Chapter 5

The tunnel coiled around me like a massive snake tightening its grip. The stench of rot burned my throat, thick and cloying, like a tunnel slowly decaying from the inside out. Scraping against the damp, slimy walls, my fingers sank into the muck beneath, sliding over something smooth—bones, maybe? I couldn't tell. I didn't want to know.

It was quiet. Too quiet. After the constant beeping above ground, the silence felt unnatural. I could almost hear my heartbeat. Louder, faster, almost comical if I try to recollect. Like a cartoon, where the heart pumps out of the chest in a frantic rhythm, thudding wildly with anticipation.

This had to be the way out. I was sure of it.

Something shifted beneath my elbow—a twitch, a nerve misfiring… or something worse. A ripple in the darkness, a movement I felt more than saw.

Then, the legs. Thin, spindly, crawling.

A spider scuttled across my arm. Its unnervingly long legs moved with an unsettling precision, its tiny body pulsing as it crawled. I hated spiders—their countless eyes, their writhing legs, their bloated, alien bodies. They belonged to another world entirely, something not meant to be understood only feared. But in that moment, the revulsion felt distant. The horror of the tunnel—the rotting air, the overwhelming sense of being swallowed alive—was far worse than the creature creeping across my skin.

That's when I saw it. A bright light ahead. Warm and golden, like the sun breaking through after an endless storm.

My fingers stretched forward, trembling as they touched the edge of the light. Warmth. Salvation. I was almost there—so close I could feel it.

RING.

The sound jolted me, snapping the illusion like shattering glass. I blinked, momentarily disoriented, and looked at the screen.

Martha. Of course, it was her. She always had a way of calling at the worst possible moments—checking in, making sure I hadn't completely lost it. Or at least, that's what I assumed.

I let out a slow breath, staring at the screen for a second longer than I should have before answering. Not like I had much of a choice.

"Arthur, have you been taking your medication?" Her voice was clipped, clinical. Detached, like she was reading from a script.

My fingers tightened around the phone. The truth sat heavy on my tongue, thick and bitter. I hadn't touched them in over a week.

"Yes, I've been taking them."

Too fast. Too easy.

The lie left my mouth before I could stop it.

Silence.

A pause just long enough for me to know she didn't believe a damn word of it.

A little note: when you lie, never answer too fast. That's rookie shit. Makes people suspicious. Makes them think you've rehearsed it, like you were just waiting for them to ask. And trust me, nobody likes an answer that's too clean. Too ready.

But take too long? Now you've got another problem. Makes them think you're calculating. Like they caught you off guard and you're scrambling to stitch something together. That hesitation? That's guilt. That's shady.

See, the trick is to land right in the middle. Not too fast, not too slow. Natural. Effortless. Like the truth was always there, sitting on the tip of your tongue, just waiting for the right moment to fall out. Say it too confidently? They'll pick at it. Say it too hesitantly? They'll dig deeper. But hit that perfect, easy stride—just enough doubt to be believable, just enough certainty to shut them up—and congratulations.

You just got away with it.

But obviously I answered too fast. I knew it the second it left my mouth. And she knew it too—I could feel it in the silence.

But it didn't matter. I wasn't sticking around for the interrogation.

That's when I saw it. Just a flicker at first. A shift in the corner of my eye, something dark and slinking, sliding through the edges of my vision like it had been there the whole time.

I didn't give Martha a chance to press.

"I'll call you back," I muttered, cutting the line before she could wedge a single word between us.

And there he was.

Sprawled across my desk, legs too long, too thin, stretching over my papers like he owned the place. Those many, gleaming eyes watching me, unblinking. Knowing. Always knowing.

"you should just tell her the truth," he said, voice low and deliberate.

What did he know? What did anyone know? He might think he had the answers, all-knowing and watchful with those endless, glinting eyes, but he didn't.

No one knew me better than me.

Right?

I was fine. Better. Fixed. The worst of it was over, the rot scrubbed clean. I didn't need 'Reverex'. Didn't need any of it. My mind was sharp, my body steady, my thoughts mine again.

And what, exactly, did they expect? That I'd keep popping pills forever, choking them down like communion, praying to some chemical god to keep me whole? No one even knew what they really did. Not for sure. Not long-term.

I was cured.

I knew I was cured.

And I sure as hell didn't need some smug little many-eyed parasite whispering otherwise.

"I will, when it's time," I muttered, gripping the pen tighter and forcing my focus back onto the page.

My fingers slipped through the rays of light—warm, soft, real. I could almost hold onto it.

It flickered. A hesitation. A breath caught in the throat of the universe.

For a second, it lingered—just long enough to make me believe.

Then, it was gone.

Snuffed out in an instant, swallowed whole by the dark. No warmth. No escape. Just the same cold, fluorescent nothing stretching endlessly above me, humming with that low, artificial buzz. Like a bug zapper waiting for something to fly by.

I didn't move. Didn't breathe.

No. No, no, no. Not again.

I turned my head slowly, but I already knew. I knew.

The tunnel behind me gaped open, wide and empty, waiting for me to try again. The swings creaked, moving in a wind that didn't exist. The ground felt unsteady beneath me, my feet sinking into the too-perfect grass.

I wasn't out.

I never was.

I was back.

My gut clenched, a deep, sick pull like something inside me had turned upside down. Like I was falling while standing still. But I wasn't falling. I wasn't moving at all.

There was no way out.

The beeping returned, sharp, erratic, drilling into my skull like it had been waiting for me to fail. A siren. A countdown. A punishment.

I closed my eyes, gripping the grass beneath me. It wasn't real. None of it was real.

But if that was true—

Why couldn't I leave?

The days and nights blurred together in this place. There was no rhythm to time, no distinction between one moment and the next.

But I kept count. I had to.

Everything here was pre-recorded.

Every sound. Every motion. Every moment.

It all felt rehearsed.