It was dark.

The boy’s face was obscured by strands of his disheveled bangs, damp with sweat.

The oppressive blackness wrapped around him like a shroud.

A faint stir in his chest jolted him awake.

His eyelids fluttered, but all he could see was an impenetrable void.

He sat there, breathing in stale air that carried a metallic tang. Each rasp echoed in the emptiness around him, sharp and grating.

Then, without warning, light erupted, slashing through the darkness.

A sterile, blinding white seared his half-closed eyes.

He winced, instinctively shielding his face with an arm.

The light buzzed faintly, like angry insects in a swarm. As his vision adjusted, shapes began to emerge from the haze.

The boy was kneeling on a floor slick with grime, his hands pressed into its sticky surface. Around him, rusted metal walls stretched upward, streaked with grime and dark streaks that resembled dried blood. A thick duct pipe ran along the ceiling above, leaking dark sludge that dripped rhythmically onto the floor.

Ahead, the scene shifted into something absurd, almost grotesque.

A mountain of CRT monitors loomed, their warped glass screens stacked haphazardly. Some crackled with static, while others flickered erratically, casting harsh light across the room.

The monitors hissed faintly, their surfaces whispering unintelligibly.

The boy's stomach churned. Beneath the heap of screens lay discarded cables and random objects, untouched for what seemed like centuries. Mold crept along the walls and ceiling, its earthy stench filling the stagnant air. Tiny spores floated in the light, glinting like dust motes.

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Reacting instinctively, the boy covered his nose and mouth, his annoyance rising.

"What the hell is this place?"

He muttered, standing on shaky legs. His knees ached, and his hands felt sticky with whatever had been smeared across the ground.

A low deep voice rumbled, shattering the silence.

[Greetings.]

The boy froze. His head snapped toward the monitors, his heart pounding.

"I didn't think this day could get weirder."

He mumbled bitterly, squinting at the flickering screens.

[You are mistaken. The day has already ended.]

"Thanks, God. That’s super helpful.”

He snapped.

[Incorrect. I am Kami-sama, the designated 'God' of this system.]

The boy blinked. His confusion shifted to frustration.

"Sure. Why not? A stack of junk monitors is God. Makes perfect sense."

[Your presence indicates you are deceased.]

His annoyance sharpened into anger.

"So, what is this? Hell? I mean, I’ve been dead twice already, right?"

[Negative.]

The boy crossed his arms.

"Then enlighten me, Kami-sama. What the hell is this?"

[This is a subconscious reality construct. A system created by The Architect to regulate deceased entities. Your consciousness persists despite your physical body's dormancy.]

"Cut to the chase."

[Memories are required for extraction. Exchange them for life points to facilitate teleportation to a new realm.]

He frowned, skepticism tightening his jaw.

"Memories, huh? Let me guess—if I run out of memories, I’m done?"

[Correct. Exhausting your memories results in permanent cessation of existence.]

"Great."

He muttered, scuffing his shoe against the grimy floor.

"Not like I had much worth remembering anyway."

The monitors flickered, their hum growing louder.

[Participants enter this system seeking refuge from insurmountable realities. Your prior existence reflects this pattern—an undesirable reality where social rejection and loss defined your experience.]

The boy’s fists clenched.

"You don’t know anything about me."

[Incorrect. Data indicates you have experienced prolonged isolation, parental loss, and societal alienation.]

"So, what? You’re here to guilt-trip me into forgetting my past?"

The boy’s voice turned cold.

[Incorrect. The system merely facilitates choice. Rebellion is illogical.]

"Watch me cook."

He said sharply, sitting on the ground. He inhaled deeply, deliberately drawing in the mold-infested air. The bitter taste stung his throat, but he forced himself to keep breathing.

[Advisory: Mold inhalation is detrimental to health.]

"No shit."

He said, coughing but refusing to stop.

[Query: Why do you resist, yet fear the unknown?]

The boy froze, his defiance faltering for a moment. He swallowed hard, his voice quieter now.

"What do you know about fear?"

[All data indicates your actions are driven by anger and confusion. Fear persists despite your apathy.]

His chest tightened.

"You’re wrong."

[Incorrect. Your physiological response confirms elevated stress levels.]

The boy glared at the monitors.

"If you’re so smart, then tell me—what’s my full name?"

[Your name was not backed up.]

His jaw dropped.

"You’re kidding me."

[No records exist.]

"Figures. A God that doesn’t even know who I am."

He muttered.

[Identity is irrelevant. Memories serve as the only currency here.]

Before he could retort, the room plunged into darkness.

“What the fuck?”

The sound of a clock's ticking echoed through the void.