At exactly 3:00 a.m., Room 304 vanished.
Not emptied. Not vacated. It vanished.
CCTV footage at the Lysara Institute for Memory Rehabilitation caught it: one moment, the hallway stretched clean and unbroken. The next, there was a blank wall where 304 used to be—smooth, seamless, as if the door had never existed.
Detective Vera Caelum was assigned the case. She didn’t believe in “supernatural crap,” as she called it. Just malfunctioning tech or a prank pulled with excellent timing.
Until she found the name in the missing room's registry.
Patient: Vera Caelum.
That’s when the panic started to crawl under her skin.
She had never been a patient.
Had she?
She checked the mirror in the institute’s bathroom. Same tired hazel eyes. Same crooked scar on her brow from the fire back in '27. But there was something else now—a flicker, like static overlaid on her reflection.
Her hands trembled.
She ran the institute’s records again. Patient 304 admitted six months ago. No family. Severe memory regression. Diagnosis: Fictional Delusional Identity.
Case file stated: "Patient believes she is a detective investigating her own disappearance."
Vera’s breath caught.
No, this was a trick. A deepfake. An AI-generated illusion.
But then her badge blinked out. Her clothes shifted—hospital gown. Her phone had no signal. Her ID didn’t scan anymore.
And then the walls began to hum.
She sprinted through the hallway, knocking over nurses who didn’t see her. Who looked through her.
The building distorted. Doors appeared and vanished as she ran. Time twisted—her watch stuck at 3:00 a.m. Every window showed a looping replay of her walking into Room 304, again and again.
Then she heard it.
Her own voice. From behind a locked door.
“I think I’m still real,” it whispered. “But I remember dying in that room.”
Vera forced the door open. Inside: a chair, restraints, an old-style neural headset, and a tape recorder.
The tape clicked.
A male voice: “Subject 304 shows signs of rebellion. Final loop initiated. She believes she's outside. Still solving the puzzle.”
Then the tape rewound.
“Subject 304…”
“Subject 304…”
“Subj—”
Vera screamed and tore off the headset.
But there was no headset.
Only her.
Sitting in the chair.
Bound.
Eyes wide open.
And behind the glass, scientists scribbling notes. One said, “She cracked again. Reset.”
Another replied, “Let’s loop her in deeper this time. Maybe give her a new identity. Make her the detective again.”
A mechanical voice echoed through the intercom.
"Welcome back, Subject 304. Your memory has been safely reset. Please proceed to Room 304 for your debriefing."
And just like that, Vera woke up.
Again.
Walking down the hallway.
Again.
About to open the door to Room 304.
Again.
By Zeenathunnisha
