05:13

The shower's steam coalesces, a living thing. I watch—no, she watches—as it twists into shapes. Faces? Memories? Dr. Elena Reyes.

37. Psychiatrist. These are facts, anchors in a sea of uncertainty. The mirror fogs. A finger—mine?—traces words:

WHO AM I?

The question lingers, accusatory. Clinical training battles with raw, primal fear. Something's wrong.

Everything's wrong.

05:27

Clothes feel foreign. The fabric of my blouse—silk?—slithers against my skin like something alive. I button it wrong once, twice, three times. Her fingers refuse to cooperate, as if they belong to someone else. The delicate material clings unnaturally, twisting and pulling as if it’s trying to assert its own will. A flash of memory: those same fingers, steadily writing notes.

"Patient presenting with dissociative symptoms. Recommended course of—"

The thought snaps, fragile as spun glass.

05:42

Kitchen.

The fridge hums, an accusation.

When did I last eat? Yesterday? Last week?

Time stretches, elastic and unreliable. Coffee. The ritual should ground me. Muscle memory takes over: filter, grounds, water. The machine gurgles to life, its sound morphing into a voice, whispering secrets that elude my grasp. I reach for a mug. It shatters in my grip. Porcelain shards glitter on the floor, each one reflecting a different version of me.

Which one is real?

Blood wells from my palm. My breath catches, and the sight of crimson pooling against the white tiles feels surreal. The pain is sharp yet distant, as if it belongs to someone else.

05:55

Outside. The world is too bright, too loud, too real. Cars pass, their engines a cacophony of screams. A jogger runs by, her footfalls mimicking the relentless tick-tick-tick of the bathroom clock. My car. A sanctuary of leather and steel. I grip the steering wheel, knuckles white.

Where am I going?

Work. Of course. I'm Dr. Elena Reyes. I have patients. Responsibilities. But as I turn the key, a thought surfaces, oily and slick:

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

What if I'm the patient?

The engine roars to life.

Or is it screaming?

06:00

The hospital looms, a monolith of glass and concrete. I park. I walk. I force a smile at the receptionist. Her face blurs, features rearranging themselves like a living Picasso.

"Good morning, Dr. Reyes,"

she says.

Or does she?

Her mouth moves, but the words seem to come from everywhere and nowhere, dissolving into the sterile air. The lift jerks to life with a hum that reverberates in my chest. Buttons swim before my eyes, shifting like a mirage, their faint click too loud, too crisp.

Which floor?

All of them. None of them.

Ding.

Doors open. The fluorescent lights sharpen into daggers, too white, too harsh. They pierce through the dimness of my thoughts, adding to the cacophony of sound—a buzz of voices, the beeping of machines, and the faint rustle of paper. Snatches of conversation float by—disjointed, meaningless. Words splinter into fragments I can't make sense of, as scattered and elusive as my own inner dialogue. The air is thick with antiseptic, suffocating yet oddly familiar, a reminder of where I am and what I must confront.

My office.

Sterile.

Safe?

Patient files spread before me, but the names blur, slipping out of focus. Diagnoses dissolve into nothingness. Each record feels like a reflection—distorted, fractured, slipping beyond my grasp.

A note.

Handwriting I don't recognise.

My handwriting?

"The experiment was a success. But at what cost?"

Experiment? What experiment?

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The clock again.

Or footsteps?

Someone's coming. Someone's always been coming. I reach for the phone.

Who to call? Who to trust?

The numbers shift, rearrange. 999 becomes 666 becomes 333.

Reality is no more.

“You did this to yourself,”

a voice whispers.

My voice? Theirs? Hers?

Memories surface, oily, slick. Visions of a hidden lab, sterile and cold. Hollow promises filled the air, but the edges fray with doubt.

"You must confront your truth,"

someone had said.

But was it me?

The office door opens. A figure stands there, blurred, indistinct.

"Dr. Reyes,"

it says.

"It's time for your session."

But I'm the doctor. Aren't I?

As the figure approaches, the world tilts. Ceiling becomes floor. Past becomes present.

Who is the patient? Who is the doctor? Who am I when nobody's watching?

Something is coming.

Something has always been here.

And it wears my face.