Thea blinked against the sudden darkness, but it wasn't empty.
It was fabricated.
As her eyes adjusted, a dim, violet glow lit the space — a hallway that stretched out ahead of her, impossibly narrow, lined with mirrors. But the mirrors didn't reflect her.
They reflected… possibilities.
In one, she was in a sleek suit, clipboard in hand, talking into a headset — a corporate handler. Smiling as she watched a version of Igor run through a maze like a lab rat.
In another, she was alone on a mountain, aged, gray-haired, with a look that could only be called regret.
In the third — she was gone. The hallway stood empty.
Each reflection whispered when she stepped past it.
"You were always meant to stay behind.""He'll leave you. Eventually.""This is how it ends."
Thea kept walking.
Her heartbeat was steady now. This place fed on panic. So she gave it nothing.
"You want me to fall apart?" she muttered. "Get in line."
A voice answered — not hers. Not the system.
Igor's voice.
"Thea. Can you hear me?"
She paused. Looked around. "Igor?"
No response.
She tried again. "Where are you?"
The mirror ahead flickered — and suddenly it showed him. Igor, in a small, sterile interview room. One-way glass behind him. A metal table. And across from him…
Was her.
Except it wasn't.
Her hair was too neat. Her smile too soft. That thing wore her face like a costume.
And it was talking to him.
"Why do you trust her, Igor? She's lied to you. Remember freshman year?"
"That wasn't a lie. That was a secret," Igor snapped. "And she kept it because she didn't want to hurt anyone."
The fake Thea tilted her head. "You could leave right now. Alone. We'll open the door. No strings. Or… you can wait for someone who might never make it out."
He didn't answer.
He just stared at the table.
Then quietly said, "She'd wait for me."
The mirror flickered out.
Thea exhaled.
Her voice caught in her throat — pride, rage, loyalty all balled into one.
"Still with me," she whispered.
The hallway ended.
She stepped into a chamber shaped like an old theater — velvet curtains, red carpets, golden balcony rails. It would've been beautiful if not for the mannequins.
Dozens of them, slumped in theater chairs. Dressed like people she recognized: childhood classmates, old teachers, even her dad.
Their faces were paper-thin copies — warped, smiles peeled too wide.
And every mannequin turned when she walked in.
A spotlight beamed down on the stage.
A velvet sign unfurled from above:
"Act III: Judgement. Play Your Role."
She stepped forward, reluctantly climbing the stairs to center stage.
A microphone rose with a metallic hiss.
The mannequins leaned in — as if waiting.
A robotic voice crackled overhead.
"Please explain: Why do you deserve to leave?"
Thea froze.
A trap.
Any answer could be twisted.
So she did what she always did when backed into a corner.
She got weird.
Grabbing the mic, she took a deep breath and said:
"Because if I stay here any longer, I'll start charging rent."
The mannequins didn't move.
"I deserve to leave," she continued, "because I'm not a test subject. I'm a human being. And frankly, your creepy trauma maze needs a lot of therapy."
Still no response.
She raised an eyebrow. "Also, your mannequins are slouching. Real bad posture. Very unprofessional."
One mannequin stood.
Just one.
And walked forward.
Its body jerked like a puppet.
Thea stepped back as it climbed onto the stage.
Its face — now that she could see it — wasn't just like her dad.
It was her dad's face.
Copied.
But frozen in the expression he wore the last time they fought.
"You left us," it hissed. "You always run."
"No," she whispered. "Not anymore."
The mannequin reached out — and she ducked.
Grabbed the mic stand, swung it like a staff, and cracked it against the puppet's side.
It exploded into black dust.
The room shifted again.
Walls shuddered. Curtains disintegrated. The mannequins collapsed.
Only the red door at the back remained.
It opened on its own.
Beyond it, a glowing white tunnel hummed softly — like breathing.
As Thea stepped into it, she whispered under her breath, "Hang on, Igor."
Igor, meanwhile, sat alone.
The fake-Thea had vanished. The lights had dimmed. But the tension hadn't left.
He paced the room. The walls were smooth, seamless.
Then — a click.
A slit opened in the ceiling, and a small square dropped down with a thud.
A cube. Metal. With a note taped to it.
"Puzzle me this."
He snorted. "Of course. Can't get out without a gimmick."
He examined the cube.
No visible seams. Four colored buttons. A glowing timer — 5 minutes and counting.
A voice began reciting:
"Red is for memory. Blue is for trust. Yellow is for silence. Green is for truth. Press them in the right order to survive."
Igor sat down.
"Okay, let's think."
Red. Memory.
What was his first memory in this maze?
Waking up. Thea next to him.
"Red first," he muttered, pressing it.
It pulsed gently.
Next — trust.
Thea again. Easy.
"Blue."
Light turned steady.
Then…
Silence?
He remembered the hallway where they couldn't speak. When the floor almost dropped out.
"Yellow."
A faint ding.
And truth.
He thought about what he told the fake-Thea. That he'd wait.
He pressed green.
The cube opened.
Inside: a single keycard.
Labelled: "REUNION."
He stood, grin slowly forming.
"Oh, we're almost out."
Back in the white tunnel, Thea's pace slowed.
The air was warmer here. The buzzing softer. Almost inviting.
A screen flickered on.
Igor's face appeared — live.
"Thea!" he called out. "You good?"
She nearly laughed. "Better now."
A door split open ahead of her — and one for him on the other side.
They stepped through at the same time.
And found themselves together again — in a vast dome with glass walls and a high, dark ceiling.
At the center: a pedestal.
Two buttons.
Above it: a message suspended mid-air, projected in blue light.
"Final Directive: Only One May Exit."
They looked at each other.
Silent.
Thea spoke first.
"Wanna bet they're watching?"
Igor snorted. "Let's give them a show."
And walked toward the pedestal.
Together.