Subject 0018 sat in the chair—its hard frame cold and unwelcoming beneath him. The room around him remained impossibly white, without corners or shadows. Not a single mark on the walls, no texture, no sense of scale. Just the chair, and the silence.

  Until.

  “Tell me… where do thoughts go when you’re not thinking them?” The voice said

  It came from nowhere and everywhere at once—low, calm, clinical. Like it was being filtered through an old cassette recorder. Male. Older. The tone had warmth in its structure, but none in its delivery. There was something hauntingly familiar about it. Something buried just out of reach.

  Subject 0018 didn’t respond at first. His eyes scanned the space again, half-expecting something—anything—to change. But nothing did. So he leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and smiled.

  “What kind of question is that , what does that mean ” he murmured. “No it’s mind-games I finally spoke after so long so now I’m being tested”

  “Interesting.”

  A pause.

  “Let’s try a game.”

  A soft buzz followed the words, and from the white void, a pedestal rose. Seamless. Silent. Atop it sat a single item: a Rubik’s Cube—but every face was black.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Subject 0018 stood and approached it, bare feet making no sound against the pristine floor.

  “What’s the point if they’re all the same color?”

  “Not everything broken needs to be fixed. Some puzzles only exist to be understood.”

  Subject 0018 turned the cube in his hands. It was warm. Real. He remembered these—his father used to time him solving them. The fastest was seventeen seconds. His dad laughed and told him he’d break the world record one day.

  But that cube had colors.

  This one was wrong.

  He dropped it back on the pedestal.

  “Very well.”

  Another buzz. A new pedestal rose. This time: a silver tray with a small plate on it. Toast. And fruit. Sliced apples

  Subject 0018 blinked.

  A sliced red apple.

  The arrangement was… familiar. Uncomfortably so. His throat tightened.

  “Is this… supposed to be breakfast?”

  “It’s not about the meal. It’s about the memory it provokes.”

  A cold shiver ran down his spine. He looked closer. The sliced toast was the same way his uncle used to cut back when he used to visit him. The apple slices were always his favorite.

  He took a step back.

  “Is this a joke ,” he said softly.

  “You’re not laughing so I guess not.”

  . A ripple of warmth passed through the room, like a summer breeze without wind. Subject 0018 stared at the plate before eating the toast and sliced apple.

  “Let’s talk about your father,” the voice continued, as if the cube, the fruit, the room itself hadn’t just happened.

  “No.”

  “He was brilliant, wasn’t he? You admired him.”

  “No.”

  “He brought you to work sometimes. Showed you things others weren’t allowed to see.”

  A flicker behind his eyes. Cold metal walls leading down a Hallway . A white door at the end. Just like this room. He was a child, clutching his father’s hand, looking up as he keyed in a code.

  He squeezed his eyes shut.

  “I said no.”

  “But you remember.”

  Then, Subject 0018 whispered, “You sound like him. You know that?”

  ….

  “Do I?”

  “You’re trying too hard,” he said. “You’re not him. You’re something wearing his voice.”

  He turned back to the chair. Sat and Crossed one leg over the other.

  “Final game” said the voice