The staircase ends in a door that isn't a door — just a sheet of fog, rippling in a slow, hypnotic pulse. I push through, and the world shifts.
I'm standing in a small room. A bed, a desk, peeling wallpaper. My desk. My bed. My wallpaper.
It's my old bedroom.
Everything is where it should be, except… it's wrong. The air feels heavier, and the shadows don't match the shapes that cast them. I cross to the desk and see a notebook lying open. My handwriting fills the pages, but every line says the same thing: The world ended and you didn't notice.
Over and over, in varying sizes and shapes, like someone trying to shout and whisper at once.
The countdown on my palm hits 00:00:07.
The bed groans. Something is underneath it. I crouch, forcing my head into the shadow, and see myself.
Not a reflection. Not a copy. Me.
Eyes open, unblinking, staring directly at me. Their lips move, but the sound comes from everywhere in the room at once.
"You're still asleep. The end already happened. This is just the part you're dreaming to make it easier."
The countdown hits 00:00:03.
I stumble back. The walls bend inward like wet paper, the desk melting into the floor. The other me begins to crawl out from under the bed, moving far too fast for the narrow space. Their face stretches — not in pain, but in anticipation.
00:00:01.
The room pops like a soap bubble.