The world outside his cell was completely different from the one he knew inside. Everything was stark white and illuminated by bright LED lights. He turned to look back into the room he had just exited, but as he did, the door shut with a loud thud. The door was odd. Inside, it appeared old and unmaintained, with unpainted, rusted metal. However, the outside was the opposite, matching the rest of the corridor: bright white and spotless. He heard a large bolt click into place as the door fully closed.

As it locked, he felt an urgent need to get back in. He wanted to tell others to pick the booze. Maybe he could underline the importance of the other craving. Without the whiskey, he would never have beaten the AI. But despite his pushing and shoving, nothing happened. The door stood firm.

The Writer looked around. He was standing on what had to be a catwalk, thirty floors above the ground, with more levels above him than he could see. To the left and right, he saw only more doors, as the catwalk curved in both directions. Every ten feet, there was another door identical to his. Occasionally, he saw other people, though none were close to him. Each one was dressed just the same and looked as confused as he felt.

Suddenly, the voice returned, this time coming from speakers throughout the large, prison-like hallway.

“Congratulations and welcome to Creativion. Please proceed to either your left or right for orientation.”

The voice was the same, but its tone was no longer demanding. However, it didn't answer many questions. The Writer stood there, looking around, hoping to find someone to ask a question. But the only people he saw were far away on different levels. The Writer shouted and waved at one who seemed to be the closest, but his voice was lost in the distance.

“Congratulations and welcome to Creativion. Please proceed to either your left or right for orientation,” the voice repeated over the speakers.

Both directions looked equally empty to the Writer, but he decided to try. He started walking to the left, feeling a bit tired as he began.

The Writer walked for over an hour, aware of the passing time because the voice repeated its message every thirty seconds. He counted 213 repetitions before he finally saw something different. In the distance, there was an opening, not a door but a hole that led into another hallway. He bent over the catwalk and looked at the other floors, noticing that each one seemed to have a similar hole.

Looking down the hall, he saw someone on his level, sitting by the opening. The figure was small in the distance, but it was a person. The Writer started to run, but fatigue from walking so long and the meager meal of a single sandwich slowed him to a walk again.

“It’s okay. They’ll still be there,” the Writer muttered to himself.

The gap behind him closed slower than he expected, but he was getting closer to the first human he had seen in… well, he couldn’t remember.

It was a woman sitting on the floor in front of the hallway. She was thin, little more than flesh hanging onto bones. Her khaki uniform, much like his, hung from her frame as if it was made for someone twice her size.

The Writer waved as he approached and said, “Howdy!”

The woman looked up, her eyes blinking with strained effort. The Writer walked closer and repeated, “Howdy!”

“Can you spare… two tokens?” the woman asked, her voice weak.

This confused the Writer. He hadn’t thought about the tokens. “Sure, but I don’t know how…”

“I’ll help you,” the woman interjected. She extended her arm, revealing a small square tattoo. “Put yours on mine and say, ‘Transfer two tokens.’”

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He looked down at his arm and saw that he too had a small square tattoo, one he hadn't noticed before. She was still holding out her frail arm. He didn’t want her to strain any longer, so he placed his tattoo on hers and said, “Transfer two tokens.”

A display appeared in front of him: (-2) Current Balance: 196 Tokens

As he looked at his display, he saw her quickly touch her tattoo with her other hand and speak aloud, “Sandwich & Water.”

Instantly, a sandwich and a bottle of water appeared, and she started to eat.

He became conscious that he too had not eaten in a while. Moving his index finger, he touched the tattoo on his wrist and whispered, “Sandwich & Water.” Before him materialized a sandwich and a water bottle. He sat down next to the woman, the cold metal ground pressing against his legs, and began to eat. The sandwich was familiar. It was another ham and cheese, its edges perfectly formed without a single crumb out of place.

The woman, who had already finished her own meal, studied him once again. Her eyes held a mixture of curiosity and desperation. “Can you spare another two tokens?” she asked, her voice almost pleading.

“Sure,” he replied, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “But only if you answer a few questions.”

The woman nodded frantically, her thin arm extended toward him. He mirrored the gesture, transferring two more tokens from his wrist to hers.

“I don’t know much,” the woman admitted, summoning yet another sandwich into existence.

“What is this place?” the Writer asked.

“Everyone asks me that,” the woman said continuing to eat her sandwich.

The Writer’s gaze was drawn to the open hallway beyond. It was illuminated by a dim light, casting elongated shadows. The corridor stretched only ten feet before terminating at a steel elevator door. “What’s behind that door?”

The woman’s expression remained blank. “Don’t know,” she replied, chewing methodically. Her eyes were unsettling, hollow, devoid of color around the pupils, like black dots floating on a white canvas.

“How many tokens do you have?” she suddenly asked, her voice urgent.

The Writer hesitated, aware of tattoo on his wrist. He stood up and took a step back, the railing pressing into his spine. “Enough,” he said.

“You only go -10 in debt before they cut you off. I don’t eat often. 20 Tokens and I’ll tell you everything,” she said standing up and moving toward him. She reached out her arm holding out her tattoo.

“Tell me first,” he said, moving his tattoo against his chest.

Her black pupils shifted from his feet to his head and back again.

“I’m a writer, lost all but one life in this prison. Only won by accident the last time. I don’t want to leave and die. So, I’ve never been through those doors. Others have, but they never come back. Most people don’t make it out of the cell.” She shook her head, holding out her arm.

The dim light still clung to the edges of the door. The woman appeared frail, she stopped standing and sat back down keeping her tattoo extended. The Writer took a deep breath and offered his tattoo; she quickly moved hers to meet his.

“Transfer 194 Tokens,” the Writer said.

The woman’s face lit up with a smile. She repeated three times, “Sandwich and Water.” A group of ham and cheese sandwich materialized along with three water bottles.

“Thank you,” she said.

“No problem,” he replied, walking past her toward the hallway, “just promise me that eventually you will move on?”

The woman did not reply or seem to acknowledge he spoke at all. She wasted little time devouring her sandwich, the food seemingly vanishing into her mouth. She resembled more of a goblin than a woman, thin, hunched over, crippled by fear. The Writer felt sorry for her but continued on his way. As he entered the hallway, he understood why it was so dim. The lights had all been broken, leaving only the faint glow from behind the steel door.

The woman interrupted his thoughts, shouting, “Step over the rope.”

Two feet in front of him above six inches off the ground was a thin rope, made of strips of khaki clothes tied together, similar to the one he wore. It led up to a dark corner of the room. He stared at it intently.

Again, the woman called out, “Sandwich and Water.” She had already consumed the three additional items she had ordered.

Carefully, the Writer stepped over the rope, approaching the hanging object in the shadowed corner. It was a club, constructed from what seemed like long white sticks bound together. Some protruded with sharpened points, intersecting the thin rope that crisscrossed the ground. He stared at it even more. Then, his gaze shifted downward, and he noticed a red stain on the floor beneath the thin rope. Other stains dotted the area, each resembling the first.

The writer tilted his head to examine the club more closely. It was constructed from bones. The woman seemed oblivious to his presence now, engrossed in drinking her water bottles. The steel door swung open as he approached, revealing a brightly lit elevator room, the Writer moved swiftly, keeping an eye on her. Just before the door closed, she shouted once again, “Sandwich and Water!”