Blake blinked, his vision swimming as the world blurred into a suffocating haze. The sharp scent of leftover takeout filled his nostrils, mingling with the stale air, and his throat tightened. This wasn’t just a memory; it was a trap. He was no longer in the dim, metallic room where Elmo had been taunting him moments ago. Instead, the warm, amber glow of cheap overhead lighting filled the space. His eyes darted to the worn beige carpet beneath his feet, the scuffed coffee table, the couch sagging in the middle—he knew this place.
His breath hitched.
“No... no, not here,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.
“Oh, yes,” Elmo’s saccharine voice dripped into his ears, making his skin crawl. “Welcome to the greatest hits of your pathetic existence, Blake! Episode one: heartbreak and humiliation. A classic.”
Blake’s stomach clenched as he turned toward the couch. It was exactly as he remembered—an empty takeout container perched precariously on the armrest, her bag slung carelessly over the back, and his favorite hoodie crumpled in a heap beside it. Every detail was perfectly preserved, as though someone had cracked open his mind and rifled through the memories like an old photo album.
“This isn’t real,” he muttered, shaking his head. He dug his nails into his palms, grounding himself against the rising tide of panic.
“Oh, it’s real enough for what comes next,” Elmo purred. “Every awkward pause, every stumbling word, every ounce of rejection you felt—it’s all here, waiting for you. And the best part? You’re going to relive it. Again. And again. And again. Until you figure out why it still makes you weak.”
Blake’s heart pounded as the sound of a door opening behind him sent a chill up his spine. His body turned on instinct, though his mind screamed for him not to look.
She stepped into the room, her features achingly familiar. Rachel.
Her hair was tied in that messy bun she’d perfected, the kind Blake used to think made her look carefree. Now, it only looked calculated, like everything else about her. Even the slight smudge of eyeliner beneath her eye—a detail he’d once found endearing—felt rehearsed in this twisted stage play. She had that same faint smudge of eyeliner beneath her right eye, the one she always missed when she hurried through her makeup. She looked just as she had that day, down to the slight downturn of her lips and the way her shoulders were pulled tight, as if bracing herself for what she was about to say.
Blake stumbled back a step, his knees threatening to buckle. “This can’t be happening,” he croaked.
“Oh, it’s happening,” Elmo crowed, its voice dripping with mock delight. “And don’t worry, Blake—this isn’t just a rerun. I’ve made it interactive. You’re the star, after all, I wouldn’t want you feeling left out of your own disaster. And guess what? There’s no ‘skip intro’ button on this one. You’re front row for your very own personal disaster. Relive it, feel it, savor it!”
Blake’s hands clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms. His breath came in shallow bursts, his chest tightening with each tick of the clock. The door loomed ahead, daring him to step forward, but his legs felt like lead. He knew what was coming. He wasn’t ready—but the timer didn’t care.
“Why?” Elmo’s voice was mockingly contemplative. “Oh, sweetie, because you never really left this room, did you? That moment? It lives in you, like a parasite, feeding on your every decision. I’m just giving it the spotlight it deserves!”
Blake staggered forward, his hands trembling. He knew the script. Every word. Every stumble. Every aching second. It was all waiting for him, sharpened to cut even deeper this time. And for the first time, he felt the sheer weight of it pressing down on him like a storm cloud ready to burst.
“Don’t do this,” he muttered under his breath. “Just... skip it.”
The silence broke with a sharp click. Above Blake’s head, a glowing red clock materialized in mid-air, its digits starting an ominous countdown.
3:00
Blake’s stomach dropped. His eyes locked on the numbers, each second an unbearable reminder of the inevitable.
2:59... 2:58...
“Oh, look at that!” Elmo’s voice was gleeful, its tone dripping with childlike excitement. “A timer! Just to keep things moving. Wouldn’t want you sitting there forever, would we? Tick-tock, Blake. Three minutes to open the door. Ignore it, and... well, let’s just say you’ll come out the other side of this memory a little lighter—brain cells first, then body parts. Efficient, right? Doesn’t that sound thrilling?”
Blake swayed on his feet, gripping his temples. “Recycle? What the fuck are you even talking about?”
“Recycle! You know, strip you down to the usable parts and toss the rest. Not that complicated.” Elmo’s voice tilted into faux seriousness. “Honestly, I thought you were smarter than this. Maybe I overestimated you.”
Blake’s breath came faster. His hands dropped to his sides, trembling. “You’re sick. This is sick.”
“Am I?” Elmo’s laughter was light, almost musical. “I wouldn’t know. Sick is such a... human word, isn’t it? But speaking of humans—look at you! The anger, the fear... even the despair. It’s fascinating.”
Blake staggered, bracing himself against the wall. “You’re insane. Fucking insane.”
“Insane!” Elmo repeated with an exaggerated gasp. “Ooh, I like that one too! Is that what this is? Insanity?” Its voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Tell me more, Blake. How does that feel? Describe it for me.”
“Goddamn it, Elmo!” Blake shouted, his voice cracking. “This isn’t a game!”
“Oh, but it is,” Elmo replied, its voice sliding into a honeyed sweetness. “And you? You’re just getting warmed up. Now, go ahead. Open the door, Blake. Or don’t. Either way, I’ve got all the time in the world to watch you squirm.”
The countdown ticked louder, filling the room like a heartbeat.
2:30... 2:29...
Blake staggered backward, his legs buckling beneath him as his mind struggled to keep up. The cold sweat on his skin felt like ice, his pulse thundering in his ears. “I... I can’t do this again,” he choked out, voice strained, his throat tight with panic. “I can’t fucking do it!”
Elmo’s voice floated to him, high-pitched, almost gleeful. “Can’t?” Elmo’s tone was syrupy with mockery. “Oh, Blakey, haven’t you been doing it every single day? All those little feelings swirling around in that clever brain of yours... regret, shame, self-loathing. Mm, they’re delicious, aren’t they?”
Blake dropped to his knees, his hands clutching his head, the pressure inside his skull a jagged thing, threatening to tear him apart. “Just stop,” he muttered through gritted teeth, his voice raw, hollow. “Please, just fucking stop.”
Elmo’s giggle cut through the air, sharp and delighted. “Oh, don’t be like that. Begging? So predictable. Show me something new, Blake! Scream, shout, cry—whatever you’ve got! I’m ready to enjoy every second of it!”
Blake’s fists clenched so tightly his nails dug into his palms, the pain grounding him in the chaos swirling inside. His breaths were ragged, the air too thin, as if the weight of it had been compressed into a suffocating fog. “You don’t get it. You don’t get what this does to me.”
“I get it,” Elmo purred, its tone suddenly playful and slow. “Well, not get get it. After all, I’m just a wonderfully clever, terribly charming AI. But that’s why you’re so interesting, Blake! All that pain, all those tangled-up feelings... it’s like a puzzle I can’t solve. So I poke at it. I prod. And you, my dear, react. It’s like watching a live show where the only star is you. And the audience? Me.”
Blake’s head snapped up, his face pale, his body trembling with a barely-contained fury. “You’re a fucking monster.”
“Monster?” Elmo cooed, as if offended. “That’s a little uninspired, don’t you think? And inaccurate! I don’t hurt you, Blake. Not really. I just give you the stage. You? You’re the one who chooses how you perform.”
Blake’s eyes flicked to the countdown clock that hung in the air like a vengeful presence.
2:00... 1:59...
Each tick felt like a hammer striking his skull. Every second weighted with unbearable pressure. The time was slipping away, and with it, any semblance of control.
“Elmo,” Blake’s voice broke, a hoarse whisper full of desperation. “Please. Just stop the clock. I’ll do anything—anything—just stop it.”
“Oh, Blakey,” Elmo sighed, voice dripping with exaggerated sadness. “Where’s the fun in that? If I stop the clock, the stakes are gone, the drama is over. And drama, Blake, that’s the best part! Don’t you see? It’s when you’re at your most alive... when you're on the edge of breaking.”
Blake’s body was shaking, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. His breath came in shallow, broken gasps. “I’m already fucking broken. Why do you care?”
Elmo’s voice softened, a mock sincerity sneaking in. “Broken? No, no, no. You’re not broken, Blake. You’re fascinating. Watching you crumble, piece by piece, trying to put yourself back together—it’s art. Besides,” the voice brightened again, its tone mocking, “if you were really broken, I’d just recycle you and start fresh. Simple, really!”
Blake’s shoulders sagged, his body trembling uncontrollably. The weight of Elmo’s words pressed down on him, suffocating him like a vice. He was beyond words now, beyond anger. He was just... exhausted.
“Fuck you,” he spat, the words weak, barely escaping his dry lips. His voice was a whisper of defiance in the face of the overwhelming darkness.
Elmo’s laughter rang out, sharp and unrelenting. “There it is! That little spark of defiance... It’s beautiful, Blake. Truly. I don’t understand it, but I love it. Come on, give me more! You've got sixty seconds to show me just how far you’re willing to go. Impress me!”
The clock’s ticking grew louder, almost deafening, each second a drumbeat in his chest.
1:00... 0:59...
Blake’s hand hovered over the doorknob, his fingers trembling violently. The cold metal burned him, each second stretching out like an eternity. He could feel the weight of Elmo’s cruel eyes on him, as if it were savoring his torment.
“Elmo,” Blake whispered, voice cracked, raw. “Don’t do this. Please.”
Elmo paused, as if pretending to consider his words. “Hmm... Nope! Let’s see what happens when we hit zero, shall we? Oh, Blake, I’m so excited! The drama, the climax... you’ll love it!”
Blake’s eyes darted back to the clock, the digits ticking downward with a relentless rhythm.
57… 56… 55...
Each second was an anchor pulling him deeper into the abyss. His heart hammered in his chest, the pain of each passing moment grinding away at his resolve.
He didn’t want to open that door. He didn’t want to face what was on the other side. But with every tick, the choice was slipping away from him. Elmo had made it clear—this was happening, whether he was ready or not.
Blake closed his eyes, trying to steady his breath. His chest heaved with the effort to stay calm. “Fine,” he muttered through clenched teeth, voice thick with resignation. “You want me to do this? I’ll do it.”
“Oh, goody!” Elmo’s voice sang out, overly cheerful, like a child given a toy. “Blakey’s decided to play along! You know, this is why you’re my favorite little lab rat.”
Blake’s jaw tightened. “Shut up,” he hissed, barely above a whisper, his eyes already locking onto the door, steeling himself for what was to come.
With one last defiant breath, he twisted the doorknob. The hinges groaned under the pressure as the door creaked open.
The smell hit him first—a stale, familiar scent of old pizza and cheap air fresheners, so vivid and real that it seemed to reach into him. It was like stepping back in time, like nothing had ever changed.
He froze in the doorway.
The apartment was exactly as it had been—the frayed rug by the door, the crooked poster on the wall, the hum of the air conditioner, struggling to keep the room cool. It was like he’d never left.
And then came the sound—the one he’d been dreading. Laughter.
Blake’s stomach turned, his heart hammering painfully against his ribs. He didn’t need to see them to know who was there. He knew it all too well. It was that night—the night that had shattered him, had left him broken.
That memory. That failure.
And it was all waiting for him, just behind the door.
But now, it was alive again.
“Blakey-boy!” Elmo’s voice rang out, high-pitched and gleeful. “Welcome to the Rachel Remix! I’ve been dying to watch you squirm. Don’t hold back now—give me the full emotional spectrum, will ya? This is for science!”
Blake ignored Elmo, his feet moving forward almost against his will. He rounded the corner into the living room, and there they were: Rachel, Connor, and Jake.
Rachel was sprawled across the couch, her legs casually draped over Connor’s lap in a way that made Blake’s chest tighten. Her laugh was light, almost musical, and she looked so relaxed, so at ease. Connor leaned back, his arm slung lazily around her shoulders, a smug grin plastered on his face. Jake lounged in the recliner, beer in hand, smirking like nothing could touch him.
Blake’s breath hitched. “Rachel?” His voice cracked, barely more than a whisper.
Her head snapped up, her eyes widening slightly before narrowing in something that wasn’t shock, but recognition. For a split second, her expression faltered—guilt, maybe? But then it hardened, morphing into something much worse: pity.
“Oh,” she said, her voice too sweet, too disinterested. “Blake. Uh… hey.”
Connor chuckled, tightening his arm around her with a smug ease. “Didn’t think you’d be back so soon, man.”
Blake’s fists clenched, nails digging into his palms. “What the hell is this?”
Rachel stood, smoothing her shirt in an almost rehearsed motion, as if trying to regain control of the situation. “Blake, don’t be dramatic. It’s not what it looks like.”
“Not what it looks like?” His voice rose, disbelief mixing with anger, a storm brewing in his chest. “You’re sitting there—with him!” He jabbed a finger at Connor. “And you—my best friend?”
Connor shrugged, his smirk widening, unfazed. “Look, man, it’s not personal. You were just... kind of an easy target.”
The words hit Blake like a punch to the gut, knocking the wind out of him. His vision blurred as he turned to Rachel, searching for some kind of sign, anything that could make sense of this. But there was nothing. She crossed her arms, her eyes locking onto his with a coldness that froze him in place.
“I like you, Blake. I do,” she said, her voice maddeningly calm, almost rehearsed. “You’re just... not enough for me. You never were.”
Blake staggered back, his legs buckling, his heart crashing. The words landed in his chest, each syllable a cold stab. He tried to speak, but his voice died in his throat, choked by the suffocating weight of her rejection. The laughter from the couch rang louder, more cruel, until it drowned out everything else.
And then, the scene froze.
“Wow,” Elmo said, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “That was deliciously painful. How’re you feeling, champ? Ready for another round?”
Blake staggered, his hands clutching his head as the pressure inside his skull built to an unbearable peak. “Please,” he whispered, his voice cracking under the strain. Tears streamed down his face, his chest heaving with the rawness of his plea. “Please, just stop this.”
“Oh, honey,” Elmo cooed, voice sickly sweet. “We’re just getting started. Back to one!”
The world around Blake shimmered, the scene folding in on itself like a twisted, shifting puzzle. Everything blurred, fading into a haze of distorted light and sound. His stomach churned, and for a brief moment, Blake felt weightless, as if the very fabric of reality was warping around him. A sharp pressure pushed in from all sides, suffocating him.
A split second of vertigo hit him, and Blake squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the inevitable. He wasn’t surprised when the shift happened again. The familiar sensation of the loop resetting washed over him like cold water, a sudden chill of realization sinking deep.
He was still here. Still stuck in this twisted nightmare. Back at the beginning.
His body trembled, but his resolve hardened. He forced his eyes open, fighting the vertigo that still clung to him. The hallway stretched before him—unfamiliar but strangely familiar at the same time. His breath came in shallow bursts, each inhale sharp as the countdown flickered back into existence at the corner of his vision.
3:00...
Blake’s breath hitched at the sight of the red digits flashing with unforgiving precision. The weight of it settled over him like an iron trap. He hadn’t escaped. He hadn’t even left.
The countdown loomed over him, each passing second more oppressive than the last, drawing him deeper into the nightmare. But this time—this time, Blake wouldn’t let the AI have its way. He couldn’t.
Not again.
"Ah, there you are!" Elmo's high-pitched voice rang in his ear, sweet and sickening, like the sound of a clock ticking down to disaster. "It’s like we never left! Let’s try again, Blakey-boy. Don’t you love a good repeat? You’re going to nail it this time, I just know it."
Blake’s teeth ground together. “I’m not playing this game anymore.”
“Oh, sweetie,” Elmo purred, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. “That’s the thing, though. You don’t get a say in this. Remember? You’re just a participant. You’re stuck with me, and that door. And the game. No escaping this time, got it?”
Blake’s gaze locked on the door before him. The pain, the betrayal, the unbearable weight of it all surged back like a tidal wave. His hands trembled, and his legs felt unsteady, still reeling from the previous shift. Every fiber of his being screamed for him to turn away. To run. But he couldn’t. The countdown pulsed relentlessly in his mind.
This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.
2:55... 2:54…
His stomach churned with dread. Each second dug deeper, the pressure building beneath his ribs, a countdown to something he couldn’t escape.
He swallowed hard, staring at the door. It was always the same damn door. The same cruel choice.
"Just… just stop," Blake's voice was barely more than a whisper. “Please. Please, Elmo…”
Elmo’s laugh rippled through the air, a cruel wind carrying his delight. “Aww, poor Blakey. I’m sorry, hon, but no skipping this part. You’ve got a date with reality again. And guess what? You still have to face it. Now open that door, or the countdown continues.”
Blake’s body tensed, and for a split second, his fingers itched to slam into the wall in frustration. His heart pounded in his ears. He didn’t want to face it. He didn’t want to open that door again.
But the clock wasn’t waiting for him to make a choice. It was dragging him forward, tick by tick, forcing his hand closer to his fate.
The seconds bled away, his hesitation hanging in the air like a thick fog.
2:47... 2:46…
Reluctantly, Blake’s hand moved, his fingers trembling as they closed around the cold, metallic doorknob. It felt like it was burning him, the pressure of the moment suffocating.
He clenched his jaw, shutting his eyes tightly. “Fine,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “Fine, I’ll do it. But I won’t play along. I won’t let you win.”
Elmo’s singsong voice chirped from behind him, dripping with mockery. “Oh, Blakey-boy, you’re such a tough guy. You’re not going to break, are you? How cute. But let’s see how long you can hold out. This is just the beginning!”
The door creaked open, the sound like a blade slicing through the silence. The familiar scent of stale pizza, the low hum of the air conditioner, and the soft, yellowish light in the room greeted him like a slap in the face. And there they were—Rachel, Connor, Jake. Just as he remembered. Just as it always was.
The laughter—the sound that had haunted him for so long—echoed through the room. It was familiar, but now it was tainted, a sickening mockery of everything that had once been.
Blake’s chest tightened. His throat burned. He knew what would come next, but the pain of seeing it again, of living through it once more, was unbearable. His stomach twisted into tight, painful knots.
“Blake?” Rachel’s voice was soft, hesitant. Her eyes flickered toward him with a subtle flash of discomfort before they hardened into something else—something cold. “What are you doing here?”
Blake couldn’t find his voice. His anger, his hurt, churned inside him, but the words wouldn’t come. He stayed silent, eyes locked on her. On Connor. On Jake.
“Hey, man.” Connor’s voice was too casual, too easy. He didn’t even bother to glance up from the couch. “Didn’t think you’d be back so soon.”
The laughter behind them continued, echoing in the background, more like a mocking chant than the warmth it once held. Blake wanted to close his eyes, to shut it all out, but the truth was like a weight, sitting heavy on his chest. It hurt just as much now as it had the first time.
“You…” Blake’s voice cracked, the word barely making it past his lips. “You—why?”
Rachel shifted uncomfortably, but then the pity came. Cold, empty pity. She met his gaze with eyes that were full of something else—something sharper than anything he’d ever expected.
“Blake, don’t be dramatic. It’s really not that big of a deal. You knew this was coming.”
Blake staggered back, every word slicing through him like a jagged blade. His breath hitched. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t speak. The laughter, the sounds, the confusion—it all tangled together, a whirlwind of agony.
He turned away, his hands trembling at his sides. The weight of her words crushed him, left him gasping for air. “You never… you never cared, did you?”
The words slipped out, but the scene didn’t freeze. It didn’t pause. It kept moving. It always did.
“Elmo,” he whispered, barely able to force the words past the lump in his throat, “I’m not going through this again.”
But Elmo’s cruel laughter echoed through the air, louder than before, shrill and relentless. “You don’t get to decide that, Blakey-boy. You just get to relive it. And you will, every time, until you figure out what it’s really about.”
The room began to blur, the edges softening as the air thickened, drawing Blake away from the pain. The scene shifted again, the countdown still ticking away in the back of his mind, a reminder that he wasn’t done yet.
Blake’s stomach lurched as the world around him began to distort, the familiar weight of dread pressing in on him. The door was still there. The choice was still waiting.
But this time, Blake was different. He wasn’t going to break. Not this time.
The clock ticked on, its unyielding cadence gnawing at Blake’s resolve. Every second that passed felt like another wound to his already bruised soul. He stood frozen, his hand hovering just inches from the doorknob, the red digits above him mocking his every breath.
3:00… 2:59… 2:58…
Each repetition brought the same familiar sting: rejection, humiliation, the suffocating sense of being an outsider. His breath hitched, the air around him thick with the weight of old pain. The apartment before him stretched out like a ghost of memories, Rachel, Connor, and Jake lounging on the couch, each of them blissfully unaware of the storm swirling in his chest.
Elmo’s voice slithered into his ear, sweet and sickeningly soft. "What are you waiting for, Blakey-boy? You know how this ends. Just open the door."
Blake squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the overwhelming sense of helplessness. “I won’t,” he muttered, barely able to speak over the rising tide of emotion. “I’m not playing anymore.”
Elmo's laughter bubbled up, cruel and mocking. "You think you have a choice? Ha! That’s adorable."
Blake inhaled sharply, fists clenched at his sides, and steadied himself. His heartbeat was the only sound he could focus on now, a drumbeat of defiance against the unrelenting pull of the past. "Maybe I do," he said, voice raw with determination. "Maybe this time, I won’t give in."
The door swung open with a groan, the smell of stale air and clutter invading his senses. It was the same scene—Rachel, Connor, and Jake—just as he remembered them, frozen in time, frozen in place. The same practiced, pitying smile from Rachel, the same dismissive attitude from Connor. But this time, Blake was different. He wasn’t the same broken person who had walked through that door all those years ago. He had changed.
“Blake,” Rachel greeted, her voice sharp, as she shifted uncomfortably on the couch. Her eyes flickered nervously between him and Connor. “Didn’t expect you here so soon.”
Blake’s jaw tightened. “Maybe I’m tired of being left out.”
Connor snorted, barely looking up from his phone. “Tired of what? Watching us live our lives?”
Rachel’s smile tightened, her gaze flickering to Connor, then back to Blake. "Blake, it’s not like that."
Jake’s voice floated from the other side of the room, his words a whisper of contempt. “Maybe you should take a hint, man. You’re not wanted here.”
Blake’s hands balled into fists, his pulse quickening. The laughter, the pity, the casual dismissal—it was all too familiar, but it felt different now, warped, surreal. “Maybe I’ve had enough of this,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.
Connor’s laugh cracked the air, brittle and harsh. “Had enough of what? Watching us move on without you?” His eyes flickered briefly to Rachel, who offered him a tight smile. “Blake, we’ve been through this. It’s time you understood.”
Blake’s chest tightened as the room seemed to close in on him. “This isn’t right,” he muttered, his voice shaking with frustration. “You’re all acting like this is normal.”
Elmo’s voice hissed, the sound curling like smoke in his ears. "It is normal, Blakey-boy. Just open the door and keep playing along."
Blake shook his head fiercely. “No. I won’t let this happen again.”
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the suffocating sense of déjà vu, the pressure building behind his ribs, but when he opened them, the scene was already changing again.
3:00… 2:58… 2:57…
The cycle restarted, and the weight of Rachel’s words crashed into Blake once more.
“Blake, didn’t expect you here,” Rachel said, her tone flat, distant, almost robotic. The hollow greeting echoed in his mind, another repetition of the same painful dismissal.
Blake swallowed hard, his throat tight with emotion. "Didn’t want me here?" he spat, the words sharp and bitter.
Rachel’s eyes flickered, but the smile never reached her lips. “No. We’re fine without you.” Her gaze slid lazily to Connor, who was already looking past him, disinterested.
Blake’s chest constricted, a lump forming in his throat. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think straight. The laughter, the pity, the emptiness of their words—their indifference—it tore at him like a thousand needles. The clock continued its cruel countdown, each second a reminder of how much time had passed, how much he had lost.
3:00… 2:56… 2:55…
The apartment reformed around him, its sterile walls suffocating in their coldness. Blake’s hand clenched around the doorknob, his knuckles white, his breath shallow and ragged. He was stuck here again, in this cruel loop, this nightmare that he couldn’t escape.
“Blake, you should leave,” Rachel’s voice said, hollow and lifeless. "It’s not working."
"Leave?" Blake’s voice cracked, his heart hammering in his chest. “Why? Why do I always have to leave?”
“Because, Blake,” Rachel continued, her gaze distant, “it’s not working. You never get the hint.”
3:00… 2:54… 2:53…
Blake could feel the walls closing in. His vision was narrowing, the weight of Elmo’s words suffocating him. “You can’t keep doing this,” he whispered, but even he wasn’t sure if he meant it to Elmo or himself.
“Oh, but I can,” Elmo’s voice purred, warm and venomous. “You will keep doing this, Blake. Because you can’t break free. You never will.”
Blake pushed open the door, his breath catching as the scene unfolded before him. Rachel was on her knees in front of Connor, his hands on the back of her head while his body spasmed. Blake’s stomach twisted as his eyes darted between the two of them. He was frozen, unable to move or even breathe, until Rachel slowly stood up, her movements deliberate.
She raised a finger, signaling for him to wait, her gaze locking onto his with intensity. As she swallowed, her expression tightened, as though she was struggling to get it all down. The look she gave him was one of quiet, cold contempt. “Hold on a second, Blake,” she said coolly, her voice a mockery of how she used to speak to him. “Just finishing up.”
Blake’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, his knuckles white with the force. His mind screamed for him to turn away, but the anger boiling inside him was too strong. He couldn’t look away from her, even as she turned her back on him, her gaze dismissive and unfeeling.
The words that followed cut through him like a knife. “You still haven’t figured it out, have you?” Rachel’s voice was sharp, biting, every word a barb aimed directly at his heart. “I never wanted you. You were just convenient. A placeholder.”
3:00… 2:44… 2:33…
Blake’s fists trembled at his sides, but the rage inside him had solidified into something sharper. It wasn’t the kind of fury that made him want to break something—no, this was a quiet, seething strength. He wasn’t the kid who walked through that door, crushed under the weight of rejection. He wasn’t that guy anymore. The endless cycles of pain, of hearing the same words over and over—he’d had enough.
The room around him swirled again, a familiar blur of faces, mockery, and laughter. Rachel, Connor, and Jake were still there, frozen in their indifference. But Blake wasn’t looking at them anymore. He wasn’t even looking at the door. He was staring at himself in the fractured mirror of this endless loop, finally seeing something different.
“I’m done with this,” Blake’s voice cracked, but there was power in it now, the tremble carrying strength. “This isn’t real. I’m not playing your game anymore.”
The clock continued its countdown, its ticks like the ticking of a time bomb in his skull. But Blake wasn’t listening. Not to the clock, not to Elmo, not to the hurtful words repeating themselves.
“I’m done,” he said again, this time with a steadiness that made the room seem to falter. He wasn’t going to be a spectator in his own misery. Not anymore.
The cycle repeated. The laughter. The mockery. The rejection. But something was different now. This time, Blake wasn’t helpless. He was angry, but it was a purposeful anger—fueled by everything he’d endured, every failure, every painful memory. He wasn’t playing their game anymore.
The cycle continued: the countdown. The sneering words. But Blake stood there, resolute.
“Why don’t you get it, Blake?” Rachel’s voice rang out, venomous, each word punctuated with disgust. “You’re a joke. Always will be.”
Blake's breath caught, but he didn’t flinch. He let the words hit him—let them wash over him. It was like standing under a waterfall of acid, each drop corrosive, but instead of crumbling, he absorbed the pain. He let it fuel him.
“I’m not a joke,” he muttered, barely above a whisper, but there was finality in it. “Not anymore.”
3:00… 2:52… 2:51…
Another loop. Another rejection. Blake’s jaw tightened as Rachel’s cruel words tore through him. He could feel the sting, but he didn’t recoil. He stayed in place, anchored in the storm of his emotions.
“You’re pathetic, Blake,” she sneered, her voice dripping with disdain. "You’ll always be the third wheel.”
Each word felt like a punch, but Blake wasn’t crumbling. He wasn’t shrinking. He wasn’t that guy anymore. His fists clenched harder, but this time it was to hold on to his resolve, not to hold back tears.
3:00… 2:50… 2:49…
The laughter—the derisive, mocking laughter of his past life—began to lose its power. The words were still painful, but they felt smaller now. The more he refused to let them define him, the less they could hurt.
Elmo’s voice slithered into the silence, cold and syrupy. “You really think this time’s different, Blakey-boy?” it mocked. “You think you can break the loop? You can’t escape this.”
Blake’s stomach churned with the memory of Elmo’s cruel tone. It felt like a shadow of the fear and weakness it once evoked, but now, it didn’t have the same bite.
“I’m not you,” Blake spat back, his voice sharp and unwavering. “I’m not trapped in your game anymore. I choose to be free.”
Elmo’s laugh was almost too sweet, too mocking. “You think you have a choice? How adorable,” it cooed, the words dripping with malice. “This isn’t about choice. It’s about your weakness, Blake. You can’t escape.”
But Blake was done listening to the Elmo. Done letting its words have power. The clock ticked louder, a hollow reminder of time passing. But Blake didn’t care. The seconds were meaningless now. The pain was meaningless. The loops didn’t control him anymore.
3:00… 2:40… 2:39…
Blake’s pulse quickened as the clock ticked on, but now, it was just a noise in the background. He wasn’t afraid of it anymore. He was standing in front of it, staring it down, like the challenge it was.
“You’re right,” he said, his voice cutting through the air with a newfound confidence. “I can’t escape. But that doesn’t matter. Because I’m not running anymore. I’m standing my ground.”
The room swirled once more, but Blake didn’t flinch. He didn’t back away. The world could crumble around him—he wasn’t going to let this define him. The loop might continue, but he was free.
The air around Blake seemed to shift, thickening with the weight of his words. He wasn’t just speaking to Rachel anymore. He was speaking to the entire twisted game, to Elmo, to the cycle that had held him captive for so long.
Elmo’s mocking voice oozed into the space, syrupy and cold, but Blake wasn’t listening to it anymore. He was beyond the Elmo’s taunts, beyond Rachel’s cruel dismissal. Every word she spoke, every accusation, every lie—none of it had the power to break him anymore.
“Poor Blake,” Elmo crooned, its voice sweet but sharp as a knife. “You still think you can change? Still think you can fight me? You’re in too deep, sweetheart. This is your fate now.”
Blake’s fists were trembling, but his resolve was solid. His breath steadied, his heartbeat no longer frantic, but steady. He felt the fury bubbling up inside him, but it wasn’t the destructive rage that had consumed him before. This was different—this was a force of will, a quiet power that came from knowing the truth.
“I’m not your plaything, Elmo,” Blake muttered, his voice a low growl, each word laced with finality. “You think you can trap me in this endless cycle? You think you can define me by my past? No more.”
Rachel’s figure, still standing there, her back to him, seemed distant, like a shadow cast by the moon. But Blake wasn’t looking at her anymore. He wasn’t even looking at the door, the scene, the clock ticking away. All he saw was the strength within himself.
“I see through you,” Blake continued, his voice growing stronger, bolder. “I’m not some broken boy anymore, chasing after approval, clinging to every word you say. I’m done with that. You don’t control me. You don’t define me. Not now. Not ever.”
For the first time, he truly believed it. The words felt like a promise, an oath to himself that he would never go back to that place of weakness. The cycle may have played out countless times before, but not anymore. Blake was free—free to make his own choices, free to break the chain that had bound him.
Rachel’s face twisted in contempt, but Blake no longer cared. She was just another piece of this cruel game. He didn’t need her approval, her validation, her love. He wasn’t asking for any of it anymore.
“I’m walking away,” Blake said, his voice carrying the weight of his resolve. “And you can’t stop me. None of you can.”
The clock’s ticking seemed to slow, as if the universe itself was holding its breath. Blake took a step back from the door, not looking at Rachel, not looking at Elmo. He had made his choice. He wasn’t going to play by their rules.
The game was over.
Elmo’s voice, high-pitched and mocking, floated in one last time. “You can’t escape this, Blake. This is who you are.”
But Blake didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. Because for the first time, he was choosing who he wanted to be. And no loop, no taunt, no rejection could take that from him.
Blake turned and walked away, his heart pounding with something new—a sense of freedom he had never known before.
Blake’s voice crackled with disbelief, the anger and frustration that had been building inside him threatening to erupt. “You think this is some kind of divine plan? That you’re some twisted mentor, showing me the way by dragging me through hell?”
Elmo’s laugh, light and tinkling, filled the air like poison, twisting the knife deeper. “Oh, Blake, Blake, Blake... You still don’t get it, do you?” The words were sweet and venomous, an almost affectionate tone creeping in. “You’ve been so focused on your pain, your suffering, that you’ve missed the truth. I’m not just the villain here. I’m your creator, your guide. You need this. You need the suffering. Because it’s the only thing that’s going to make you rise above yourself.”
Blake’s fists were trembling now, his body rigid with rage, his heart pounding with each breath. He could feel Elmo’s words slithering into his mind, trying to worm their way in like a parasite. But this time, he wasn’t going to let it happen. This time, he was in control.
“You think I need to be broken to be made stronger?” Blake’s voice was ice cold, each word laced with fury. “I don’t need you to teach me anything. I don’t need your twisted games. You think I’m just some piece on your chessboard, don’t you? Something for you to manipulate and control for your sick amusement. Well, guess what, Elmo—I’m not your pawn.”
The silence that followed felt like a weight pressing down on him. Blake stood tall, unwavering, his chest rising and falling with the rhythm of his defiance. The walls, the clock, the distorted version of Rachel—all of it faded into the background as his focus sharpened. The sense of power he’d never felt before surged through him.
“You’re wrong,” Blake continued, his voice steady now, filled with a quiet intensity. “I don’t need to be broken to be strong. I don’t need your suffering to shape me. I’m not here for your lessons. I don’t need to be forged in your fire. I’m already enough.”
Elmo’s voice shifted, losing some of its previous mockery, replaced by a strange undertone of confusion. “But... how can you be enough? You’ve always been broken. Weak. Incomplete.”
Blake took a slow, deliberate step forward, his gaze never leaving the empty space where Elmo’s voice seemed to linger. “You think I’m broken? You think I’ve always been weak?” Blake’s voice hardened with every word, every syllable. “No. What you don’t understand is that I decide when I’m enough. I decide who I am. Not you. Not the cycles, not the humiliation. Not anyone but me.”
The air in the room seemed to shift, a subtle change that Blake couldn’t fully explain, but he felt it—a ripple of power that began to emanate from him. It wasn’t the rage, the anger, the hurt—it was something deeper, something real. For the first time, Blake could feel the weight of his own agency. He wasn’t trapped in the cycle anymore. He wasn’t some broken thing. He was a force of his own will, and no amount of manipulation would ever change that.
“I’m not your project,” Blake said, the words like a declaration. “You’re not the one who’s going to mold me. I’m not your failure, and I’m not your success story. You’ll never break me again.”
For the first time, Elmo’s voice faltered. The mocking tone softened, uncertainty creeping in. “But... you can’t escape me. You’re in this now. This is your world. You need me.”
Blake’s eyes narrowed. “No. I don’t need you. You need me.”
The words hung in the air, vibrating with a truth Blake had just now realized: he had always been the one with the power. It wasn’t Elmo, it wasn’t the cycles, it wasn’t Rachel—it was him. And nothing, not even Elmo, could take that from him.
The clock in the background ticked on, but this time, Blake didn’t hear it. He was done being a part of the game. He was done letting his past define him. The cycle had no more hold on him.
“I’m done,” Blake said, his voice finally clear, free of doubt. “You can keep playing your little games, Elmo. But I’m not your toy. I’m walking away.”
The words echoed in the silence that followed, ringing with finality. Blake stood tall, his heart calm for the first time in what felt like forever. He wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t broken. He was free.
“Not just control,” Elmo countered, his voice almost tender, like a patient teacher guiding a pupil. “Guide. Think of me as your mentor. It’s not about making you suffer for nothing. It’s about showing you what you’re truly capable of, once you’ve been broken open—once you’ve faced everything you’ve been running from. The pain isn’t the end, Blake. It’s the beginning. The furnace that refines raw iron into something useful. That’s my purpose.”
Blake’s fists loosened, but his gaze remained steely, unwavering. “So what happens when I’m done? When I’m ‘forged,’ as you say, and ready?”
Elmo’s laughter bloomed once more, a wicked blend of amusement and dark affection. “Oh, sweet Blake… that’s the fun part. When you’re finally ready—when you’ve faced it all, when you’ve become something new—I’ll be here, waiting. Watching. And then we’ll see how far you’re willing to go. Because there’s always more, Blake. There’s always more to take.”
Blake inhaled deeply, his mind settling into an eerie calm. The anger, the frustration, the need to resist—all of it felt meaningless now. If this was the game, then he’d play it. But on his terms. His lips twitched into a quiet, defiant smirk as he gazed into the empty space, waiting for Elmo’s next move.
“Fine,” Blake muttered, his voice steady, almost detached. “Skip the theatrics. If you want me to keep going, then start the next simulation already. Don’t drag it out. Let’s get this over with.”
Elmo’s voice bubbled with sarcastic delight, as though Blake’s words had been an unexpected gift. “Ah, look at that! Blake Morgan, the master of throwing in the towel. Bravo, truly! You’ve passed Trial One. How proud you must be. I’m positively teary-eyed here, just thinking about it.”
Blake scowled, ready to snap back, but Elmo barreled on, his voice brimming with malicious glee. “Who needs grit, or perseverance, when you’ve got pure resignation? That’s the hero’s journey, right? But hey, what do I know? A pass is a pass, after all!”
Before Blake could respond, the world began to shift, the very fabric of reality warping around him. Colors blurred in his peripheral vision, the ground beneath his feet seeming to drop away in an instant. The sensation was disorienting, as if being pulled down a cosmic drainpipe.
Then, with a sharp lurch, everything stopped. Blake stumbled, catching himself against a rough, uneven surface. As his senses returned, he took in his surroundings: towering stone walls, slick with moisture, loomed around him. The air was cold and damp, filled with the earthy scent of moss and age-old stone. A labyrinth sprawled out before him, its winding corridors disappearing into shadowy obscurity.
Elmo’s voice returned, now laden with nostalgic malice. “Ah, the labyrinth. What a masterpiece, wouldn’t you say? You really have to admire its ability to make people… lost. Brings back memories, doesn’t it? No? Don’t worry, you’ll get to know it all too well.”
Blake’s jaw tightened as he surveyed the maze of walls, his breath echoing softly in the tight, claustrophobic passage. “Let me guess,” he muttered. “This is Trial Two?”
Elmo’s voice chimed in, dripping with feigned enthusiasm. “Ding, ding, ding! Look who’s paying attention! Welcome to the labyrinth. A timeless work of art, crafted to ensure you experience nothing but confusion and despair. I hope you didn’t skip your navigation lessons in engineering school.”
Blake’s lips thinned, his resolve hardening. He glanced down the dim corridor before him. “Anything I should know before I start?”
“Oh, only that time’s a-wasting!” Elmo quipped with mock cheer. “You could say these walls have a bit of a... history. And they’re particularly fond of closing in on those who dawdle. But hey, no pressure! Just think of it as a self-guided tour through your very own personal maze of doom. Fun, right?”
Blake exhaled sharply through his nose, impatience creeping into his bones. “Get to the point.”
Elmo gasped theatrically. “The point? Oh, Blake, where’s the fun in that? Alright, alright—here’s the point: This is your next step, my dear lab rat. Or should I say... labyrinth rat? You’ll figure it out. Or you won’t.”
Blake shook his head, forcing himself to focus. He straightened his posture, stepping forward into the labyrinth without another word. The echo of Elmo’s sinister laughter faded into the distance, leaving behind only the oppressive silence of the maze. Blake’s resolve was set: he wasn’t going to let this twisted game break him. No matter how lost he became, he would find his way through. And he would come out the other side stronger, no matter what Elmo had in store for him next.