A man wakes up in an unfamiliar room with a digital counter above him reading “300,” ticking down with each breath he takes. He has no memory of how he got there, but a voice over an intercom confirms he has exactly 300 breaths before he dies — no more, no less. The room is sealed, with no visible exits, and the only objects are a chair, a small table, and a single envelope containing a photograph of someone he doesn’t recognize.
As the counter drops to 250, the intercom crackles again — this time offering him a choice: answer a question truthfully to gain five extra breaths, or refuse and lose ten. He answers, gains the breaths, but the next question is more personal, more invasive. With each answer, new clues appear in the room — a key under the table, a code etched into the wall, a second photograph taped beneath the chair — each tied to memories he can’t fully access.
By the time the counter hits 100, he realizes the questions are not random — they’re reconstructing a buried event, and the person in the photograph is connected to his fate. The room begins to change — walls shift, lights flicker, air grows thin — and he must use the clues he’s gathered to unlock the next phase before his breaths run out. The final question will not be asked — he must ask it himself, and the answer will decide whether the door opens… or the counter stops at zero.