The hand stayed raised.

  Waiting.

  Not shaking.

  Not weak.

  Still.

  Like it belonged there.

  Slowly, carefully, I lowered it.

  It obeyed immediately.

  Too immediately.

  Like it had been waiting for that exact command.

  My chest tightened.

  I didn’t like the way it listened to me.

  Or the way it didn’t hesitate.

  I looked at the figure.

  It hadn’t moved.

  It hadn’t blinked.

  It was watching me with the same quiet certainty.

  Not surprised.

  Not concerned.

  Expecting.

  Like this was something it had seen before.

  Or something it had been waiting to see.

  My throat felt dry.

  “How long have I been here?” I asked.

  It answered instantly.

  “Long enough.”

  That wasn’t an answer.

  “That doesn’t mean anything,” I said.

  Its head tilted slightly.

  “It means the transition did not fail.”

  Transition.

  The word felt surgical.

  Mechanical.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Like something that had been done to me.

  Not something that had happened naturally.

  I took a step backward.

  My balance held perfectly.

  No instability.

  No weakness.

  My body had fully adjusted.

  That realization made it worse.

  “You keep talking like this is normal,” I said.

  “It is.”

  My stomach twisted.

  “For who?” I asked.

  It didn’t respond.

  Its silence wasn’t empty.

  It was selective.

  Intentional.

  It chose what deserved an answer.

  And what didn’t.

  I hated that.

  I needed something to break.

  Something to prove this wasn’t absolute.

  I turned away from it and walked toward the wall.

  Each step felt precise.

  Measured.

  Controlled.

  Not one misstep.

  Not one correction.

  Like my body had already practiced existing here.

  I reached the wall and pressed my hand against it.

  Cold.

  Smooth.

  No seams.

  No texture.

  No imperfections.

  I pushed harder.

  Nothing.

  I slammed my palm against it.

  The impact echoed sharply through the room.

  Pain shot up my arm.

  Real.

  Immediate.

  But the wall didn’t react.

  Didn’t move.

  Didn’t care.

  I hit it again.

  Harder.

  My breathing became uneven.

  “This isn’t real,” I said.

  The words sounded weaker out loud.

  I hit the wall again.

  Again.

  Again.

  Pain spread across my hand.

  My fingers trembled slightly.

  But the wall remained unchanged.

  Untouched.

  Unaffected.

  Behind me, its voice came calmly.

  “You are verifying resistance.”

  I froze.

  Slowly, I turned.

  The figure was closer now.

  I hadn’t heard it move.

  It stood only a few steps away.

  Watching.

  Recording.

  Not stopping me.

  Not helping me.

  Observing.

  Like my actions were data.

  Not suffering.

  My chest rose and fell rapidly.

  “Why are you watching me?” I asked.

  Its answer came without hesitation.

  “To confirm continuity.”

  Continuity.

  My stomach dropped.

  “To confirm what?” I asked.

  Its eyes remained fixed on mine.

  “That you remained intact.”

  Remained.

  The word echoed inside my head.

  Remained.

  Not arrived.

  Not created.

  Remained.

  As if something could have been lost.

  Or replaced.

  A cold realization crept in.

  “What happens if I didn’t?” I asked.

  It didn’t answer.

  That was the answer.

  Silence stretched between us.

  Heavy.

  Final.

  Then—

  Without warning—

  A memory surfaced.

  Not from my room.

  Not from my life.

  A ceiling.

  White.

  Brighter than the one above me now.

  A voice.

  Not the figure’s.

  Softer.

  Closer.

  “You’ll be safe,” the voice whispered.

  I staggered slightly.

  My breathing hitched.

  I didn’t recognize it.

  But it felt familiar.

  Personal.

  Important.

  I grabbed my head.

  The memory vanished instantly.

  Like it had never existed.

  I looked at it.

  “What did you do?” I demanded.

  Its expression didn’t change.

  “I did nothing.”

  That was worse.

  Because it meant—

  It came from me.

  Or from this body.

  Or from something that existed before I woke up.

  My heart pounded violently.

  “How many times has this happened?” I asked.

  It didn’t answer.

  Not immediately.

  Then—

  “Enough.”

  The room felt smaller.

  The air heavier.

  Like something had just closed around me.

  Not physically.

  But permanently.

  It stepped closer.

  Close enough that I could see my reflection in its eyes.

  Small.

  Contained.

  Certain.

  “You are performing within acceptable parameters,” it said.

  Performing.

  The word cut deeper than anything it had said.

  Not living.

  Not surviving.

  Performing.

  Like I was something being tested.

  Measured.

  Judged.

  And only now—

  I understood the truth.

  It hadn’t brought me here to explain anything.

  It had brought me here—

  to see if I worked.