice still doesn't carry beyond your own ears.
The masked figure steps forward, standing between you and the mirror.
"The experiment fractured you. We couldn't stabilize the identity thread. Not without consequence."
"You are memory without origin. Flesh without certainty."
The humming grows louder. A low-frequency vibration climbs up your spine. You feel it in your teeth.
You step back from the chair—but the room responds. The floor beneath your feet shifts, subtly angling downward, nudging you toward it. Not violently. Almost politely. As though saying: You already knew this was where you'd end up.
"If I sit," you think, "do I become the one who stayed?"
"If I refuse… what am I refusing?"
A soft light appears above the throne, shining down like a surgical spotlight. In it, you see dust particles suspended midair—no movement. Frozen, like time itself is waiting for you to make a move.
Behind you, the corridor is silent.
Ahead of you, your reflection blinks. Just once.
Only the wired version.
You take a step forward.
Then another.
The figure doesn't stop you. It moves aside, like it's always known the outcome.
Your hand brushes against the cold obsidian armrest. The surface pulses faintly—like it's breathing in rhythm with you.
You lower yourself into the seat.
It feels like ice at first. Then like nothing at all.
The lights dim completely.
Darkness swallows the room.
Then—impact. Not physical, but mental. Like an injection of memories slamming into your brain all at once.
You're seeing things.
You're reliving them.
A child screaming inside a capsule, its voice swallowed by glass. You—watching. Recording. The words "Project Echo" scribbled across a clipboard. You see a figure being grown in a tank. Cell by cell. Organ by organ. A copy. A backup. A failsafe.
And you remember saying it aloud, long ago:
"If I forget, at least one of me will remember."
The dream shatters.
You wake again—but not on the throne.
Not in the chamber.
You're standing in the middle of the corridor again. Alone.
The door at the end creaks open.
Inside: a room lined with glass pods.
Dozens of them.
Each one holding you.
Some versions scream silently. Some sleep. Some stare directly at you, tracking your every move.
A monitor above blinks to life.
ECHO CYCLE 1139: INITIATION COMPLETESTABILITY: UNCONFIRMEDSTATUS: OBSERVATION MODE
Footsteps echo behind you. You turn.
The masked figure stands once more. This time, it removes the mask.
Your breath catches.
You recognize the face.
It's yours.
But older. Sharper. Scarred.
"Welcome back," they say."Let's try again."
And the corridor fades to black.