I wake up with a dry mouth and my head pounding like I'd chugged an expired energy drink straight from the can.
The clock reads 1:47 p.m. Shit. I slept the whole day away. The afternoon shift is already gone. My boss is probably blowing up my phone right now with those skull emojis he uses when someone ghosts without warning.
I sit up in bed, hair stuck to my forehead, and the first thing that hits me isn't "I need a shower" or "I gotta come up with an excuse for work."
It's the laptop.
Closed on the desk, way too quiet.
"No," I say out loud, voice hoarse. "I'm not opening that thing today."
I get up, head to the bathroom, and splash cold water on my face. The mirror gives me back a guy with dark circles like he lost a fight with his own brain.
Normal.
Everything's normal.
I make coffee strong enough to raise the dead, sit on the couch, and turn on the TV. Some dumb reality show about rich people pretending to have problems.
Perfect.
Two minutes later, my eyes have already drifted to the laptop in the bedroom. Door open. Just a sliver of the screen visible.
I change the channel.
Commercial. Another. Another.
My foot starts tapping the floor. My finger drums on the mug. The coffee goes cold and forgotten.
"I'm not opening it," I repeat, quieter this time.
The sentence doesn't even convince me.
It's like leaving something half-finished. Like forgetting the name of a song you know by heart. It just sits there, spinning, taking up space.
Incomplete.
I try to work. I open the company laptop, answer a few tickets. Wrong. Everything's wrong. I read and don't absorb. I reply on autopilot.
I close the lid harder than I needed to.
Silence.
The thought comes back. Not like an idea.
Like a pull.
"Fine…" I sigh, rubbing my face. "I'm just gonna check one thing."
I already know it's a lie before I finish the sentence.
I go back to the bedroom.
The laptop is right where I left it. Closed. Waiting.
I sit down.
Open it.
The screen lights up before I even touch a key. It doesn't fully boot. It just… responds.
The document is still open.
And the last line isn't the same anymore.
Eli Voss would die… not yet.
Now it says:
Eli Voss would die in the experiments… but only if he chose to stay.
A chill crawls slowly up my spine.
I select the sentence. Delete.
It comes right back.
Exactly the same.
I let out a short breath through my nose.
"Of course. Obviously."
I type over it, faster than I can think:
This is a bug. Just exhaustion. Just my fucked-up head.
The letters appear before I even finish typing.
This isn't just exhaustion.
I freeze.
The cursor blinks.
And the sentence continues:
You know that.
I sit there for a few seconds, not breathing right.
"…Alright," I say quietly, not sounding very convinced.
I lean closer.
My fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment.
Then I write:
If this isn't a bug… then what do you think it is?
The cursor blinks.
Once.
Twice.
And answers:
Something you can't pretend you don't recognize.
My stomach tightens.
It's not fear.
It's worse.
It's familiar.
I close my eyes.
For a second, the air changes.
It's no longer the smell of cold coffee.
It's polished wood. Something sweet underneath. Flowers, maybe.
And a voice, distant and too light to hold onto:
"Brother…?"
I open my eyes.
Everything fades.
Room. Fan. Laptop.
But the feeling stays.
I stare at the screen.
I could close it now.
I could get up, walk away, pretend none of this happened.
Go back to work. Back to normal. Back to predictable.
It makes sense.
It's safe.
My hand doesn't leave the keyboard.
I take a deep breath.
And start typing:
Eli Voss woke up in the Voss family mansion, sixteen years old, with his sister Lira jumping on the bed and his father waiting with the Imperial Academy letter in his hand.
The text doesn't resist.
It keeps going.
Smooth.
Way too natural.
…and for the first time in a long while, he felt like he was home.
I freeze.
The line finishes itself.
Even knowing the house could burn him alive.
My chest tightens.
Hard.
I don't stop.
Not this time.
I save the document.
I stare at the blinking cursor for a few seconds.
And I let out, almost without realizing:
"…Alright."
It's not a challenge.
It's not curiosity.
It's acceptance.
I close the laptop slowly.
But this time, the silence left in the room isn't empty.