Noah's heartbeat drummed against his ribs as he stared at the photographs covering the room.
Hundreds of them.
No—thousands.
Pinned to the walls, taped to the ceiling, scattered across the floor like fallen leaves. Each picture showed him, but not always the version standing here now.
In one photo he was younger, hair shorter, eyes brighter.
In another he looked older, exhausted, wearing clothes he'd never seen before.
Some photos were snapshots of moments he didn't remember living.
Others felt like scenes stolen from dreams—distorted but familiar.
A whisper crawled across his spine.
This room wasn't just watching him.
It was collecting him.
Noah stepped closer, knees trembling.
His system tried to speak but its voice sputtered like a dying signal:
[Attempting… identity reconstruction…]
[Error. The external memory source overrides your baseline.]
"My baseline?" Noah whispered. "What is that supposed to mean?"
The system crackled again.
[…You are not complete.]
His breath hitched.
Something about the photos felt wrong—not just eerie, but purposeful. Organized. Curated. As if someone had been building him piece by piece.
Across the room, a single photo was circled in red ink.
Noah approached it slowly.
The picture was different from the others. This Noah wasn't looking at the camera. He was looking over his shoulder, eyes fixed on something—or someone—behind him.
And his expression…
fear, resignation, and a strange hint of recognition.
Noah touched the photo.
The moment his fingers brushed the paper, a nauseating wave crashed over him.
His vision tore apart.
For a split second—just one—he saw the world from inside the photograph.
He felt the terror of the Noah in the picture.
Felt the presence behind him.
Felt the cold hand reaching for his shoulder—
"No," Noah gasped, ripping his hand away.
The photo fell to the floor with a soft slap.
His system chimed with frantic static:
[WARNING: parallel-memory bleed detected.]
[Distance yourself from all artifacts.]
[Repeat: DO NOT TOUCH THE—]
The lights in the room flickered violently, cutting the message short.
Then a quiet tapping echoed behind him.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Slow.
Rhythmic.
Intentional.
Noah turned.
At the far end of the room, a narrow door appeared—one he was absolutely sure hadn't been there before.
His pulse tightened.
The tapping grew louder, as if something on the other side was knocking with a single finger.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
He took a step back, but the floor shifted beneath him, urging him forward.
"Noah."
He froze.
The voice was soft. Familiar.
His own voice—again—coming from behind the door.
But this time it wasn't the twisted mirror version.
It sounded like him, same tone, same cadence, the version that spoke every day inside his own head.
Noah's throat tightened.
"Who are you?"
The voice behind the door whispered:
"I'm the part you lost."
His fingers twitched toward the handle.
The system screamed:
[STOP.]
[YOU ARE NOT AUTHORIZED TO REINTEGRATE.]
Reintegrate?
Noah's breath stilled in his lungs.
The door's handle rattled, as if someone inside was gripping it too.
"Noah," the voice repeated.
"You're running out of time."
He shook his head. "Time for what?"
"To decide who you want to be."
The door slowly cracked open.
A sliver of darkness seeped out—dense, heavy, almost alive.
And in that narrow opening, Noah saw an eye.
His eye.
Not angry.
Not corrupted.
Not twisted.
Just tired.
"Come in," the other Noah whispered.
"I've been waiting a long time."
The system's voice shattered into raw static, like it was breaking itself trying to stop him:
[If you enter—]
[—you may not return.]
[You may never remember which version was real.]
His heart pounded like it was trying to tear free from his chest.
The door opened wider.
Noah stood between two choices:
Step into the room and face the missing part of himself—
or step back and remain fractured forever.
He didn't know which option was safer.
He only knew one thing:
The person behind that door was him.
And also…
not him.
Noah reached for the door.
The moment his fingertips grazed the edge—
A hand shot out from the darkness and grabbed his wrist.
Hard.
Too hard.
Noah gasped as pain stabbed up his arm.
The voice that came next no longer sounded like him at all.
It was deeper.
Distorted.
Hungry.
"Found you."