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You blink—and the room is gone.
The desk, the mirror, the whispers, the shadows—all replaced in an instant by white. Endless, blinding white. Floor, ceiling, walls—if they even exist—are the same glowing, seamless void. You try to turn around, to retrace your steps, but there's nowhere to go. There are no doors. No windows. Just this infinite, echoing brightness that hums like it's alive.
Then the voice returns—quieter now, almost gentle.
"You're not lost. You're just... in between."
In between what? You open your mouth to ask, but no sound escapes. You clutch your throat, realizing something horrifying.
You can't speak.
Panic surges. You try to scream but nothing comes. Your breath quickens, but the air tastes sterile and cold. The walls begin to pulse softly with light—first dim, then bright, in rhythm with your racing heartbeat. You feel exposed. Vulnerable. Like the room is studying you.
You hear something scrape. A piece of the white wall peels away like paper, revealing... a mirror.
Not the same one. This one is clean. Silent. Innocent-looking.
But when you look into it, there is no reflection.
Nothing.
Just a void staring back at you.
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The Seventh Choice:
A new sound echoes. Footsteps. Slow, heavy, deliberate. They're coming from behind you—but how? There was no behind. You spin, and suddenly a chair sits in the space where moments ago was nothing.
In the chair is a child.
Yourself.
Maybe ten years old. Silent. Staring. Hollow-eyed. The child version of you holds a small card and slides it across the unseen floor toward you.
You pick it up.
It reads:
"When did you first begin to lie?"
You feel nauseous. As if that one question had weight. As if the room is reacting to it. And then the child-you whispers:
"Answer truthfully... or not at all."
You look into the mirror again. Still no reflection. But now… writing appears in the glass.
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Do you:
A) Write your answer on the mirror, even if it reveals something you're not ready to admit.
B) Refuse to answer and walk toward the child version of yourself, hoping to find another way.
C) Close your eyes and try to remember the first time you lied, diving into your memory to confront it.
D) Smash the mirror. You won't play this game on its terms anymore.
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The Echo of Memory:
Suddenly, your voice returns.
But only one word escapes:
"Why?"
It's not clear if you're asking the child, the game, or yourself. The child version of you stands and slowly walks backward into the whiteness, fading like a shadow swallowed by light. And you're alone again.
The mirror glows with one final phrase:
"The truth won't set you free. It will trap you... with yourself."
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Quiz 7:
Another whisper curls around your mind like smoke:
When no one is watching… who are you really?
A) A protector. I shield others from the truth to keep them safe.
B) A manipulator. I control narratives to survive.
C) A pretender. I wear a mask I've forgotten how to remove.
D) A wanderer. I don't know who I am—and I'm terrified to find out.
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End of Chapter 7
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