2
752 Words
The moment the lights went out, the room stopped feeling real.
Not dark.
Not quiet.
Just… wrong.
Like the world had forgotten how to continue itself.
I stayed frozen in bed, my heartbeat suddenly too loud in my ears. The monitors beside me flickered again, but this time there was no steady pattern — just broken beeps, like something trying and failing to communicate.
A hand grabbed mine.
Instinctively, I flinched.
But it was him.
The man who called himself my husband.
Except now, in the dark, he felt different.
Less human.
More anchored.
“Stay still,” he said quietly.
His voice cut through the silence like a command that didn’t need permission.
I swallowed. “What’s happening?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, I heard movement — fast, controlled. Like he was checking the room, scanning it.
Then the doctor’s voice came, tense.
“It’s just a power fluctuation. Backup systems should—”
The sentence stopped mid-air.
Not because he chose to stop speaking.
Because something interrupted him.
A sound like static filled the room.
Sharp. Electrical. Too close.
My vision blurred for a second, even though it was already dark.
And then—
The man’s grip tightened.
Not painful.
But intentional.
Like he was grounding me.
“Don’t look at the screen,” he said.
But I already was.
The monitor beside my bed had changed.
My name was gone.
For a second.
Just a blank file.
Then it reappeared.
But the details underneath were different.
Age.
Status.
Even the cause of admission.
All shifting.
Like someone was rewriting me in real time.
My breath caught. “That’s not possible…”
The doctor moved closer. “This system doesn’t do that—there must be a glitch in the server—”
But the man cut him off.
Cold.
Final.
“It’s not a glitch.”
Silence.
Heavy.
Absolute.
I turned my head slightly toward him. “Then what is it?”
He hesitated.
That hesitation alone made my stomach tighten.
Then he said something that didn’t make sense.
“Someone is trying to stabilize your version again.”
My pulse spiked.
“My… version?”
He didn’t look at me.
Not directly.
Like looking at me too clearly would make something worse.
“Yes,” he said. “And it’s failing.”
A distant alarm started echoing down the hallway.
Not inside the room.
Outside.
Then another.
And another.
Like the building itself was reacting.
The doctor stepped back slightly. “We need to evacuate the floor—this is escalating—”
But the man suddenly stood.
Fast.
Too fast.
The movement made my body react before my mind did. I sat up slightly, ignoring the pain in my head.
“What is going on?” I demanded.
He finally looked at me fully.
And for the first time, I saw something break through his control.
Not emotion.
Pressure.
Like he was holding something massive together and it was starting to crack.
“You’re not supposed to wake up like this,” he said again.
My chest tightened. “You already said that.”
“I know.”
Another alarm sounded. Closer this time.
Then the lights flickered back on for half a second.
Enough for me to see his face clearly.
And I froze.
Because there was something on his wrist.
A mark.
Not a tattoo.
Not ink.
Something deeper.
Like it was embedded under the skin.
And it pulsed once when he looked at me.
Almost in response.
“What is that?” I whispered.
His hand moved instantly — covering it.
Too late.
I had already seen it.
The doctor saw it too.
And went completely still.
“…that shouldn’t exist,” the doctor said quietly.
The man didn’t respond.
Instead, he stepped closer to my bed again.
Too close.
My pulse jumped.
And in a lower voice, he said:
“If you remember anything tonight, it will trigger a reset.”
My throat went dry. “Reset of what?”
He looked at me.
And this time, there was no hesitation.
“Of you.”
A sharp sound cut through the building — like metal twisting somewhere far away.
The entire room shook slightly.
The monitors all went blank at once.
Total silence.
Then, in that silence—
The man leaned down slightly, close enough that I could feel his breath near my ear.
And he said the words that made my blood run cold:
“Selene… they found you again.”
- Writer
