The door was locked.

Marcus stood in the hallway. The wood was cold. He knocked.

No answer.

He knocked again.

"Mr. Vance?"

The silence stretched. It had teeth.

"Open up."

Still nothing.

Marcus looked at the mail. A letter sat in the slot. White paper. Black ink. It was thick. Heavy.

He did not pick it up.

He pressed his ear to the door.

He heard breathing. Slow. Rhythmic.

It was not the breathing of a man asleep. It was the breathing of a man waiting.

Marcus stepped back. He looked down the hall. The carpet was red. Faded. The light from the corridor bulb was yellow. Sickly.

He went to his own office.

Room 402.

He sat at his desk. The chair creaked.

The letter was still there. In the hallway.

He should burn it.

He did not move.

The phone rang.

It was a mechanical sound. Harsh.

He picked up.

"Vance."

"Marcus."

The voice was calm. Too calm.

"Did you get the message?"

"No."

"You will."

"How do you know?"

"Because you are inside the protocol."

"What protocol?"

"The one that keeps you here."

Marcus looked at the window. The glass was dark. He could see his own face. Pale. Thin.

"Who are you?"

"You know who I am."

"I don't know."

"Think, Marcus."

"I am thinking."

"You are thinking wrong."

The line went dead.

Marcus put the phone down.

His hands shook.

He stood up.

He walked to the door.

He opened it.

The hallway was empty.

The letter was gone.

He closed the door.

He went back to his desk.

He opened the drawer.

He took out a pen.

He took out a sheet of paper.

He wrote.

Dear Dr. Aldous.

I am writing to tell you what happened.

I am writing because I do not know what is real.

The walls are closing in.

Or perhaps I am shrinking.

I do not know.

I can hear him.

I can hear him breathing.

He is in the next room.

He is always in the next room.

I have tried to ignore it.

I have tried to work.

I have tried to sleep.

I cannot do any of it.

The sound is louder now.

It is not just breathing.

It is whispering.

It is saying my name.

Marcus.

Marcus.

Marcus.

I am afraid.

Not of death.

Of being seen.

Of being known.

You taught me that we are nothing but our choices.

I have made my choices.

I have chosen silence.

I have chosen duty.

I have chosen to stay.

But the choice is not mine.

It is the building’s.

It is the protocol’s.

I am a variable.

I am an input.

I am a line of code.

Please tell me I am wrong.

Please tell me I am human.

Please tell me I can leave.

But I know I cannot.

The door is locked.

The key is in my hand.

But I do not turn it.

I do not turn it.

I do not turn it.

I am afraid of what is on the other side.

I am afraid of what I am.

I am afraid of the truth.

The truth is heavy.

It crushes.

It breaks.

It eats.

I am eating it.

I am consuming it.

I am digesting it.

I am becoming it.

The whisper is louder.

It is in my head.

It is in my bones.

It is in my blood.

It is saying:

*You are the boundary.*

*You are the wall.*

*You are the lock.*

I look at my hands.

They are shaking.

They are pale.

They look like paper.

Like the letter.

Like the page I am writing on.

I am becoming paper.

I am becoming the message.

I am becoming the silence.

I must stop.

I must stop writing.

But I cannot.

The pen does not stop.

The words do not stop.

They pour out.

They flow.

They drown.

I am drowning in my own words.

I am drowning in my own truth.

I am drowning in my own self.

The door opens.

No, it does not.

I am imagining it.

The door does not open.

The door is always closed.

The door is always locked.

I am always inside.

I am always within.

I am always bounded.

I am always defined.

I am always chosen.

I am always Marcus Vance.

I am always the man in Room 402.

I am always the man who waits.

I am always the man who listens.

I am always the man who writes.

I am always the man who is afraid.

I am always the man who is afraid of the truth.

The truth is that I am the monster.

The truth is that I am the disease.

The truth is that I am the end.

The truth is that I am the silence.

The silence is not empty.

The silence is full.

The silence is heavy.

The silence is loud.

The silence is screaming.

The silence is eating me.

The silence is taking me.

The silence is defining me.

I am the silence.

I am the void.

I am the nothing.

I am the end.

I am the stop.

I am the period.

I am the end of the sentence.

I am the end of the story.

I am the end of me.

I am gone.

I am gone.

I am gone.

The pen stops.

The paper is full.

The ink is dry.

The room is quiet.

The breathing stops.

The whisper stops.

The door opens.

It is not me.

It is him.

Dr. Aldous.

He is standing there.

He is holding a clipboard.

He is looking at me.

He is not smiling.

He is not frowning.

He is looking at me with pity.

With sadness.

With understanding.

"Marcus," he says.

His voice is soft.

His voice is kind.

His voice is final.

"It is time."

I look at him.

I want to speak.

I cannot.

My mouth is dry.

My throat is tight.

My tongue is heavy.

I cannot speak.

I cannot move.

I cannot breathe.

I am still.

I am stopped.

I am ended.

He steps into the room.

He picks up the paper.

He reads it.

He nods.

He puts the paper in his pocket.

He looks at me one last time.

"I am sorry," he says.

"I know," I think.

But I do not say it.

I do not need to.

He turns away.

He walks to the door.

He opens it.

The light from the hallway spills in.

It is bright.

It is white.

It is blinding.

I close my eyes.

I wait.

I do not fight.

I do not run.

I do not scream.

I accept.

I surrender.

I dissolve.

I become the silence.

I become the void.

I become the nothing.

I am gone.

The door closes.

The light disappears.

The dark returns.

The silence returns.

The breathing returns.

It is my breathing.

It is the only breathing left.

It is the last sound.

It is the end.

I am the boundary.

I am the wall.

I am the lock.

I am the silence.

I am the void.

I am the nothing.

I am gone.

I am gone.

I am gone.

The paper is empty.

The ink is gone.

The words are gone.

The story is over.

The silence is complete.

The silence is total.

The silence is absolute.

I am the silence.

I am the void.

I am the nothing.

I am the end.