Ethan ran through the hallway.
But every turn took him back to where he started.
He passed the same potted plant. The same crooked frame. The same flickering light above Room 3C.
He left marks as he went — a scratch on the wall, a red pen X, a chair tipped over.
But minutes later, they'd be gone. Or worse: changed.
The scratch became a carved spiral.
The X moved to the ceiling.
The chair now sat upright, with someone already sitting in it.
Himself.
Eyes closed.
Muttering something.
Ethan backed away and turned again.
This time, the hallway split.
Left: a stairwell.
Right: a hallway where lights pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat.
He took the stairwell.
But it led not down, not up — just… sideways.
Into a street.
A normal one. Bright sky. Cars. People.
Too normal.
He walked forward and stopped at a newsstand.
The headline on every paper:
"ETHAN HALE DIES IN CAR CRASH – No Survivors"
He grabbed one. Flipped it over. More of the same.
Photos of the wreck. A face too familiar in the article's photo. His own.
He dropped the paper.
A hand touched his shoulder.
He turned—and finally saw her.
"Mira?"
She looked exactly like the name sounded. Quiet. Intense. Eyes too old for her age.
"You're new," she said.
"I think I'm stuck," he replied. "This place keeps looping."
She nodded. "You saw your obituary. That's how it starts."
"Is this hell?"
"No," she said. "It's memory. We're not in your dream, Ethan."
He narrowed his eyes. "Then whose?"
Mira looked up at the sky — which flickered for a second like bad television.
"We're all in the same one. The only difference is, some of us remember why."
A silence stretched between them.
She handed him a crumpled napkin.
"Find the room with no doors. That's where it broke."
Ethan asked . "What broke?"
She met his gaze.
"You."
And just like that — Mira vanished.
Not faded.
Not ran.
Just glitched out, mid-blink, like a corrupted file.
Ethan stood there alone.
The newspaper at his feet changed headline again:
"Reality Fails To Load. Retry?"