The room hums like a machine pretending to breathe. White ceiling, white floor, white walls so bright it eats the shadows. I sit at a narrow table, wrists linked by a thin magnetic band that buzzes whenever I move too fast. The air tastes filtered, metallic. A small lens tracks my face from above.
Across from me sits a man in a charcoal uniform. His badge carries no name, only a shifting government sigil pulsing faint blue. He studies me for several silent seconds before speaking.
"Mr. Emi," he says evenly, voice almost soothing. "You will answer three questions. Nothing more. Nothing less." His wording makes it seem like the procedure is a strict requirement that has been officially set and cannot be adjusted.
He lifts a file from the table, skims it once, then slides a sheet across the metal surface with the precision of someone aligning data blocks.
"Contained here are photographs and records from your father's research division," he explains.
Half of the evidence we collected contains your DNA genetic material that proves you were there. As for the remaining files... you already know what information is contained in them, don't you?'"
His tone is not accusatory; it's diagnostic, as though he's testing my temperature.
I stare at the paper, at the scattered images—circuits, prototypes, fragments of the business my father built before everything collapsed. The symbols blur together.
"Yes," I said quietly.
He gives a single nod, moving his head in a restrained, calculated manner.
"Good. If you choose to cooperate and do what we ask, it will make the entire process of releasing you much less complicated.'"
His mouth twists into a brief smirk, a small expression that suggests he finds something amusing or that he knows more than he's saying. "Your family has exceptional talent for finding creative solutions....though our records note again and again that they don't follow regulations.'"
I meet his eyes. "No, we're not like that—"
Before I can finish talking, he breaks in and stops me mid-sentence. ''Second question,'' he goes on, increasing the volume and intensity of his voice as he speaks to me. '"Where are they currently located?'"
''That thing... I really don't know.'' My words sound fragile and insubstantial as they hang in the stark, disinfected air of the room—as if my answer carries no weight or believability."
He watches me intently for a moment, studying my reaction, then shifts his head at a small angle. ''Taking into account the enormous range of properties, money, and resources your father controls, I can imagine it would be difficult for any single person to monitor and remember all of it. That said, fear has a way of making people's memories work selectively—they forget what's convenient to forget.'"
He then stops leaning back and moves the top half of his body forward, shifting just far enough toward me that I can clearly see the reflection of the bright ceiling lights glinting in his pupils. ''Last question,'' he says. ''Which one are you?''
The words drop like a weight. Something in his tone changes—still calm, but colder, more exact. He isn't asking about identity; he's classifying.
My heartbeat stumbles. "I can only say the word that will set me free here, right?" I ask to confirm again my doubts, trying to match his calm but hearing the tremor in my voice.
He doesn't blink. "If you believe that, then by all means."
The air in the room seems to constrict and tighten around me, as if the walls are closing in. Every basic survival instinct I have is screaming at me to flee, to get out, but I'm completely trapped there's no door to run through, no place to hide. I struggle to swallow past the lump of fear in my throat. ''Yes, I'm the real Emi, sir,'' I manage to say, my voice coming out low and barely audible.
For half a second nothing shifts. Then a sharp tone slices the silence—an alarm, high and mechanical. Red light floods the room, pulsing with the rhythm of a heart gone wrong. The investigator's expression fractures just enough to show irritation. He presses two fingers to his earpiece, listening.
''Stay where you are, Mr. Emi,'' he commands sharply, his collected and businesslike manner snapping back into position as if nothing had changed. The door slides open smoothly; a wave of icy air floods into the room, carrying with it the muffled sounds of people shouting in the distance and the harsh, rhythmic stamping of military boots on hard floors. A soldier holding a large, heavily-armed weapon walks into the interrogation room.
"DON'T MAKE ANY MOVE!"
The door closes and seals itself behind him with a mechanical hiss. The low, continuous humming sound that had been present in the room suddenly stutters and breaks, then stops altogether. Complete silence fills the space. I shift my attention to the investigator, who has remained composed throughout, and I look directly into his eyes.
He returns my gaze and opens his mouth to say something. ''These people are really getting on my nerves.''
A forceful hissing sound bursts out from an overhead ventilation duct in the ceiling. The chemical smell of ozone rushes into my nose—it's an acrid, sharp scent with an unexpected sweetness, like the air after a lightning strike or near high-voltage equipment. I blink my eyes rapidly, feeling them begin to burn and tear up. The edges and corners of the room start to lose their sharpness and definition, warping and bending as if I'm looking at them through the shimmering, distorted air above a fire or heated surface.
''Hey!'' I shout, my voice bouncing off the white walls and echoing through the empty space. There's no response. The constant humming sound that used to fill every part of the room has disappeared completely. I feel the floor beneath me begin to tilt and shift. The door swings open once more. One after another, I hear multiple heavy footsteps entering, and I can make out several shadowy figures coming inside, but everything is too blurry for me to see them clearly.
Then another silhouette appears in the doorway—tall and impossible to identify against the red emergency lighting. It looks like this person is leading the soldiers.
"Who—" The word barely leaves my mouth before a soft rush of air fills the room. My head spins; colors bleed together.
The paper slides off the surface, drifting like falling leaves. My knees hit the floor. For a moment, the alarm seems to fade into a rhythmic pulse that might be my heartbeat.
I only see the darkness surrounded me slowly when I'm slowly losing my consciousness.
Though I never expected this would happen to me today. My life has always been like this ever since I was born.
'Surely, you want to stop now?' a voice asks.
When I open my eyes, I find myself standing in a completely different place. The air feels warm and thick, filled with floating dust particles and golden sunlight. There are no walls here. No machines. No people anywhere. Just open, empty ground stretching out before me and a faint, soft glow visible at the distant horizon.
A figure stands facing me—a child who appears to be around the same age I was back then. His face is unclear and blurry, with the edges appearing smudged and out of focus. I watch as his head turns to look at me. 'Wake up,' he says gently, and the sound of his voice ripples outward through this world like a powerful command.
''I can hear a voice now. Wait, what?'' Light suddenly floods over everything, swallowing the entire scene.
'I didn't expect you to lose like that,' the voice says.
''Lose? Do I need to win in this kind of situation where there's nothing to be won? I'm not even participating in any competition. So why should I do something foolish again?''
'Then you're still too weak,' the voice responds.
You can say that so easily because you've never been in my position, I think.
'Then open your eyes and learn again,' the voice insists.
'Learn from the truth.'