Silence.

In the chamber, my younger self stood frozen, visibly shaken by the thunderous slam. I watched him like a man staring into a time-warped mirror.


I forced myself to stand. Every movement slow and leaden, as if my bones had been hollowed out and filled with sand.

I looked down at my palm. The dusty ID badge lay there accusingly. That aged, exhausted face with dead eyes now perfectly matched how I felt.

And finally, I understood.


There was no exit. There was no "outside."

That older figure I'd glimpsed was me. This confused newcomer was also me. I wasn't an intruder or explorer—just another cog in this endless cycle, constantly reset and gradually worn down.


My only purpose was to serve as the ominous backdrop for the next iteration of myself.

So this explained all those "anomalies." That phantom footprint—left by another version of me. That relocated cleaning bottle—moved by another me. Those flickering lights weren't Morse code but energy pulses from this vast, living system as it cycled through its program.

I thought I'd been fighting chaos. No. I was fighting against an order too vast and cold for human comprehension.

A bone-deep weariness washed over me—not physical exhaustion but soul-deep surrender. I no longer wanted to run. I carefully tucked the old badge into my pocket like a sacred artifact.

I approached the nearest door, raised my weathered hand, and pressed it against the metal surface.

The door swung open.

Beyond lay not darkness but the familiar maintenance corridor of MIT Building 32's second basement. Bright fluorescents, the sharp scent of disinfectant.

My cleaning cart waited just a few yards away.

I stepped through.

Behind me, the door vanished without a sound. The wall returned to its original state—white tiles, perfect grout lines, and that lightning-shaped crack in the corner.

I checked my watch. Ten o'clock at night. The beginning of my shift.

My mind feels like scrambled eggs. That chamber, those doors, the other versions of myself—all rapidly fading like a nightmare after waking. The details growing blurry and distant, leaving only a profound unease and an overwhelming sense of déjà vu.

I'm tired. God, I'm tired.

I shuffle toward my cart and grasp the cold metal handle. I need to work. Need to drown this nameless dread with mindless, repetitive tasks.

Isn't that what my job is all about? Maintaining order. Simple and straightforward.

I push my cart forward, its faulty wheel squeaking rhythmically. I round the corner into the maintenance corridor that leads to the boiler room.

As I walk, my eyes drift to the wall beside me.

My feet stop moving.

There, in the middle of the white-tiled wall, is a door. A dark gray metal door without any number—one I've never seen before.

I stand frozen, staring at it.

Across my face spreads a familiar mixture of curiosity, confusion, and that stubborn determination to uncover what lies beyond.