The city was drowned in darkness. The deeper Caleb Norman sank into its swelling fog, the harder it became to breathe. The scene outside his window hadn't changed since the first time he laid eyes on this place—yet tonight, something inside him was unraveling.
Nothing in his world had remained the same since he touched the clock. Time itself had begun to twist around him—warping the very nature of space and memory. Everything felt like a dream… or perhaps something far worse.
The fog coiled around the abandoned hotel like phantoms, draping each corner of the city in a suffocating apathy that seemed to choke out anyone who dared to walk through it. As Caleb made his way through the hotel's dim hallways, he could feel a strange weight pressing against his mind—as if the walls themselves were breathing… watching… shifting.
"What makes us believe we ever controlled time?" he whispered, his voice echoing through the stillness. "Or are we merely victims in a game whose rules we'll never understand?"
He doubted everything now—even himself. The person who thought he held command over time was always the first to lose it. Still, there was something pulling him forward—an invisible thread, stronger than doubt, deeper than conviction. Maybe the real answer was in surrendering control… in accepting ignorance over dominion.
He entered the room that had been waiting for him.
The air was heavy.
There it was—the clock. Hanging crookedly on the wall, its hands spun at a frantic pace. But they no longer marked time. They pointed to something deeper. Something buried. The clock reflected not hours or minutes, but the battle inside his own mind. Every tick was a clash between the part of him that longed to be free—and the other part, terrified of defeat.
In his hand, he still held the paper—the one he had carried since the beginning. He looked down and read:
> "It's not a game of time, Caleb. It's a game of mind. If you think you're winning, each step will cost more than the last."
He shivered. Then let the paper fall to the floor. It was a message meant not to guide—but to fracture. That was the true nature of this game. Each step was a carefully placed trap, leaving him no choice but to continue forward into the abyss.
He stepped toward the clock. It trembled in its place—as if spinning around him, not the other way around. When his fingers touched the glass, a shock pulsed through him. He felt it pressing into his thoughts, into his grasp of logic itself.
The game wasn't ending. It was just digging deeper.
Then… a voice. Hollow. Not from the room—but from the clock itself.
> "Have you ever wondered why you believe you control your mind, Caleb? Or are you just a puppet, terrified of being owned by something else?"
He replied softly, unsure if the words were real:
> "I control my mind. I decide when I begin—and when I stop."
The voice returned—deeper this time, almost cruel in its calm:
> "Do you really think that's true? Or is it your mind that controls you? Have you ever questioned when you stopped choosing—and started reacting?"
Caleb froze. The questions dug deep.
> "If you ever thought—even for a moment—that you were in control, then you've already lost. The first one to believe they master the game is always the first to fall."
He tried to shake it off, but the words stuck like thorns. Was he chasing truth—or digging his own grave?
Suddenly, the clock convulsed violently. Glass exploded, floating mid-air in shimmering fragments. Each shard reflected a single image:
A man in a white mask—expressionless—staring at him.
But this time, the eyes behind the mask weren't hidden.
They were empty. Void of humanity. Yet, somehow, overflowing with something far worse: power.
> "Every choice has a cost, Caleb. And every decision reshapes your reality. Do you truly believe there's one answer that can save you?"
He closed his eyes, lost in the echo of the question.
Was he guiding the game?
Or was the game guiding him?
Was he walking toward the truth?
Or toward his own oblivion?
There was no going back. Every step forward gave him a piece of the puzzle—but the puzzle itself was a riddle written in shadows.
And then came the final whisper. The one he had been waiting for.
> "Time will not wait, Caleb.
And neither will you
.
The choice is yours now.
Will you bow to time…
Or become it?"