The room settled into its usual stillness once the alchemists stepped out of the room, quite a while had gone by since the experiment. Their footsteps faded along the stone corridor, a pattern he had memorized over the past cycles. The door latch clicked, and the faint scrape of metal against metal marked the moment he counted as the start of a new interval. He tracked these stretches with care. Some lasted half an hour. Others with a higher rate of complexity took about seven hours. None went longer unless something had gone wrong in the adjoining chambers. Those rare delays told him more about the place than any spoken word.

  He stayed on the table, arms resting where they had left them. The restraints no longer held him; they had stopped using them once they believed his body too weak to resist. He kept still anyway. Movement wasted strength, and strength mattered more now than it had during the early procedures. He listened to the room. A faint drip from the basin. The soft tick of cooling metal from the last tool they had used. The air carried a trace of burnt oil from the lamps. He followed each sound until it settled into its place.

  He shifted his gaze toward the far wall. The lamps had been extinguished before they left, leaving only the faintest outline of shapes. He had learned to work with that. At first, the dark swallowed everything. Now he could make out the table legs, the outline of the cabinet, the curve of the metal tray. His sight had not sharpened in any miraculous way; he had simply forced himself to remember where each object belonged. When the dark pressed in, he relied on those memories to rebuild the room in his mind.

  He turned his head slightly. The knife rack sat near the second lamp. He knew the distance by the way the floor creaked when they walked toward it. The knives varied in length. Some were narrow, used for shallow cuts. Others were broader, meant for deeper work. They had used both on him. The cuts never followed a pattern he could predict. Sometimes they opened a line along his arm. Other times they worked near his ribs or along his back. They never explained their choices. They only observed the results.

  He lowered his gaze to his forearm. The skin carried marks from past procedures. Some had closed. Others remained raw. They had inserted unfamiliar pieces beneath the surface more than once. He never saw the objects clearly. They kept them wrapped until the moment of insertion. He only felt the pressure as they pushed something inside, then the weight of it settled against muscle. Sometimes the object stayed for a day. Sometimes only an hour. When they removed it, they placed it on the tray, examined it, and discarded it if it failed to meet whatever standard they followed.

  He breathed slowly. Each breath carried a faint ache along his ribs. That ache told him the last insertion had not healed yet. He kept track of these sensations. They helped him understand what they were changing. Also helped him understand what remained his.

  He shifted his attention to the door. The alchemists spoke a language he had not fully grasped. Their words carried sharp edges, clipped endings, and a rhythm that changed depending on who entered the room. He had begun to separate their voices by cadence. One spoke quickly, often overlapping his own words. Another paused between phrases, as if weighing each one. A third rarely spoke at all, relying on gestures the others seemed to understand.

  He replayed their last exchange in his mind. He had caught fragments. A term repeated twice. Another word spoken with emphasis. He did not know their meaning yet, but he stored them. He would need the language when he left this place. If he left without understanding it, he would be at a disadvantage. He could not allow that.

  He listened again. No footsteps. No voices. The corridor remained quiet. He used the silence to study the room once more. The table beneath him had a slight dip near the center. The wood had worn down from repeated use. The cabinet door stuck when pulled too quickly. The hinges had a faint rasp. The basin leaked from the lower seam. A small puddle formed beneath it each night. These details mattered. They grounded him. They gave him something to hold onto when the procedures blurred together.

  He shifted his weight. A dull throb pulsed along his shoulder where they had opened a line earlier. The cut had been shallow, but the area around it felt strained. He traced the sensation carefully. No swelling. No heat. That meant the wound would close without intervention. He had learned to judge these things by necessity. They rarely treated the aftermath unless it interfered with their next step.

  He closed his eyes for a moment. The darkness behind his eyelids matched the room. He pictured the layout again… Table... Cabinet… Knife rack... Lamps... Basin... Door... He repeated the sequence until it settled into place. This routine kept his mind steady. It also helped him notice when something changed. A new tool. A new container. A new scent. These shifts often signaled a new phase in their work.

  He opened his eyes. The faint outline of the cabinet came into view again. He focused on the lower drawer. They had opened it earlier, removing a small metal case. He had not seen its contents, but the case had a distinct weight when placed on the tray. He remembered the sound it made when they set it down. A muted thud, heavier than the others. He stored that detail as well.

  He adjusted his breathing. The air felt cooler now. The lamps had been out long enough for the room to lose its earlier warmth. The stone walls held the cold. He let it settle over him. The cold helped him stay alert. It also slowed the ache in his ribs.

  He listened again. A faint scrape echoed from the corridor. Not footsteps. Something dragged lightly across the floor. He held still. The sound faded. He waited. Nothing followed. He released the tension in his shoulders.

  He returned to his earlier thoughts. A new faction. He had not seen them directly, but the alchemists had spoken of them. Their words carried a different weight when the topic arose. He had caught enough fragments to understand that the alchemists answered to someone else. That knowledge shifted the balance. If another group held influence here, then the alchemists were not the highest threat. They were intermediaries. Maybe insignificant tools despite their knowledge. That meant the true danger lay elsewhere.

  He considered this carefully. His current state limited his options. His body needed reconstruction before he could act. They planned to rebuild him. They had said as much in their fragmented discussions. He did not know what form that reconstruction would take. He only knew it would grant him capabilities he lacked now. Until then, he needed to endure. He needed to observe. He needed to learn.

  He turned his head slightly toward the door again. The corridor remained quiet. The interval had not yet reached its usual end. He used the remaining time to practice the language. He repeated the fragments he remembered. He shaped the sounds in his mind, matching the cadence he had heard. He did not speak to them aloud. Sound carried too easily in this place. He kept the practice internal, forming the words without letting them escape.

  He paused. A faint vibration traveled through the table. Someone walked in the corridor. The steps were measured. Not hurried. Not hesitant. He recognized the pattern. One of the alchemists. The one who paused between phrases. The latch clicked. Light spilled into the room as the door opened. He kept his gaze steady, watching the silhouette enter.

  The alchemist approached the table. He carried a small container. The container had not been used before. GR1m1 noted its shape, its size, the way the alchemist held it. A new phase, then.

  The cylinder stood beside the table, its surface clear enough for him to see the faint distortion of his own outline through the water inside. The water carried a cold bite that reminded him of the first time they submerged his arm in it. He pressed his fingers against the glass now, letting the chill settle into his skin. The cold steadied his hand. It also kept him alert.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  He traced a line across the surface with the tip of his nail. The alchemists had left a thin layer of residue from earlier procedures, enough for him to mark symbols without drawing attention. He shaped the first word he remembered from their last exchange: ???? (Table).

  He had heard it spoken near the table. He had seen one of them gesture toward the table as he said it. He wrote it slowly, watching the strokes settle into place.

  A faint shimmer moved across the carved lines. Not bright. Not warm. Just a shift, as if the water behind the glass responded to the shape. The shimmer lasted only a moment, but during that moment an image formed in his mind. The table beneath him. The worn dip in the wood. The stains near the edges. The straps they no longer used. The image appeared without effort, as if the word reached into his memory and pulled the scene forward.

  He studied the symbol again. The shimmer faded. The image faded with it. He moved to the next word. ?????. (Cut)

  He had heard that one when they opened a line along his shoulder. The tool had pressed against his skin. The alchemist had spoken the word before making the first incision. He wrote it now, shaping each stroke with care. The lines settled. Another shimmer. This time the image came sharper. The tool’s edge. The pressure. The moment the skin parted. He felt a faint echo of the sensation, not pain, just a memory of contact.

  He let the image pass. He moved to the third word. ????????????. (afternoon)

  He had heard this one when the lamps dimmed. The alchemists spoke it as they prepared to leave. He wrote it slowly. The symbol stretched across more space than the others. When the shimmer came, it carried a darker cast. The room as it appeared when the lamps lost their flame. The outlines of objects fading. The cold settling deeper. The moment he relied on memory instead of sight.

  He stepped back from the cylinder. The water stilled. The glass held no glow now. Only his markings remained.

  He tried another word he had heard earlier in the day. A short one. He wrote it. Nothing happened. No shimmer... No image… The lines stayed dull. He wiped them away with the side of his hand and tried another. Still nothing.

  He repeated the process with several more. None responded.

  He paused. The pattern was clear enough. The words only reacted when he had lived through the thing they described. When he had seen it. Heard it and felt it. The runes he wrote in the cylinder did not respond to guesses. It responded to knowledge.

  He leaned against the table, letting his body rest. The ache along his ribs pulsed with each breath. He ignored it. He had pushed himself enough for now. The cold from the cylinder lingered in his fingers. He welcomed it. It kept him steady.

  He lowered himself onto the table and closed his eyes. The room stayed active around him. The drip from the basin. The faint hum from the corridor. The distant clatter of metal from another chamber. None of it slowed.

  A pressure built behind his eyes. No pain… More like a shift in the room’s weight. The air thickened. The edges of the table blurred. He opened his eyes, but the room did not return to its usual shape. The walls lost their sharp lines. The lamps stretched into streaks. The cabinet wavered as if seen through moving water.

  He pushed himself upright. The distortion deepened. The room no longer held its usual depth. A haze settled over everything, not mist, not smoke, just a lack of clarity that made distance hard to judge. He blinked. The haze stayed.

  A memory surfaced. The old man. The place where the ground had felt unstable beneath him. The way the world had thinned around the edges. He tried to recall the man’s words. Only fragments came. A sound that might have been a name. The sound broke apart before he could grasp it, as if something inside him refused to let it form.

  He steadied himself with one hand on the table. The haze thickened. Shapes moved within it... They were not people... Not animals... Just motion. Quick… So quick it was difficult to follow. The shapes passed near him without touching him. Their outlines shifted before he could make sense of them.

  He tried to focus on one. It slipped away. Another passed behind it. He caught a glimpse of something like a limb, but the shape changed before he could confirm it. The movements carried no sound. No breath. No footsteps. Only motion.

  He tightened his grip on the table. The surface felt solid. Real. The haze did not.

  A question formed in his mind, not spoken, not shaped into words, just a raw attempt to understand what he saw. The haze did not answer. The shapes did not slow. The room around him flickered between the laboratory and the distorted space.

  He closed his eyes again. The distortion pressed against him. The old man’s voice surfaced in fragments. A warning was given... A call to it... A name he could not hold. The sound broke apart each time he reached for it.

  He opened his eyes. The haze thinned. The shapes retreated. The room returned in pieces. The table first… Continued the cabinet. Then the lamps... The corridor hum settled back into place.

  He exhaled slowly. The distortion left no trace behind. Only the faint ache in his ribs and the cold in his fingers remained.

  He looked at the cylinder again. The symbols he had written stayed on the glass. The water inside remained still.

  The cylinder’s surface caught a faint reflection of the lamps outside his line of sight. GR1m1 rested his hand against the glass, letting the cold settle into his palm. The water inside stayed still. No movement... No sound... Only the steady pressure of the glass against his skin.

  A shift in the air pulled his attention toward the far corner. The room had not changed, yet something in the space felt misaligned. The outline of the cabinet wavered for a moment, as if the distance between him and it had shortened. He blinked. The cabinet returned to its usual place.

  A figure stood beside it… He had not heard footsteps. No latch. No breath. The figure wore dark clothing that hid most of its shape. The hood cast a shadow over the face, but the eyes remained visible. They held a faint glow, steady and unnatural, as if the light came from within rather than from the lamps.

  The figure moved toward the cylinder. Each step landed without sound. GR1m1 pressed his back against the inner wall of the chamber, bracing himself. The figure reached the base of the cylinder and placed both hands against the glass. The pressure made a dull vibration run through the structure. The figure pushed harder. The vibration deepened.

  GR1m1’s thoughts scattered as the whole dream or vision were far too scattered to understand…

  Why am I here?! As he breathed heavily.

  Who are you?! Questioning a shadow…

  What brought me to this place?! As he pushed against the cylinder crystal trying to break it.

  Answer me… pushing harder with his shoulder resting his whole body against the cylinder.

  The words formed in his mind faster than he could shape them. The breath caught up. His chest tightened. He pressed his hand against the glass again, as if the contact would steady him.

  The figure stopped pushing. The vibration faded. The figure leaned closer until their eyes met through the glass. The glow in those eyes held steady, bright enough to cut through the dim room.

  A voice reached him. Not loud. Not whispered. It carried no echo.

  “We don’t have much time. The world you knew is gone. This is where it starts. Soon your escape will be given. For the path ahead, remember this. You’re free to be your own self. Search for the knowledge of what stopped being and what is about to be. This is where it starts.”

  The words landed in pieces. GR1m1 tried to hold them, but they slipped through him as if they belonged to a language he almost understood. He opened his mouth, but no sound came. His mind pulled at the fragments, trying to place them.

  The figure’s outline flickered. The edges of the cloak thinned. The glow in the eyes dimmed. The figure stepped back, but the movement left no sound. The body lost shape, fading from the feet upward. The last part to remain was the face, or what he could see of it beneath the hood.

  The figure looked at him one final time.

  “You were never meant to remember. They wanted you to be nothing but…”

  The next sound broke apart before it reached him.

  “…to forget everything, even your name. But you’re different now. You were made different.”

  The face dissolved. The glow vanished. The room returned to its usual shape.

  GR1m1 slammed his fist against the glass. The impact sent a sharp jolt up his arm. The cylinder held firm. He struck it again, harder. The glass did not shift. His breath came uneven. His thoughts tangled.

  What do you mean this is where it starts… Where are we… What happened… He drew his arm back for another strike… A metallic clatter echoed from the corridor… He froze.

  The latch turned. Light spilled into the room. The alchemist stepped inside, carrying a tray of tools. The cylinder’s surface reflected the movement with perfect clarity.

  The dream-state snapped away without leaving a trace on the glass.

  “???????? ??? ???????... ?????? ???? ?? ???????? ?? ?????? ?? ??? ?? ?????????...”

  “Monsters are mirrors... showing only the darkness we refuse to see in ourselves...”

  How was it??