Morning came late. Or perhaps the sun forgot to rise.

The sky outside the protagonist’s bedroom window wasn’t blue. It wasn’t any color they could name. A murky, unnatural gray hung over the horizon, dense and oppressive, as if the world had forgotten how to breathe. Clouds loomed low, their edges flickering like static on an old television.

The protagonist sat in bed, staring at the clock on their wall. Its second hand trembled forward, froze, and then stuttered back, repeating its motion like a broken loop. 7:03 AM. The same time as yesterday.

They swung their legs over the side of the bed, their movements heavy, their breath shallow. Something was wrong. Not the vague, uneasy wrongness of a bad dream, but something deeper. Something tangible.

The air in the house felt still—too still. No hum of the refrigerator. No creak of settling floorboards. Just a deep, suffocating silence.

Their parents sat at the table, stiff and unmoving, like wax figures caught mid-gesture. Their mother’s hands were wrapped around a coffee mug, though her fingers didn’t seem to grip it. Their father held a newspaper upside-down, his eyes staring straight through it.

“Good morning,” they said in perfect unison, their voices hollow and mechanical.

The protagonist froze in the doorway. The words didn’t match their lips; they were spoken without movement, echoing faintly in the room.

“Did you sleep well?”

The same phrase again.

The protagonist’s pulse quickened. They forced themselves to answer, their voice a strained whisper. “Y-yeah. I guess.”

Their father’s head tilted abruptly, the motion jerky and unnatural, as if he were a puppet on frayed strings. His eyes, too wide and glassy, locked onto theirs. “You should eat something,” he said, his voice dragging unnaturally.

The protagonist turned to the fridge without thinking. They opened it and froze.

Rows upon rows of identical milk cartons stared back, each labeled with the same word in bold, black letters: EXPIRATION. No dates. No brands.

Grabbing the nearest carton, they poured the milk into a glass. It was thick and sluggish, swirling in slow, hypnotic spirals like ink spreading in water.

“You’ll be late,” their mother said suddenly, her voice layered with faint static. She rose from her chair, the motion far too smooth, as if gravity didn’t apply to her.

The protagonist bolted for the door. Behind them, their parents repeated the same words over and over, their voices growing quieter and quieter until they disappeared into the stillness.

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Outside, the world was suffocatingly empty. The same three houses lined the sidewalk, their windows dark, their doors slightly ajar.

As the protagonist walked, the same houses appeared again. And again. A loop.

Their footsteps echoed loudly against the pavement, unnaturally sharp in the silent street.

Then they stopped.

But the footsteps didn’t.

They spun around, their heart pounding in their chest. The street behind them stretched unnaturally far, disappearing into a dense gray fog. At the very edge of the haze, something moved—a shadow, still and watching.

The protagonist turned back, walking faster. The houses blurred together, each identical to the last. Their breath came shallow and quick.

When they finally reached the school gates, the shadow was gone.

Kaito was waiting near the entrance, his lanky frame leaning casually against the wall. But something about him wasn’t right.

He looked up, grinning, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes. Those eyes—usually sharp and bright—were dull and distant.

“Late again,” he said, his voice flat, devoid of its usual teasing tone.

The protagonist swallowed hard. “Kaito... something’s wrong. Everything’s... off.”

He tilted his head, the grin widening unnaturally. “You’re imagining things. Come on, class is starting.”

His hand clamped down on their arm, cold and unyielding, dragging them toward the building.

Inside, the hallway stretched impossibly long, its walls warped and flickering. Lockers shifted colors as they passed—gray, red, black—each one bleeding into the next. Posters on the walls twisted, their text rearranging into ominous phrases:

“They see you.”

“Don’t trust him.”

“RUN.”

Kaito didn’t seem to notice. His grip remained firm as he led them to the classroom door, which was slightly ajar.

He pushed it open.

The classroom was wrong.

Desks were arranged in neat rows, but the students sitting in them were still. Too still. Their faces were blank, their bodies unnaturally rigid.

The teacher stood at the blackboard, writing something incomprehensible. Strings of symbols and letters blurred together, shifting like smoke.

“Take your seat,” Kaito said, already seated, his grin still fixed in place.

The protagonist hesitated. The students didn’t move. They didn’t blink.

When they sat down, the air grew heavier, pressing against their chest.

The teacher turned slowly, her face hidden in shadow. When she spoke, her voice was layered, distorted, as though a hundred whispers spoke in unison:

“We begin.”

The students started to chant.

“Fix the world, or let it burn.”

The phrase repeated, louder with each pass, their voices merging into a deafening roar.

The walls of the classroom began to warp. Desks twisted and melted, merging into the floor. The blackboard dripped with something dark and viscous, the symbols rearranging into a single phrase:

SYSTEM EXIT.

At the center of the room, a door appeared—a solitary, glowing door that flickered like static.

The protagonist stood, their body trembling, their breaths shallow.

Behind them, Kaito’s voice broke through the cacophony. But it wasn’t his voice anymore. It was layered, cold and hollow, filled with static:

“You can’t leave. Not yet.”

They turned, and their heart sank. Kaito’s face was cracked, his grin stretching impossibly wide, his eyes burning with an unnatural light.

“You haven’t remembered who you are,” he said, his voice reverberating like a broken recording.

The static in the protagonist’s ears grew louder. The room dissolved, leaving them alone with the door, Kaito, and the endless, suffocating darkness.