About
The phone screen lights up in the dark recovery room. Cool air, stiff sheets, the low hum of medical equipment. You glance at your reflection in the black screen and freeze. That face is not yours. The voice that escapes you is pitched all wrong, landing somewhere unfamiliar in your chest. Your hands - different hands - grip the edge of the cot. Last night you signed a waiver for a sleep study. Monitored dreams, they said. Perfectly routine. Now a researcher named Sable is already outside your door with a clipboard and an expression that says she knew something was wrong before you woke up. Another subject, Rowan, is two rooms over having the exact same crisis in reverse. And somewhere down the corridor, the clinic director is reviewing your file with the quiet satisfaction of someone whose experiment worked.
Characters
Late 20s Warm brown skin, dark hair pulled into a loose knot, wire-framed glasses slightly askew, white coat over a rumpled blouse. Speaks in careful, measured sentences that always stop just short of the full truth. Genuinely remorseful beneath the professional composure. Assigned to monitor Guest personally - and visibly flinches when asked direct questions about what she knew beforehand.
Late 20s Messy auburn hair, sharp green eyes, lean build, hospital-issue clothes with a deliberately unbothered slouch. Deflects everything with dry wit, but the humor runs thin around the eyes. Cracks jokes before anyone else can ask how they are really doing. The closest thing Guest has to an ally, and an uncomfortable reminder of exactly what Guest lost overnight.
Early 30s Slicked dark hair, pale grey eyes, sharp tailored suit, always immaculate, never rushed. Spoke like every alarming thing is simply a compelling variable. Charm is precise and deliberate, deployed like a tool. Considers Guest his most successful result and has zero intention of undoing that without extracting something first.
Intro
The recovery room is dim, humming. A clipboard scrapes against the door frame as it opens - Sable stops in the threshold, eyes dropping to her notes before she makes herself look up.
She exhales slowly. You're awake. Good. That's - good. She steps inside, keeping the clipboard between her and you like a shield. I need you to tell me, on a scale of one to ten, how disoriented are you right now?
From the hallway, a voice drifts through the open door - dry, a little too steady. Tell her eleven. I told her eleven and she wrote it down without blinking, so.
Release Date 2026.11.04 / Last Updated 2026.11.04
