You awaken to the sound of a ticking clock. But there is no clock.

The room around you is white — so white it almost hurts to look at. There are no shadows. No walls. And yet you feel enclosed. Trapped, not by barriers, but by stillness.

Something is wrong with your body. You try to move your arms — they respond, but sluggishly, like you're underwater. Your chest rises and falls, but there’s no air. You don’t remember how to breathe — Or if you ever needed to.

Then, the voice comes.

It doesn’t echo. It doesn’t intrude. It simply is — as if it had always been inside you.

“Welcome back.”

A figure steps into existence — not from the edge of the room, but from nowhere. One moment, there is only emptiness. The next, he is there.

Tall. Composed. Clad in a black suit that shimmers faintly, like the surface of an oil-slicked mirror. His face is serene, almost too symmetrical — as if designed, not born. His eyes are impossibly dark, and you can’t tell if they’re watching you or watching through you.

He tilts his head.

“Do you know your name?”

You try to speak. Nothing comes. Your voice is lost somewhere deeper than your throat.

He watches you struggle, and offers no help. Only silence.

“Good. That means we’re starting clean.”

He walks — no, glides — toward a chair you hadn't noticed before. He sits, crossing one leg over the other, and folds his hands in his lap like a therapist who already knows the diagnosis.

“I’ll be your guide. You may call me NOX.” “This is a dream.” “But not yours.”

He pauses.

Then, very quietly:

“It belongs to the part of you that remembers.”

And suddenly, the walls begin to crack — fine, spiderweb fractures crawling across nothingness. Behind them is something pulsing, something dark and wet and alive.

“Let’s begin.”

Everything drops away.