Nael sat across from the woman whose name he still didn’t know. The folder remained untouched between them like a boundary neither dared cross. He eyed it with suspicion, his instincts on edge. There was something about the way she watched him—like she was studying a puzzle only half-solved.

  Outside the window, twilight bled into the sky, smearing streaks of purple and ash across the fading light. The glass reflected his face back at him: tired, pale, eyes rimmed with sleepless nights. But it wasn’t just fatigue. It was something else—a weight in his chest that hadn’t left him since the day he arrived.

  "Let’s begin," she said finally, her voice smooth and calm, like the hush before a storm.

  "Begin what?" he asked, tone clipped.

  "Integration."

  Nael frowned. "That sounds like a program, not a therapy session."

  A faint smile curled her lips, but it didn’t reach her eyes. "Here, they are often the same thing."

  He opened his mouth to protest, but she slid the folder toward him, tapping her nails softly against the table.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Inside were photographs. Dozens of them. Some in color, others faded into sepia tones as if aged intentionally. Nael recognized none of the faces. Children, adults, people in uniforms, others in plain clothes. Some were laughing. Others stared directly at the camera, their eyes hollow.

  "Who are they?"

  "Subjects. Like you."

  He closed the folder abruptly. "I’m not a subject. I didn’t sign up for this."

  "Didn’t you?" she asked, tilting her head. "You came here voluntarily. Seeking answers. Or maybe... running from the ones you already had."

  Nael stood up, chair screeching against the floor. “I came for help. Not to be part of some secret experiment.”

  Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Nael, this isn’t an experiment. It’s a mirror.”

  He froze. Something in the way she said it... struck a nerve.

  "Everything here reflects something back at you. Including the voices you hear. The shadow that follows. The feeling that you’re being watched—these aren’t symptoms. They’re signals."

  Nael sat back down slowly. His throat was dry. “What do you mean... voices?”

  She stood up without answering and walked to the wall. With a single motion, she pressed a hidden panel. The wall slid open—revealing another room, bathed in low, amber light. A large circular couch sat in the middle, surrounded by glass walls and digital screens, all dark.

  “This is your space now,” she said. “We call it the Whisper Room.”

  The name alone made his skin crawl.

  He stepped inside slowly. The air felt... heavier. Like the room remembered pain.

  “This is where we listen. And where you begin to see.”

  As he stepped in, a chill settled on his back. The door shut behind him, and the woman’s voice echoed from a speaker overhead.

  "Take a seat. It will start soon."

  Nael turned slowly, and that’s when he saw it—on the screen across the room. A grainy, black-and-white video began playing.

  It was him. From this morning. Sitting in the chair in Room Nine. But in the reflection behind him, just over his shoulder… was a figure.

  Still. Dark. Watching.

  Nael spun around, heart pounding.

  No one was there.

  But the whisper came again. Closer this time.

  “You were never alone.”