Loneliness was a poison for the soul. Thirst was a fire in the body.
Alex didn't know which was worse. He only knew that the abstract, psychological torment of his isolation was slowly being eclipsed by a primal, physical agony that demanded all of his attention.
He had no idea how long it had been since he'd woken up on the damp carpet. His phone, with its impossible, mocking 100% battery, displayed no clock. The merciless, unblinking fluorescent lights offered no hint of a day-night cycle. There was only the continuous, eternal NOW of the hum-buzz and the yellow. It could have been six hours. It could have been two days. His internal clock was shattered, but his biology was keeping a brutally honest count.
His throat was the first casualty. It had progressed from dry to scratchy, and now felt like it was lined with sandpaper and broken glass. Every swallow was a deliberate, painful act. His tongue was a thick, swollen slug in his mouth, and his lips were cracked and peeling.
He had finished his water bottle an eternity ago. He'd made it last, taking bird-like sips, swishing the precious liquid around his mouth before finally swallowing. The moment the last drop had trickled down his throat, a new, more desperate phase of his panic had begun. The empty plastic bottle, still clipped to his belt, felt heavier than it had when it was full, a constant reminder of his depleting resources.
At first, his mind, still clinging to the habits of a problem-solver, had tried to work the issue logically. "Okay," he had thought, his internal voice raspy. "The carpet is damp. The walls are damp. There is moisture here. I just need to figure out how to collect it."
He'd tried wringing out a piece of the carpet. He'd gotten on his hands and knees, pressing his palms into the foul-smelling fibers, trying to squeeze a single drop of water from them. All he managed to do was coat his hands in a slimy, grey-brown residue that smelled of ancient mildew. The moisture was part of the material itself, a fundamental property of the carpet, not something that could be extracted.
He'd tried licking the walls. The desperate, animalistic act had shamed him, but the fire in his throat had overridden his pride. He pressed his cracked lips against the cool, clammy surface of the mono-yellow wallpaper. He tasted nothing but the bitter, chemical flavor of old vinyl and dust. There was no relief, no moisture to be gained, only the foul taste left on his swollen tongue.
His methodical walk had long since broken down. Now, he stumbled. His movements were sluggish, his limbs heavy with a leaden fatigue. The endless, repeating corridors were no longer just psychologically taxing; they were a vast, physical desert he had to cross with no oasis in sight. His thoughts, once a frantic scramble of fear and analysis, had narrowed to a single, obsessive point.
Water.
The word echoed in the hollows of his mind, a desperate prayer. Every thought, every memory, was filtered through the lens of his thirst. He'd see a darker patch on the carpet ahead and a surge of adrenaline would flood his system. A puddle? He would lurch towards it, his heart hammering with desperate hope, only to find it was just another stain, just as damp and useless as the rest. He remembered rainstorms from his old life, the simple act of standing by a window and watching water fall freely from the sky. It seemed like an impossible luxury, a miracle he had never properly appreciated. He thought of glasses of iced tea, of fountains, of the satisfying hiss of a can of soda being opened. The memories were a form of self-torture.
His mind, weakened by dehydration, began to fail him in new and terrifying ways. The auditory hallucinations grew more complex. The steady hum-buzz was now punctuated by phantom sounds. He would hear the distinct trickle of running water, a sound so clear and real it would make him freeze, every muscle tensed. He would strain his ears, turning his head, trying to pinpoint the source. But it was always just a ghost in the machine, a cruel trick played by his own dehydrated brain, fading back into the monolithic drone.
Once, he thought he heard Leo's voice, a faint, distant call of his name. "Alex!"
He'd scrambled to his feet, shouting back, his voice a pathetic croak. "Leo! I'm here! Where are you?"
He had stumbled through the yellow maze for what felt like an hour, chasing the phantom voice until his legs gave out and he collapsed, sobbing in frustration. It was a ghost, a memory. Or worse, a lure.
His body was beginning to shut down. A dull headache throbbed at his temples, a counter-rhythm to the hum-buzz. His vision swam in and out of focus, the floral pattern on the walls blurring into a nauseating yellow smear. He felt dizzy, light-headed. He knew the signs of severe dehydration. Confusion. Lethargy. Organ failure. He was dying. It was a slow, agonizing, and incredibly stupid way to die.
He was propped up in another corner, his eyes half-closed. The world was a yellow haze. The hum-buzz was the only thing that felt real. He was too weak to move, too tired to even feel the panic anymore. There was only a dull, resigned ache. This was the end of the line. He had failed. He hadn't just failed to find his brother; he had failed to survive even the first, most basic test of this place.
So this is how it ends, he thought, the thought distant, detached. Not with a bang, but a whimper. A dry, pathetic whimper in an empty yellow room.
He thought of his parents. The pain of losing one son, and now the mystery of losing a second. The thought was a fresh stab of guilt, sharp enough to cut through the fog of his dehydration. He thought of Leo. He pictured his brother, not as the obsessed researcher from the journal, but as the kid who had followed him everywhere. The kid he was supposed to protect.
The image sparked something deep within him, a final, flickering ember of defiance. He couldn't protect Leo anymore. He couldn't save him. But he couldn't die like this. Not here. Not this pathetic, thirsty animal curled up in a corner. He was Alex Ryder. He was Leo's brother. He had to keep moving.
With a groan that seemed to tear at the raw lining of his throat, he put his hands flat on the damp carpet. He pushed. His muscles screamed in protest. His vision went black for a moment, and the hum-buzz roared in his ears. But he got his knees under him. He swayed, his body screaming for him to give up, to lay back down and let the end come.
"No," he rasped, the word barely audible.
He grabbed onto the wall for support, its cool, clammy surface a small, steadying comfort. He hauled himself to his feet. He stood there for a long moment, swaying like a drunk, the yellow maze swirling around him. He took one step. Then another.
His walk was a painful, shuffling gait. He was no longer looking for an exit or for his brother. His quest had been reduced to its most elemental form. He was a dying man, in a world made of walls, looking for a single drop of water. And as he stumbled into the next identical, featureless room, he saw absolutely no sign that he would ever find it.