They hit the floor with a soft thud.
Too soft.
Like someone had politely cushioned their fall with memory foam and passive-aggressive hospitality.
Thea groaned. "Okay. That's either a trap… or the world's creepiest mattress."
Igor sat up and looked around. "No blood, no broken bones. Mild existential dread, but that's been baseline since Level Three."
The room was circular, white, and sterile — like a surgical theater mixed with a minimalist yoga retreat. The floor was smooth, no visible seams. The ceiling, however…
Was glass.
And above the glass?
Rows and rows of seats.
Filled with people.
Watching them.
But the people weren't moving. Or blinking. Or alive, as far as they could tell.
They were mannequins — at least, they looked like mannequins. Dressed in outdated corporate uniforms, 1960s pilot hats, nurse smocks, old-timey business suits. Every head turned toward them, mouths slightly open in mock curiosity.
Each row had a different aesthetic. Retro. Futuristic. Off-brand Renaissance cosplay. One row appeared to be entirely filled with identical clones of that guy who always asks "Can I speak to your manager?"
And in the middle of them — on a throne made of blinking monitors and duct-taped keyboard parts — sat a single person.
Clapping.
Slowly.
"Bravo," he said.
Thea and Igor stiffened.
This guy wore a half-unzipped hoodie over a suit. Sneakers with glowing soles. And around his neck, a plastic name badge that simply read: "The Host."
"You've done so well," he said, standing. "Level Eight. That's not easy. Most snap in Level Five. One guy tried to marry a vending machine. Another opened a bakery in the hallucination wing and never left."
Igor narrowed his eyes. "Are you seriously the mastermind here?"
The Host raised a brow. "Mastermind? I prefer the term facilitator. Mastermind sounds so... cartoonish. Like I should be stroking a cat and explaining my trauma."
He leaned forward.
"But let me be clear — you two are exceptional. Honestly, we didn't expect you to bond so well. The simulations were meant to fragment you."
"Yeah, well," Thea said, "you simulated badly. We're glitch-proof."
The Host laughed. "Adorable. But no one's glitch-proof."
With a snap of his fingers, the mannequins twitched.
One by one, they started clapping too.
Out of sync.
Too slowly.
A haunting, echoey applause that made the room colder.
"Stop that," Igor muttered, covering his ears. "This feels like a haunted TED Talk."
The Host smirked. "You still don't get it, do you?"
He gestured to the rows.
"These aren't just mannequins. These are echoes. Recorded behaviors. You've been watched since you entered. Monitored. Judged. Everything — your loyalty, your sarcasm, your moral decisions, even your weird back-and-forth about the haunted IKEA — all logged."
Thea's eyes darted to the glass above. There were cameras — subtle ones. Embedded in the ceiling tiles. In the fake plants. Even inside a stuffed owl hanging from a chandelier.
"Creepy," she muttered. "I knew that owl was suspicious."
Igor folded his arms. "So what now? You want us to smile and wave? Fight to the death? Bake banana bread?"
"No," said the Host. "You're going to choose."
He pointed to the far wall. A screen lit up.
Two options appeared:
🅐 EXIT – One of you leaves. One of you stays.🅑 REBOOT – Both stay. Start again. New level. New lies.
"You've seen this before," the Host said softly. "But this time… it's real. This is not a test. Not a simulation. You've earned your 'real' choice."
Thea took a breath. "And if we don't choose?"
The Host smiled wider than should be humanly possible. "Then the system will choose for you. And trust me — it doesn't like when people stall."
Suddenly, the timer appeared again.
02:00.
Two minutes.
The mannequins stood now.
Some began weeping.
Others turned to each other and mimed mock voting.
One started trying to eat its own plastic hand.
The room warped — subtly. The floor rippled like a puddle. The air flickered.
"This is it," Igor said quietly. "End of the ride."
Thea looked at the screen.
Looked at Igor.
"No way I'm leaving without you."
"Same."
They walked up to the screen. Side by side.
Igor hovered his hand over button B — Reboot.
Thea hesitated.
Then reached for button A — Exit.
He blinked at her.
She glanced back at him, smiling faintly.
"Just kidding," she said. "Making sure you were still sharp."
Igor exhaled. "You suck."
They laughed.
Then — together — they reached up and did the unthinkable.
They pressed both buttons at once.
The screen screamed.
Literally.
An electronic wail.
Red lights.
The mannequins collapsed into ash.
The Host stopped smiling.
"You weren't supposed to do that."
"Oops," Thea said. "Guess we glitched again."
The floor beneath them split open, and they fell again — not down, but sideways.
Reality spun.
And something new — something final — awaited on the other side.