The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, their hum blending with the low mechanical pulse of the servers. Dust floated like digital ghosts in the sterile archive room, catching brief light before fading into silence.
Sei sat alone, his long fingers dancing across the keyboard. His black hair was tied back, a few strands brushing pale cheeks flushed lightly near the eyes. A silver hoop gleamed on his lower lip, and his dark blue-gray eyes scanned the monitor with razor focus.
He didn't like people. He liked files. They didn't ask questions, didn't demand trust. They stayed where you left them—until they didn't.
Tonight, something was off.
A folder appeared in the central archive database. No timestamp. No source path. Just a name:
[Client ID: 0526-L]
Status: Terminated
Last Access: Today
Sei frowned.
That can't be right.
He opened the folder. It resisted for a moment, like it didn't want to be seen. Then a video loaded.
A young girl sat in the therapy chair. Pale skin, hollow eyes. Her voice was cracked and tired.
"I don't remember how I got here. My name… it doesn't feel like mine."
Sei leaned in.
He didn't recognize her—but something about her expression clung to the edges of his memory. A distant pressure, like déjà vu without a source.
The screen flickered. Glitched.
Then new text flashed on the display.
[Observation Tag: SEI T.]
He froze.
What the hell...?
This was a patient's file. A terminated one. Why was his name attached to it?
The girl in the video spoke again, lower this time, her voice trembling.
"There was a man. No shadow. He said I belonged in the empty room. The one with no windows."
The monitor began to stutter with lines of corrupted data. Something was trying to stop the playback. He reached out, paused the video, and scanned the metadata. A second file was hidden underneath the first.
[Hidden Entry Located – Data Type: Experimental Log]
Before he could open it, a soft beep echoed from the terminal.
[System Alert: Unauthorized File Access – Archive Room 3B]
Someone was watching.
Sei shut the system down, the monitor's glow vanishing instantly. Darkness pressed in around him.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway—slow, deliberate.
He stood still, heartbeat steady, then slipped the drive from the port and slid it into his coat.
This was no ordinary patient record.
And somehow, it was tied to him.