I didn't think much of it when the lights flickered.
Old wiring, probably. This place had plenty of that.
I was on the floor again—back against the bed, limbs heavy, phone screen dimming in my hand. I hadn't checked the time in hours. Or maybe days. Time stopped mattering somewhere between the first cup of instant coffee and the third pack of plain biscuits.
Nothing moved. Not me. Not the dust. Not the air.
But then something shifted.
Not a noise. Not a creak. Just... pressure.
Like the air thickened. Like something old had finally decided to exhale.
Then a voice cut through the silence, smooth and sharp as a razor:
"Your spine's curled like a dying fern. Sit up."
I froze.
The words didn't come from the hallway or the room next door. They came from here.
From inside.
My eyes darted toward the kitchen. A man stood there.
Tall. Immaculate. Dressed in a suit that didn't belong in this kind of reality. He looked like he walked through dust without touching it.
"Look at you," he sneered. "Drenched in apathy, and you still manage to waste potential."
I scrambled back, breath caught in my throat.
"I wasn't planning on helping," he continued, stepping closer. "But you're making failure look so pathetic, I can't stand it."
The bathroom door slammed open.
"Are you gonna let him talk to you like that?!"
A girl burst out—hoodie, boots, eyes like fire.
"Watching you is so frustrating, it makes me want to punch a hole through you!"
I pressed myself against the wall. My hands trembled. This couldn't be real.
"What... are you?" I croaked.
The man in the suit grinned.
"Think of us as what's left when you've lost everything else. What rises when you fall."
"Wrath," the girl snapped. "And you're pissing me off."
Another figure glided in from the dark, voice soft and serpentine:
"Don't be scared, darling. It's not like we mean to kill you."
She smirked toward Wrath.
"Not all of us, anyway."
I tried to speak, but my voice was swallowed by the weight in the room.
"Not getting involved," another voice yawned.
Someone half-asleep lay stretched across the couch. Sloth. Barely blinking.
"He's a master at lazing around anyway."
"Why waste energy on someone who's already given up?"
That voice came from the doorway. Greed. Arms crossed. Cold eyes calculating.
"They've got nothing to offer."
"Wake me when they do something interesting," Gluttony groaned from the kitchen, sipping something imaginary.
At the window, a silent figure remained. Arms folded. Staring outside. Watching without speaking.
Envy.
They were all here.
The air felt like it might crush me.
I tried to breathe, but each breath scraped against panic.
They weren't illusions. They weren't memories. They weren't figments.
They were real.
And Pride stepped forward, slowly, every movement deliberate.
"Be ready," he said, voice low, almost amused.
His grin was all edge.
"Because I'm going to turn your pathetic, self-sabotaging self into the epitome of pride."
"Welcome to Room 7."
I couldn't speak.
I couldn't move.
And I wasn't alone anymore.