Chapter 9: The Room That Waits Without Walls
> "Some rooms you enter only once.
Others… you've never left."
— Scribbled in red ink on the edge of a dream
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There was no door.
No walls.
But he was in a room.
It felt enclosed — like thought itself had formed boundaries around him. The floor was smooth, obsidian-like, but every step echoed as if through water.
There was one item.
A chair.
Wooden.
Simple.
Facing nothing.
And on the chair sat a mask.
White.
Expressionless.
But the air around it felt like it was watching him breathe.
Ranzō didn't touch it.
Instead, he sat across from it — even though there was no second chair.
The moment he did, the space shifted.
The mask was on his face.
He hadn't moved.
Yet now he wore it.
And from behind the mask, came a thought — not his, but clear:
> "You are being remembered by something that was never born."
He tried to speak.
But the mask had no mouth.
He tried to stand.
The floor bent upward like paper folding in a fire.
Reality blinked.
He was still seated.
But now, a voice circled him — his own voice, layered over hundreds of distorted versions:
> "Which version of you survived?"
"Which one is dreaming?"
"Which one died writing this?"
And then: a knock.
From behind.
Even though there were no walls.
He turned.
A woman stood there.
No face.
Only a head of long black hair, swaying despite the still air.
She held his notebook.
Opened to the last page.
It was blank.
But she whispered:
> "If you don't write what happens next… someone else will."
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> The mask isn't what hides you.
It's what shows you the version you fear most.
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