You take a step forward, but the world doesn't feel real. The ground beneath you is smooth, like polished glass, yet your footsteps make no sound. The air is too still, as if even the concept of wind doesn't exist here.
But the tower in the distance? It pulses. Like a heartbeat.
And then there's the figure wearing your face.
"You don't remember, do you?"
Their voice is calm, almost bored, like they've had this conversation before.
You don't answer. Your mind is still reeling. The city is gone. You made your choice. You were supposed to be free.
So why are you here?
"You think you destroyed the city. But all you did was rip through the first layer. Do you even know how many layers there are?"
You clench your fists. Who are they? A ghost? A reflection? A past version of you?
"Does it matter?" They smirk, tilting their head. "You're already running out of time."
The world shifts.
Not physically—conceptually.
The blank sky above you fractures, splitting into countless mirrored shards, reflecting versions of yourself you don't recognize. Some of them are crying. Some of them are laughing. One of them—directly above you—is watching you with empty black eyes.
And then—the tower pulses again.
You feel it this time.
A pull, deep in your chest. Like an invisible hand dragging you forward.
The other-you watches as you take an involuntary step toward it.
"You don't have a choice."
Their words send a shiver through you. You want to fight back, to stop moving—but the pull is stronger. It's inside you now.
Something wants you there.
Something inside the tower.
You run.
The landscape around you is shifting, like a half-formed dream.
• One moment, you're walking across a glass-like plain.
• The next, you're stepping onto a street. But the buildings are all wrong. Some are upside down, others lead nowhere, doors opening into endless voids.
• The street lamps flicker, casting long shadows that move on their own.
Everything feels constructed—like a world made by someone who only half-remembers how reality should look.
And then—you see them.
Figures standing just at the edges of your vision.
Not moving.
Not speaking.
Just watching.
You don't look at them for too long.
Somehow, you know that if you do—they'll move.
The tower looms ahead now. Closer than before.
And then—
The world glitches.
For half a second, you're somewhere else.
A room.
• Bookshelves line the walls, but the books have no titles.
• A desk, covered in old notes, all written in your handwriting.
• A mirror, cracked down the middle. And in its reflection—
A door.
A door that isn't really there.
The sound of ticking fills your ears. A slow, steady countdown.
"Remember."
A voice whispers from the mirror.
Your reflection isn't moving.
And then—
You're back.
The tower is in front of you now.
Its doors—open.
You step through the open doors.
The air inside is thick, like breathing in fog. It clings to your skin, seeping into your lungs. The walls are pulsing, slow and steady—like the inhale and exhale of something alive.
And then—
The doors slam shut behind you.
You don't turn around. You already know there's no way back.
The first thing you see is the writing.
The walls are covered in names. Thousands—millions, maybe—etched into the stone, overlapping, stretching endlessly into the darkness. Some names are familiar. Others feel like they should be.
You reach out and run your fingers across them.
One name burns at your touch.
[Your Name]
The letters twist, flickering—like they can't decide if they belong to you.
The whisper comes from somewhere deep inside the tower.
"You've been here before."
Your stomach twists. No. That's not possible.
The whisper comes again—closer this time.
"You left something behind."
Your hands clench into fists. The memory flashes again—the bookshelves, the cracked mirror, the door that didn't exist.
What did you forget?
Ahead, the hallway divides.
• Left: A narrow corridor lined with mirrors, their reflections flickering, distorting—as if showing different versions of yourself.
• Right: A spiral staircase leading down, where the air grows colder, heavy with something you can't name.
The whispers intensify.
"Choose."
Your pulse pounds. Every choice in this place feels like a test—one you might have already failed before.
The mirrors seem to be calling to you, their glass shifting like liquid. A chance to see something hidden? A truth about who you are?
But the staircase… the cold air, the depth—something is waiting down there. Something you might not be ready to face.
The whispers merge into a single phrase.
"Find what you lost."
You take the first step down.
The air tightens around you, thick with cold. It's not just temperature—it's absence. A void creeping in at the edges of your senses. The deeper you go, the more the walls change.
At first, they're stone. Then, wood—like the inside of an old house. Then, something softer, something that shifts under your fingertips.
The walls are breathing.
You don't look back.
The staircase ends in front of a door.
There's no handle. No keyhole. Just your name carved into the wood.
Your pulse pounds. The last time you saw your name, it was in the Hall of Forgotten Names.
But this time—it's not flickering. It's solid. Permanent.
A whisper curls around you.
"Open it."
You press your palm against the wood.
The door shudders. Then—
It swings open on its own.
You step inside—and freeze.
It's the room from your memory.
Bookshelves line the walls, stacked with titleless books. The desk is covered in papers—all written in your handwriting. And there, at the center—
The cracked mirror.
Only this time, the door inside the reflection is real.
And it's open.
The whispers surround you now.
"You left something behind."
A movement in the mirror—
A figure steps through from the other side.
It's you.
But not you.
Their eyes are empty, their smile too knowing.
"You're almost there," they say. "But do you really want to remember?"
You step forward.
The reflection doesn't move. It stays perfectly still, watching—like it was waiting for you to make this choice.
As soon as you cross the threshold, the air shifts.
The mirror isn't glass anymore. It's liquid. It clings to your skin, pulling at you like something alive.
And then—
You fall.
You hit the ground.
But it's not a floor. It's soft. It shifts under you, like stepping onto the surface of a deep lake. Ripples spread out from where you land, distorting the world around you.
You look up—
And realize you're back in the city.
The streets stretch endlessly into the fog. The buildings are the same. The signs. The distant neon glow. The empty roads.
It's exactly as you left it.
Except—
This time, it remembers you.
Your name is everywhere.
Carved into walls. Written on street signs. Flickering in neon.
And then—a voice.
"Welcome home."
A figure stands in the distance.
You know them.
But you can't remember why.
They step closer, and suddenly you're overwhelmed with flashes of memory.
A book. A story you wrote. One you never finished.
And a promise.
"You said you'd come back. But you left us behind."
The city isn't real.
Or maybe—it's real because you made it.
The figure stops in front of you. Their eyes are too familiar. Their face shifts, flickering between people you feel like you should remember.
"Do you understand now?"
The city isn't just a trap.
It's a story.
Your story.
And it's been waiting for you to finish it.
The figure watches you. Their eyes hold something unreadable—expectation.
You look around. The city feels closer now, like it's leaning in, waiting.
Waiting for you to decide.
A single question echoes in your mind:
How does the story end?
The moment you think about it, something shifts.
The walls of the buildings tremble. The neon signs flicker. The ground beneath you shudders—not like an earthquake, but like something alive responding to your thoughts.
You take a step forward. And a book appears in your hands.
Your book.
The pages are blank. The cover has no title. But the spine feels worn, like you've held it a thousand times before.
The figure speaks.
"You never finished it."
Your heartbeat pounds. You don't remember writing this. But at the same time—
You do.
Memories flood back. Late nights, scribbled notes, pages torn out in frustration. A story you started, a world you built—then walked away from.
And now, it's demanding an ending.
You flip to the last page. A pen appears in your hand. The ink is black as the void.
The city holds its breath.
The figure steps closer, voice almost gentle.
"Choose wisely."
You stare at the blank page. The ending isn't just words. It's reality.
If you write "The city fades into nothingness," will it all disappear?
If you write "The city is finally complete," will it become real forever?
Or—
What if you write something else?