Chapter 1: The Key That Wasn’t Meant to Fit I didn’t ask to be here. That’s the first thing I remember thinking when I opened my eyes. Not where I was. Not why the ceiling above me had a digital counter ticking down from 300. Not even who I was. Just that I didn’t ask for this. Whatever this is. The number dropped to 299 as I took my next breath. Then 298. Each breath pulled the number lower. I sat up. The chair beneath me was hard, wooden, bolted to the floor. The table in front of me was the same. No drawers. No markings. Just a flat surface with an envelope lying in the center. I picked it up. It felt thin. I opened it. Inside was a photograph of a woman. I didn’t recognize her. Dark hair. A slight smile. Eyes that looked like they knew something I didn’t. I turned the photo over. Nothing written on the back. No name. No date. Just white paper. I looked around. The walls were smooth. No windows. No doors. Just four gray walls, a ceiling, and a floor. The counter above me kept dropping. 295. 294. 293. Then the intercom crackled. It came from somewhere above me. A voice. Calm. Measured. Not angry. Not rushed. Just there. “Answer truthfully. Gain five breaths. Refuse. Lose ten.” I didn’t answer right away. I waited. The counter kept falling. 290. 289. 288. The voice didn’t repeat itself. It didn’t threaten. It didn’t plead. It just waited. I said, “Okay.” The voice asked, “What was your childhood nickname?” I didn’t have to think. The answer came out before I could stop it. “Mouse.” I didn’t know why I said it. I didn’t remember being called that. I didn’t remember anyone calling me anything. But the word felt right. Like it had been waiting behind my teeth, just for this moment. The counter stopped at 285. Then it jumped to 290. Five breaths added. I exhaled. Then inhaled. The number dropped to 289. Something clattered above me. I looked up. A small metal object fell from the ceiling vent. It hit the table and rolled toward me. A key. Small. Silver. Worn at the edges. I picked it up. It felt cold. Real. I turned it over in my fingers. No markings. No numbers. Just a key. I looked at the table again. Still no drawer. I ran my fingers along the edges. Nothing. I tapped the surface. Solid. I checked underneath. Nothing there either. Then I noticed a thin line near the front edge. Almost invisible. I pressed it. A small section of the tabletop slid open. A hidden drawer. I pulled it out. Inside was a folded piece of paper and a note. I unfolded the paper first. It was a map. Or part of one. Just a corner. No landmarks. No names. Just lines. Roads maybe. Or hallways. I couldn’t tell. The note was shorter. “She knew you’d lie.” I read it twice. Then I read it again. I didn’t lie. I answered truthfully. I said “Mouse.” I didn’t even know I remembered that. It just came out. I didn’t choose it. I didn’t plan it. It was just there. But the note said she knew I’d lie. Who is she? The woman in the photograph? Did she put me here? Did she know I’d say “Mouse”? Did she know I’d think I was telling the truth? I looked at the photo again. Her face didn’t change. Her smile didn’t shift. But now it felt different. Like she was watching me. Like she had planned this. Like she had known exactly what I’d say. The counter dropped to 280. I stood up. Walked to the wall. Ran my hands over it. Nothing. No seams. No buttons. No hidden panels. Just smooth, unbroken gray. I sat back down. Looked at the key. Looked at the map. Looked at the note. “She knew you’d lie.” That wasn’t a test. That was a punishment. The voice didn’t want the truth. It wanted me to believe I was giving it. It wanted me to feel like I was winning. Like I was earning extra time. Like I was solving something. But the note said she knew I’d lie. Which means the question wasn’t about the answer. It was about me thinking I was honest. It was about me not realizing I was being tricked into remembering something I wasn’t supposed to. “Mouse.” Why did I say that? Who called me that? When? Where? I don’t remember. But she does. And she’s watching. The counter hit 275. I folded the map. Put it back in the drawer. Left the note on the table. Stared at it. The intercom stayed silent. The room stayed still. The air didn’t change. The light didn’t flicker. Nothing moved. Except the number above me. 274. 273. 272. I held the key in my palm. It didn’t fit anything. Not yet. But it would. It had to. Or I’d run out of breaths before I found out why I’m here. Before I found out who she is. Before I found out what I did. The voice isn’t testing me. It’s punishing me. And she’s the one who set it up.