"You don't destroy someone by hurting them. You do it by making them ask: 'Was I ever real?'"
[Scene: Day 2 – Hour 1]
She awoke mid-sentence.
"—am Arisa—"
A soft buzz snapped through her collar, forcing her mouth shut.
The lights were already on. Too bright. Sterile. Her bed was gone. She lay on the floor, curled in a shape that felt… arranged.
She sat up slowly. Vision blurred. She couldn't tell how long she'd slept — or if she had at all.
"Subject 027-B: Awake. Orientation commencing."
A panel opened. A corridor lit in strobing pulses. No voice instructed. But her collar tugged — magnetic guidance. She walked.
[Scene: Mirror Room]
White room. Seamless floor. Four walls — each a mirror. But they didn't reflect her face.
She stared. Her body was there. Movements synced. But her face? Blurred. Like reality couldn't render her.
"Subject lacks identity. Facial recognition removed."
The voice again. Then a screen played.
Arisa at fifteen — laughing, teasing a teacher. Then Arisa threatening a girl for wearing the same brand. Then Arisa kissing someone — and laughing as he cried.
Each memory was real. But they were cut. Warped. No audio synced. Just the phrase, over and over:
"She used everyone." "She was a virus." "Containment required."
She slammed her fists into the mirror. Blood bloomed across her knuckles. Still no face.
"Who are you?"
She didn't answer.
The room dimmed.
[Scene: Clockroom]
Another chamber. This one empty — save for a massive wall-clock. She entered. The door closed.
The clock blinked: 4:12AM. Then: 6:79PM. Then: 26:07.
No food. No bed. No voice. She counted seconds. Minutes. Hummed to track. She walked. Stretched. Punched the wall again.
Eventually she collapsed, too tired to care.
The door opened. A soft tone:
"Seventeen minutes elapsed."
She vomited.
[Scene: Burial Protocol]
Hours later — or days, maybe — her room began shrinking. Walls moving inward. Panic hit. Instinct roared.
Then a hatch opened in the floor. A drawer. Big enough to crawl into.
"Survive. Or compress."
She hesitated. The walls moved again.
She crawled inside. Curled into fetal position. The drawer closed.
Total darkness. No sound. No air movement.
Three hours later, the drawer opened. Room restored.
She didn't sleep that night.
[Scene: The Funeral]
The next day — or next simulation — she entered a new room. A single chair. A screen.
It played her funeral.
Her mother stood at a podium.
"Arisa was difficult. But she was loved. We did all we could."
Her father spoke next.
"She chose a path we couldn't follow. We hope she's at peace now."
The casket was closed. Her name etched: Arisa Valen – 2006–2025.
"She was never found."
She screamed. Slapped the screen. Kicked it until her legs gave out. No response. No break.
Just a loop. Over. And over.
[Scene: Naming Protocol]
Back in her chamber. Lights dim. Collar cold. A message appeared:
"Subject 027-B: Begin Daily Affirmation."
Four lines displayed. One at a time:
1. I am nothing.
2. My name is gone.
3. I belong to my buyer.
4. I was sold because I failed.
She refused.
Buzz.
"Repeat."
She mumbled.
Buzz harder.
"Repeat."
She whispered three. Stopped at four.
"Incorrect input. Initiating memory destabilization protocol."
The collar hummed — low, internal.
The lights flickered. Her name — Arisa — whispered back to her. In her own voice.
Then distorted. Bent.
"She doesn't exist anymore." "She doesn't exist anymore." "She doesn't exist—"
Fade to sleep.
[Scene: Red Sleep]
No light. No sound. Just the voice. Her voice. Repeating in fragments.
A projection blinked once in the corner of the cell. Her face. Blurred. Then her father's face.
"You were never meant to last." "This is not punishment. It's your reset."
She tried to scream. The collar shocked her vocal cords. No noise came.
Instead, she dropped to her knees. Shaking. Repeating what she remembered:
"My name... my name..."
But the memory trembled. Words slipped. Tears came.
She forgot the rest.
[Scene: Loop Initiated]
A chime echoed in the black. A soft female voice. Too gentle to trust.
"Memory unstable. Beginning identity reassignment trial."
From the ceiling, a slow drip of light spread across the room. It painted the floor like water. Cool. Blue. Empty.
Then came the whispers.
"You were never Arisa." "You are not human." "You are a mistake being fixed."
She curled again. But the floor was gone. She felt weightless. Floating in hallucinated silence.
Then something sharp slid across her skin — ice cold. A fingerprint reader scanned her wrist. Then her temple.
Voice again:
"Acceptance detected: 12%." "Dehumanization: 48%." "Subject approaching threshold."
Her eyes rolled back. The collar pulsed — and her thoughts scattered like insects.
A name drifted through her mind — not hers. Not yet. But waiting.