Chapter 2: Second

I step out of the room, my mind heavy with exhaustion. The test has been nothing like I expected—more an enigma than anything else. The exhaustion of trying to decipher the records, to understand their meanings, weighs on me, and I find myself longing for some respite. A break would be nice, something to clear my head before I face whatever comes next.

At the reception desk, the woman looks up, her face almost expressionless.

"Welcome back," she says, her tone neutral, but there's something unnervingly familiar about the way she speaks, as though she's seen this many times before.

"Yeah... not a very conclusive result," I reply, my voice betraying a hint of frustration. I try to mask it with a shrug, but I can feel the tension still simmering beneath the surface. This test was baffling—there was no clarity, no straightforward task. It felt more like an exercise in futility than anything else.

She gives a small, almost imperceptible smile, the kind that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Don't worry too much. Why don't you try the next test through the same door?"

Her suggestion hangs in the air, a subtle nudge towards the next step in this strange journey. I glance back at the door, but this time something is different. The ornamentation around it has shifted. It's as though the door itself has changed, becoming more alive, more imposing. Standing by it are a few people, their faces unreadable—empty, expressionless masks. There's no warmth in their presence, only a cold, unyielding gaze.

I take a breath, a shiver running down my spine, but my feet move toward the door anyway. As if pulled by an invisible force, I step through it once more.

The room on the other side is starkly different from the last. It's larger, but in a way that makes me feel smaller. The ceiling seems to stretch endlessly upward, as though the room itself is infinite. The air is thick, dense with the weight of the moment, and it feels as if I've entered a place where time doesn't exist, where only the present matters.

In the center of the room, a circle of people stands with their backs to one another, their bodies rigid and unmoving. Each person is positioned just so, their faces obscured by their posture. The emptiness between them is palpable. In the middle of the circle is a solitary chair, facing each of them in turn. It's as if the chair is the only thing alive in this otherwise motionless scene, waiting for me to take my place.

"Please stand in front of each person in the order of your choice, and then tell us how you feel."

The words come from nowhere and everywhere at once, their tone neutral, unbothered, as if this is nothing more than a mundane task. But the command sends a ripple of unease through me.

I hesitate, unsure where to start. Something about the room, about these people, sets me on edge. I look at the group—four of them seem to draw me in, while the other four seem to push me away, their very presence repelling me. Why is this? What is it about them that invokes such contradictory feelings?

I step forward and choose one of the individuals who seem to attract me. The closer I get, the more intense the sensation becomes. The person I'm standing in front of radiates a calm, almost serene energy. I can't pinpoint it, but there's something magnetic about them. No hint of tension, no nervousness. They stand perfectly still, but I feel like I could reach out and touch the very stillness of their being. As I draw near, I notice something strange: they don't sweat. Not even a bead. The air around them doesn't shift as it does around the rest of us.

Instinctively, I know that this person is different from the others. There's something in the way they hold themselves—something almost too perfect, too composed. I feel both drawn to them and at the same time, like I shouldn't be.

The next person I approach feels entirely different. They exude a warmth, a familiarity, a sense of acceptance. They seem open, inviting, as if they want me to sit down. Their stance is not rigid like the others; there's an openness to them, as though they welcome my presence. I feel an odd sense of comfort, as if I could relax here, but even as the thought crosses my mind, doubt lingers. Is it genuine? Or is this just another test, another challenge to assess my reactions?

I pause, a thought brewing in my mind. I turn to face the others who stand in the circle, still and silent, waiting.

"I don't need to sit in front of the others," I say aloud, my voice steady. A strange clarity washes over me, as if I've suddenly pieced together a puzzle I couldn't see before. "Each of these people represents a different emotion: vigilance, admiration, ecstasy, astonishment, grief, rage, aversion, and terror."

The words leave my mouth before I can stop them, a sudden understanding surfacing in me. These figures—they're not just people. They are emotions, embodied, each one evoking a response from me. The feelings I had when I stood before them were not just my own—they were their emotions, their essence, being projected outward.

I wait, my heart pounding in my chest. The silence that follows is almost unbearable, thick with the weight of unspoken judgment. The examiners, hidden in the shadows around the room, watch me closely, their faces unreadable.

One of them steps forward, their voice low and cryptic: "Go out then, if you believe you have the answer."

I don't know if it's the right answer, but as I turn and exit the room, a strange sense of resolution settles over me. Maybe the test wasn't about succeeding in the traditional sense, about knowing facts or solving puzzles. Maybe it was about understanding the emotions that drive us all—the ones we're drawn to, and the ones that repel us.