Chapter Two – Elias
Time of Entry: Unclear
Subject ID: 47B
They say you can get used to anything if you're locked up long enough. Cold food. Cold stares. That itch you get between your shoulder blades when you know someone's watching, but you can't see them.
But this place?
This place doesn't let you get used to a damn thing.
It changes on you—quietly. You sit too long and the shadows shift just a little too far from where they were an hour ago. You sleep and wake up and the cot feels harder. Or softer. Or not there at all.
I stopped asking questions the first week. Orp what I think was a week. Time doesn't stretch normal here. It folds. Doubles back. Unzips.
Then they gave me a roommate.
He walked in like a baby deer—eyes wide, spine straight, trying to act calm but you could see the buzz in his head. The kind of buzz that says I'm not supposed to be here. You see that a lot in fresh meat. The belief that their story's different. That the system made a mistake.
It didn't. It never does. Not in here.
Said his name was Jonah.
Didn't recognize it. That made me feel better. I don't like when I know people from before.
He didn't talk much after that. Just sat on the cot with that thousand-yard stare. Like he was trying to remember where he parked his life.
I didn't blame him.
They'd already started messing with me by then. First it was the photos.
One morning I woke up and there was a picture taped to the wall. Grainy, sun-faded. A woman holding a baby. She was smiling at me like she knew me, like she loved me.
Problem was—I didn't know her.
Not at first.
But the more I looked... the more I did.
Her name was Mia. The baby was Caleb. My wife. My son.
I didn't remember the wedding. Or the birth. But when I closed my eyes, I could feel the weight of the kid in my arms. I could smell the lavender in her hair.
I asked Jonah if he saw it.
He said there was nothing on the wall.
I tore the photo down and hid it in my boot. I don't trust anything I can't touch. And even then, barely.
Today, I woke up to the sound of him whispering to himself. Something about being a journalist. About an article. Then he stopped cold—like someone yanked the memory out of his throat mid-sentence.
He looked at me like I had answers.
That's the thing about this place. People start treating you like a lifeline just because you've been here longer. Like time makes you wise.
It doesn't. It just makes you tired.
I leaned in and told him the truth.
"They get in your head," I said. "First, it's little stuff. Then it's everything."
I could see it hit him like a shovel to the chest.
That's when I knew: this one's not gonna last long.
He's not built for this. He thinks if he just remembers hard enough, the world outside will come crashing back through the wall to rescue him.
He doesn't get it yet.
There is no outside.
Not anymore.
Just the hum. The light. The voice.
And whatever game they're playing next.