The second room smelled like copper and bleach—the unmistakable cocktail of old blood and someone's half-hearted attempt to clean it. The floor was tiled in white squares, most of which were now a mottled pink. Fluorescent lighting buzzed overhead, flickering as though the bulbs were as anxious as he was.
Miles stepped in slowly, gun drawn. The door slammed shut behind him, just like the last one. He didn't bother trying it. He already knew the answer.
The center of the room was dominated by a tall metal chair with arm and leg restraints. Across from it, a pedestal held another slip of paper.
He read aloud, voice flat: "RULE #2: STAY STILL WHEN THE ROOM TELLS YOU."
The door behind him hissed. A new screen flickered to life above the chair. A countdown appeared: 30 seconds.
Miles stared at it. "Is that how long I have to sit in the electric love seat?"
No answer, of course.
He circled the chair like a suspicious animal. No wires that he could see. No needles. But restraint buckles meant something was supposed to hold still—either voluntarily or by force.
When the timer hit 10, a mechanical voice replaced the ticking:
> "Remain still. Do not speak. Do not move."
"That's a hell of a thing to ask a detective with three cups of coffee in him," Miles muttered.
3...2...1.
The screen changed.
> "BEGIN."
The room went still. The lights held steady. For a moment, he thought maybe it was a trick—psychological conditioning, scare tactics. But then, with the softest of hisses, dozens of tiny slits opened in the walls.
Metallic limbs emerged. Spindly, multi-jointed arms, like surgical tools from a horror movie. They extended slowly, dancing through the air with clinical precision.
Miles felt a bead of sweat crawl down his spine. He didn't breathe. Didn't twitch. Every nerve in his body screamed to run, shoot, anything. But he stayed frozen.
One of the limbs floated past his nose. It ended in a scalpel. Another, a camera lens. A third, something that looked disturbingly like a bone saw.
The voice returned:
> "Analyze. Confirm. Subject remains compliant."
The limbs withdrew. The slits sealed.
Miles exhaled slowly.
> "Success."
The restraints on the chair snapped open, inviting.
He didn't sit.
Instead, he approached the door, which clicked open the moment he touched it.
"You're starting to get predictable," he said to the ceiling. "Try harder."
---
The next hallway was darker, narrower. The walls were padded like an asylum cell. His footsteps made no sound. The timer on the wall continued to tick down: 56:02.
At the end of the hall, another door. Another screen.
This time, instead of a rule, it displayed a live feed.
A woman. Late twenties, gagged, restrained in a chair much like the one from his room. Eyes wide. Terrified.
A voice: not the system's voice. A real one. Male. Calm.
> "Detective Rennick. She's rule number three."
Miles stepped closer.
> "You follow the next rule, she lives. You break it, she bleeds. Simple."
On the screen, a countdown appeared above her head: 03:00.
Another message flashed:
RULE #3: DO NOT SPEAK.
Miles blinked. The lights in his room dimmed. A hiss of gas leaked into the chamber. Something was testing him. Again.
He clenched his fists. "This is a coward's game," he whispered, barely audible.
The lights flared. An alarm buzzed. On the screen, the woman winced. A red line appeared on her arm, blood beading up.
He said nothing else.
He paced.
At the two-minute mark, a hatch opened in the wall and dropped an envelope onto the floor.
He picked it up, careful not to speak. Inside: a photo. A man—early 40s, thin, tired eyes. Labeled: VICTIM #12 - FAILED.
Miles turned the photo over.
HE SPOKE. HE LIED. HE LOST.
The timer reached zero.
The screen blinked off. The door unlocked.
He finally exhaled.
"If this is your idea of therapy," he muttered on his way out, "you really need a new shrink."
Behind him, the screen flickered once more, showing his face.
And behind that face, just for a second, the shadow of someone else watching.
Someone who smiled.
---
Miles stepped into the next corridor, longer and colder than before. There were no screens now, only red light spilling from unseen sources. The floor was gridded metal, echoing with each cautious step he took. It felt like walking over the ribs of something ancient.
He heard a faint whisper. Not through speakers—real. Human.
"Help me..."
He turned. Just beyond a narrow grate in the wall, he saw a woman's face. Pale, bruised, wild-eyed. She reached through the bars, fingers bloodied.
"Please... don't let them win."
Miles crouched. "Who are you?"
"They said you'd come. They said you'd lie."
Before he could say more, mechanical arms yanked her back into the darkness.
Screams echoed. Then silence.
A new screen blinked on.
RULE #4: TRUST ONLY THE ROOM.
He scowled. "You people have trust issues."
The corridor split into two doors now. Left and right. No markings.
He chose left. Because why not.
It opened into a chamber with mirrors—hundreds of them. They lined every wall, every angle. All reflecting him. His past. His choices. And somewhere, a voice began again.
> "Detective Rennick... how many lies have you told today?"
He looked into the mirror. He didn't answer.
Not yet.