Where am I?
Michael's consciousness awoke as his eyes flickered open, and he found himself lying bare on a pitch-black floor covered by a thin layer of water. His gaze wandered across the vast space surrounding him, stretching into what seemed like infinity—no walls, no ceiling, nothing.
He rose slowly, careful not to slip over the water.
A warm sensation brushed across his back. He turned and saw a floating white sphere that closely resembled a yellow dwarf star.
a white sun? Is this the afterlife? Great. People really end up naked!
Michael's thoughts were hazy and chaotic as he wandered the space, circling the sphere and staring into the darkness."This is definitely not your average room," he muttered, unease creeping into his voice, half expecting something to emerge from it.
Gradually, two things cut through the noise in his mind. The first was that the white sphere radiated a gentle warmth—not heat, but an energy that settled into his body. It felt oddly addictive.
Time passed with no observable change as he walked away from the sphere, but Michael sensed something shifting, slowly but certainly. The only thing changing was the eerie sensation gnawing at his sanity, bit by bit. At first, he didn't give it much thought, but soon enough it became the only thought he had. His unravelling mind acted on its own. His fingers dug into his throat, nails biting deep, peeling back skin—yet to his shock, the flesh knitted back together within seconds, smooth and untouched like a newborn's.
In that brief spark of surprise, rationality flickered.
This is wrong. I'm in hell, aren't I? I'm losing my sanity at a very abnormal rate.
Michael knew enough about human psychology to recognise the danger. No one breaks this fast. Even in absolute isolation, a person should last at least a few days before their mind begins to slip. The first signs of deterioration were supposed to be mild—disrupted sleep, rising stress, and a warped sense of time around the third day. Hallucinations and paranoia usually came a week later. Real madness took weeks, even months, to take root.
But here he was, already clawing at his own throat as if trying to peel himself apart. His skin healed instantly, but the action alone was enough to frighten him. This place was not following the rules.
He began running away from the sphere, hoping to find an exit. He ran and ran—miles, maybe more—yet the splashes echoed back without end. No matter how far he fled, the sphere remained at the same distance behind him, as if the space itself refused to change.
He exhaled an exhausted sigh. "Distance requires a reference point," he muttered. "But if the light has nothing to reach—no surface to reveal—then distance becomes irrelevant. The distance never changes because nothing exists to measure it against."
Michael felt lost, but he refused to yield. He picked another direction at random and began walking, hoping—desperately—that his theory was wrong.
Hours slipped away…
But hours became a day…
A day stretched into days…
And as the days dissolved into one another, a month drifted by without a sound.
During that endless time, Michael learned a few unsettling truths about this place.
There wasn't just one sphere—there had always been two. The other was likely as black as the void itself, if not darker. He could never see it visually, but it emitted the same energy as the white sphere—like vibrations resonating deep within his bones. The difference was that its influence carried both purity and madness.
The longer he looked at the black sphere, the more his mind began to fray—madness seeping in like ink bleeding through clear water. Yet when he turned toward the white sphere, its warmth cleared the chaos, steadying his thoughts.
With that realisation, Michael made the obvious choice: stay near the white sphere and bask in its safety. But that, too, came with a price.
When he remained close to it for nearly an hour, his thoughts began to dissolve. His emotions drained away, leaving only hollow stillness. His mind became pure—but empty—devoid of will or meaning.
"At least one thing's nice—I don't feel hunger or need to… mother nature's two acts. Doing that here would be nasty. I'd rather kill myself," he muttered. Over the month, the concept of inner thoughts had seemed to blur with no one to talk to, but his sanity remained mostly intact—thanks to the white sphere.
"Being too close to one is dangerous. So both are dangerous on their own." His eyes shifted between the two spheres.
He paused, watching their trembling reflections ripple in the water. "Both exert influence. If I stay near one too long, its effect weakens—but eventually, it begins to overpower the other. They counterbalance each other." He mentally noted every detail.
After repeated tests, Michael identified two key factors: distance and observation.
He studied the faint glow between them. "For example, the gap between them is roughly five meters… so if I stand a hand's length from the white sphere, the madness from the black one becomes almost negligible—overpowered by the white's influence."
The soft radiance of both spheres shimmered in his eyes. "So… the centre line. Equal distance keeps me sane."
"And… the second factor—observation." His throat tightened. "Even looking at one… even acknowledging it… makes its influence stronger. It's like they're watching me back."
And so, time continued to pass.
And pass.
And pass again.
Until time itself lost its meaning.
By the time Michael lost count, uncountable years had slipped by—each moment stretching, folding, dissolving, until even eternity felt motionless.
His hair drifted lazily across the shallow water. His body never hungered, never tired. Sleep never came, yet wakefulness never left. He simply existed.
"What do you call a female human who lies on all fours?" he asked the void. He paused, as if expecting an answer. "Can't guess it?" Another beat of silence. "Gosh, you're so dumb. It's obviously called a bitch."
Bit by bit, his sanity continued to erode. He no longer kept track of time, but he kept track of how many times he imagined ending his existence—137. Not because he lacked imagination, but because he lacked tools. Nothing existed here except water, darkness, and the spheres.
One of the more absurd ideas was splitting his jaw open and tearing it apart.
And yet—despite the emptiness, despite the isolation, despite the endless stillness pressing down on him from every direction—he still wanted to live.
The only thing keeping him from breaking entirely was the faint glow of the white sphere, its warmth steady and constant, soothing the madness clawing at his thoughts.
…?
Michael jolted upright so fast the water beneath him splashed—instinct tightening his body before he even understood why. His breath caught, eyes wide, every muscle locked as if something had brushed directly along his spine. The fine hairs on his arms stood on end.
The madness vanished—instantly. His expression shifted, sharp and focused, like he was a completely different person than moments before.
A subtle shift rippled through the void. Something that wasn't physical. There was no sound, no movement, no change in the darkness—yet he felt it: an invisible pull, faint but unmistakable. It was similar to the quiet connection he had developed with this strange space and the spheres.
Only now did the realisation settle in—this new sensation felt eerily like the energy the two spheres emitted.
At some point during his time here, Michael had formed a bond not only with the space around him, but with the spheres themselves. As he focused on the sensation, faint, phantom-like threads appeared in his vision—thin, shimmering lines linking him to the white sphere, the black sphere… and linking the spheres to each other.
The three of them were bound. Wherever he moved, the threads shifted with him, reacting to even the slightest motion.
Now a fourth thread appeared.
Unlike the previous two, this source felt distant. Weak. Foreign. Its energy resembled the others, yet carried something undeniably different.
Michael's eyes narrowed. His pulse quickened. Rational thought tangled with a rush of unstable excitement. A smile stretched across his face—too wide, too sharp, born from equal parts hope and madness.
"...There's a third source?"
The void seemed to pause—silent, watching.
He swallowed a laugh, barely maintaining control."Anything but more deadly balls. Seriously."
"...."
"…That sounded wrong."
Silence returned, and with effort, he forced the thrill down, letting his thoughts settle. For several long minutes, he considered his options—whether attempting a connection was worth the risk, knowing the white and black spheres alone could erase his mind if he misjudged his distance or attention.
And yet… curiosity burned stronger than caution.
If something went wrong, he already had a plan: run to the white sphere, then to the black one. If their opposing forces interfered with the new presence, it might cancel out its influence—assuming it was another sphere at all.
Michael lowered himself onto the black surface, crossing his legs and intertwining his hands. He drew in several long breaths and released them slowly, grounding himself with each exhale.
He knew—at least from common knowledge—that the lotus position was widely used for focus and meditation, heavily practised in the East. What began as a simple attempt to calm himself had revealed something far more valuable. When he concentrated on each inhale and exhale, the faint illusory strings became visible—threads responding to the energy flowing in and out of his body.
Any doubt he had about the method vanished instantly.
After a few minutes, he felt the connection again—but its source remained just out of reach. He expanded his awareness, his consciousness extending through the vast space as he attempted to trace the new thread back to its origin. For a moment, he felt the source as though he had almost touched it—like brushing against a surface through fog.
And then, without warning, the link snapped.
Vanished—like it had never been there at all.
Furious, Michael's eyes snapped open, his chest heaving with the weight of failure and exhaustion. He clenched his fists, trembling, imagining the thin layer of water rippling beneath him as anger boiled to the surface.
"Damn it!"
Hearing his own words, it suddenly hit Michael that he was no longer in the void. But the voice he heard just now—it sounded alien, something unfamiliar, something that wasn't his.
I'm in a plane—no, a jet to be exact?
His height, his skin colour, his sight—everything felt strange. A shiver ran down his spine as goosebumps spread across his skin.
Suddenly, the whole jet seemed to grow darker, as if a large cloud had swallowed the sun. Michael glanced out the window, confusion twisting in his gut.
It couldn't be the clouds—he was flying above them. A vast ocean of white stretched endlessly below, glowing softly under the fading sunlight. Yet the world itself seemed dimmed, the light drained from the air.
Then he looked up.
And froze.
Suspended high above the Earth, three colossal rings floated in the sky. Their surfaces shimmered with faint light, intricate patterns pulsing along their circumference.
For a heartbeat, Michael forgot to breathe.
Horror and awe gripped him in equal measure.
satellites?
'...?!'
No!
Turning with a steady rhythm, the "Three Mega-Rings" wrapped the world like a barrier—massive, unmoving, and absolute.
'…?'
Three mega-rings? Why do I know them?
Michael tried to speak his thoughts out loud, but—
Gurgle!
His throat seized up, thick and metallic, the taste of blood and bile rising fast.
'…?'
An overwhelming urge to vomit surged through him, raw and uncontrollable.
Shit.
He stumbled backward, his body moving on instinct—an instinct that seemed older than memory. His vision swam, his head pounded, and his stomach twisted violently as nausea clawed through his chest.
Every muscle felt wrong, uncoordinated, as if his body remembered how to move, but he didn't.
The automatic door slid open with a low hiss, revealing a compact bathroom. Pale, flickering light glimmered against cold marble.
He barely made it to the toilet before doubling over.
"Urgh—"
The sound came out strangled, his body convulsing as bile and half-digested fluid spilled from his mouth. His throat burned. His lungs heaved, searching for air that refused to come.
The retching echoed in the small space—raw, wet, and human. When it finally ended, Michael spat, tasting acid and iron. A faint red trail stained his lips. His hands trembled as he wiped them clean, fingers shaking from exhaustion and disbelief.
He turned to the sink, the mirror catching his reflection as he leaned forward to rinse.
'…!'
A boy stared back at him—pale skin, sharp eyes, dark hair hanging in disarray, his breath shallow and uneven. A smear of blood ran down his chin, painting a faint line across his neck.
Michael blinked. The stranger blinked.
He sighed. The stranger sighed.
Every small twitch, every subtle breath—mirrored perfectly.
Water pooled in the sink as he scrubbed his hands, but the sticky warmth of blood refused to leave his skin.
That face—the stranger staring back—was his.
His new mask.