As I slowly awoke, my eyelids heavy and reluctant to open, a deep sense of unease began to creep in, gnawing at the edges of my consciousness. My heart started to race, pounding in my chest as I took in my surroundings. This wasn't my room. My room was a sanctuary of warmth and familiarity, filled with personal mementos that told the story of who I was. But here, everything felt wrong.

The walls were a stark, clinical white, so pristine they seemed to vibrate with cold detachment. The air was thick with the sterile smell of antiseptic, almost choking in its intensity. A single, bare bulb hung from the ceiling, its weak, flickering light casting long, menacing shadows that twisted and contorted on the walls like restless spirits. There were no windows, no signs of the outside world—only a solitary white door, devoid of a handle, directly across from where I lay. My bed—or what passed for one—was a narrow, uncomfortable slab, hard and unyielding, more akin to a mortuary table than something meant for the living.

A wave of panic washed over me as I forced myself to stand, my legs trembling beneath me. I stumbled toward the door, my fingers frantically searching for a way out, but there was nothing—no handle, no keyhole, nothing that suggested escape. My thoughts spiraled into chaos. "Have I been kidnapped? Am I being punished? Why can't I remember how I got here?" The questions ricocheted inside my skull, each one more frantic than the last.

Tears welled up, blurring my vision as fear tightened its grip on my throat. I pounded on the door with both fists, the sharp sound reverberating in the small space, amplifying my isolation. "Let me out!" I screamed, my voice cracking with desperation. "Please, someone, let me out!" But the only answer was the echo of my own words, mocking me with their futility.

Then, just as suddenly as the panic had gripped me, the door slid open with a soft hiss, revealing two men in white lab coats. The first, a slender man with short, neatly cropped blonde hair, had eyes like ice—cold, piercing, and devoid of empathy. His lips curled into a thin, almost imperceptible smile, as if he enjoyed watching my fear take root. The second man, towering and broad-shouldered with jet-black hair, stood like a sentinel beside him, his expression unreadable but his presence undeniably menacing.

"You must be hungry," the blonde man said, his voice unnervingly calm, almost soothing in its detachment. The words hung in the air, out of place in the terror that surrounded me. He watched me, his gaze unwavering, as if waiting for me to respond to some unspoken challenge. But all I could do was stammer, my voice trembling as I begged, "Please, I don't belong here. Let me go."

The man's smile widened, but it was a smile devoid of warmth or kindness. It was the smile of someone who knew he held all the power and was savoring the moment. "Why would you want to leave?" he asked, his tone dripping with condescension. "Out there, it's far worse than you can imagine. Here, you're safe."

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

Safe? The word echoed in my mind, twisting into something sinister. There was no safety here, only cold detachment and the sense that I was just another piece in a game I didn't understand. And then, the man's voice dropped to a whisper, as if sharing a secret, "Now, tell me, why, Akio Hayashi?"

My blood ran cold at the sound of my name. How did he know my name? I hadn't told him. I hadn't told anyone. A sharp chill spread through me as I realized just how little control I had over anything in this place. My breath hitched, and the room seemed to tilt and blur around me, the edges of my vision darkening. The blonde man's voice, now distant and distorted, reached me as if through water. "The drug took longer to take effect this time," he remarked, almost casually.

Darkness claimed me before I could make sense of his words.

When I next opened my eyes, the sterile white room was gone. I was seated in a large, dimly lit hall, the air thick with the mingled scent of stale food and something else—something metallic and sharp, like blood or rust. Rows of round tables filled the space, each surrounded by people, all roughly my age, but with deadened eyes and vacant expressions. They moved mechanically, lifting forks to their mouths in unison, their motions robotic and devoid of life.

I tried to stop myself, to break free of the spell that had me trapped, but my body wouldn't listen. My hands continued to bring the food to my mouth, bite after bite, the taste bland and unremarkable, but I couldn't stop. I was a prisoner in my own skin, my thoughts swirling in a fog, fragmented and distant. "Who am I? Why can't I remember?"

The hall was vast, the ceiling lost in shadow, the dim lights flickering ominously as they barely illuminated the space. In the corners, darkness pooled like an abyss, swallowing any trace of hope or warmth. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the dull clink of utensils against plates, a grotesque symphony that heightened the sense of despair.

I looked around, searching for something to anchor me, to remind me of who I was, but the faces around me were a mirror of my own—a reflection of hopelessness. The question echoed in my mind, louder and more insistent: "Who am I? What have they done to me?" But the answer remained just out of reach, lost in the fog that clouded my thoughts, as if someone had stolen it from me and left only emptiness in its place.

All I could do was continue eating, surrounded by others who were just as lost, just as trapped as I was. The fluorescent lights hummed above, their faint, buzzing drone the only witness to our silent torment.