The machine stirs, its hum warbling, slipping in and out of pitch. The Architect leans forward. Something is wrong. The subject hesitates,one foot in, one foot out, they reply, to a question, that wasn't asked. The street slithers into view below them, the world building, wrong. Windows don't fit in their frames, a child laughs, their mouth doesn't move. Buildings rise, but the windows are watching. The ground holds firm, but only when they don’t look at it. To their side, the world has trouble stabilizing. A home? A childhood room? A hospital hallway? It shifts too fast to hold. They turn—the street is behind them again. A loop. A trap! Just a road. They can hear people talking, they know those voices. They don’t! They do! (They’re watching.) (They know.) (You should run.) The subject shakes their head. “No,” they whisper. But the word feels stolen, taken from their mouth. They look down at a noise, the cracks in the pavement speak their name. THEY KNOW. A mirror rises before them. Their reflection stands still. Too still. They blink. It doesn’t. NOT ME NOT ME NOT ME! The subject’s breath is ragged. Their hands press against their ears, but the voices slip through the cracks. The walls are closing in, the ground is spinning. The Architect pulls the lever. The subject collapses to their knees, gasping, shaking, but their eyes don’t focus. They look past the Architect. Past the room. Past the world. "I don’t think I came back alone."