A dense, swirling mist pressed against the windows, rolling in endless waves as if devouring everything beyond its pale veil. It obscured the world outside entirely, leaving only an uncertain grayish glow seeping through the glass. Inside the dimly lit apartment, the stillness was heavy, disturbed only by the scratching of Eliot Vance's pen against paper.
His desk was cluttered—books pushed roughly aside, scattered papers marked by frantic scribbles. Eliot's pale, exhausted face reflected the sleepless nights that had robbed him of strength, his eyes sunken with a growing sense of dread. He paused briefly, exhaling sharply, then continued writing with renewed determination:
"Day seven. Still trapped. The fog hasn't lifted; if anything, it seems thicker. The window remains sealed by an unknown force. Nothing has changed, and everything is exactly as impossible as it was yesterday. I'm certain now—I am locked in some kind of anomaly, a distortion of space itself. It feels as if reality around this apartment has crystallized, encasing me completely. Attempts at contact remain futile—no water, no electricity. And yet, inexplicably, the lights still burn, and the computer still functions, despite being unplugged from its power source for days."
Eliot paused, distracted by a soft, whispering sound near the window. He raised his head sharply, hope briefly lighting his weary eyes. But the illusion faded quickly, and his shoulders sagged. It was nothing. Only silence remained, and beyond the window was the ever-present whiteness—cold, indifferent, and eternal.
His eyes lingered on the window ledge, scattered with abandoned tools—a wrench, a hammer, screwdrivers—crude instruments of his futile attempts to escape. The scratches he'd desperately tried to carve into the wall were nonexistent, leaving him trapped like a helpless insect inside an impossibly solid cocoon. He sighed bitterly and returned to his writing, the pen trembling slightly:
"I've tried everything. I've battered walls, pried at the ceiling, torn up the floors—but nothing leaves a scratch. It's like this room is no longer part of normal space. There's no way out. Except... except for the door. The door remains functional, which, under these circumstances, is itself horrifying."
Eliot stopped writing again, his eyes drifting over the entries he'd made over the past days—disorganized ramblings, meaningless rants born of panic, absurd doodles, desperate jokes he forced himself to write, just to stay sane. He didn't know why he bothered. He was never one to keep journals; as a teacher, his days had been far too busy to reflect quietly. Now, ironically, he had nothing but endless, empty time.
He remembered clearly the moment he'd awakened seven days ago, blinking blearily into the unsettling grayness beyond the window, the unnatural silence pressing in. Initially, he'd assumed it a strange dream. But dreams don't persist for days on end. Dreams don't trap you physically. This wasn't madness, wasn't an illusion—this bizarre new reality was painfully real, frighteningly tangible.
He rose slowly, feeling the weight of his isolation, and stared across the room at the only door leading out—a simple, white wooden door, cheap and familiar. A calendar he had neglected to replace since last year still hung loosely from a nail in the door, a mundane detail now oddly comforting. Yet beyond that door lay something utterly foreign. Not the hallway of his apartment building, nor the familiar street bustling with morning routines. No, beyond that door was an unknown, haunting otherness, an alien place just as inescapable as his room.
Eliot knew his hesitation couldn't last. Food was running low. Only a quarter of the bottled water remained. He'd rationed it carefully, but he couldn't prolong the inevitable. Whatever safety and normalcy the room had once represented had long since faded. The room itself had become a cruel joke—a prison, with a single, mocking exit.
He gathered himself with a deep breath, a familiar ritual now. Approaching the door, his pulse quickened. It was the threshold to a nightmare, yet also his only chance. The unknown was terrifying, but survival compelled him forward. He paused, shaking his head softly. Not yet, he reminded himself—not while exhaustion clouded his thoughts.
Instead, he stepped back from the door, moving deliberately toward his bed. Sleep had been elusive these past days, but tonight he would force himself. Rest was necessary, clarity essential if he were to survive whatever waited beyond that doorway.
He lay down, closed his eyes, and emptied his mind, pushing away the horrors, the questions, the endless loops of speculation. Sleep overtook him, a dreamless darkness that lasted exactly eight hours. Upon waking, he found the fog unchanged, as if the world outside had ceased to function in normal cycles. He ate sparingly from his dwindling stores, washed his face with minimal water, and stood silently in front of the small mirror in the corner.
The man staring back was barely recognizable—disheveled hair, hollow eyes, a shadow of who he'd once been. Yet Eliot forced himself to memorize that face, imprinting his identity deeply into his mind.
"You're Eliot Vance," he whispered to his reflection. "At least on this side, your name is Eliot Vance. Never forget that."
With renewed resolve, he finally approached the door. This time, there was no hesitation. Nothing remained to hold him back. He wore only simple clothes, nothing extra, no food, no tools—experience had taught him that nothing but himself would pass through. He wasn't even entirely sure of himself anymore. But there was no alternative. Survival lay forward, not behind.
He turned the handle firmly, stepping forward as the door swung inward. Immediately, he was greeted by a dense, rolling mist, darker and thicker than the one outside his window. The smell of salt filled his lungs, the faint crash of waves growing louder, unmistakably real.
Taking a deep breath, Eliot stepped through, dizziness momentarily seizing him as his surroundings shifted violently. As clarity returned, he found himself standing on the swaying deck of an old wooden ship, its dark wood slick with seawater, creaking ominously beneath his feet. Massive, dark clouds loomed overhead, casting the world into perpetual twilight, an endless ocean stretching infinitely around him.
He glanced downward, startled at what he saw—his body had changed, muscular now, his frame larger, hands stronger. He wore an elaborate captain's coat, crafted from dark fabric embroidered with strange, unfamiliar insignias. In one hand, he tightly grasped an ornate black flintlock pistol, the handle worn smooth by years of use.
This wasn't the first time he'd found himself here—but each transition remained disorienting. Memories of his previous visits returned swiftly: desperate exploration, frantic searches for food, and brief, haunting glimpses of another self he didn't fully recognize. He'd left careful preparations in place—small caches of preserved food hidden below decks, charts hastily drawn to map corridors and cabins, notes scribbled hastily in the margins of ancient, sea-stained logs. Survival was barely possible here, but possible nonetheless.
Yet Eliot understood the grim reality—he was still trapped. Each escape was temporary, each freedom an illusion. This ship was another cage, another layer in the terrifying anomaly that had consumed his existence. His only hope was to learn more, to push deeper into the mystery, unravel its origins, and maybe, just maybe, find a way back to the world he once knew.
Resolute, he tightened his grip on the pistol and took his first steady steps toward the cabin doors, steeling himself for whatever mysteries awaited inside. The wood creaked underfoot, the ocean whispered its restless warnings, and above all, the distant rumble of thunder heralded new storms ahead.
This was only the beginning.