The coat is red.

It is a deep, arterial red.

You wear it.

It is your skin now.

You walk.

The fog is thick.

It tastes of iron.

It smells of old paper.

And damp earth.

You are in the Hall.

The Great Hall.

It stretches out.

Endless.

Grey stone.

High ceilings.

No end.

Only more stone.

More silence.

More fog.

You are a clerk.

You have always been a clerk.

Your name is Thomas.

It is on the badge.

Pinned to the lapel.

The badge is metal.

Cold.

Heavy.

It says: Employee.

It says: Number 4092.

It does not say: Thomas.

It does not say: Man.

It says: Function.

You walk forward.

Your feet do not touch the ground.

You glide.

Silent.

Smooth.

Like oil on stone.

The red coat flutters.

It is heavy.

It drags.

It pulls at your shoulders.

It burns.

A slow burn.

Like a brand.

Like a seal.

You stop.

There is a desk.

A long desk.

Black wood.

Polished.

Reflective.

It looks like water.

But it is wood.

Behind the desk sits a figure.

Tall.

Thin.

Pale.

Like milk.

Like ash.

It wears a grey suit.

It has no face.

Just a smooth oval.

A blank screen.

It waits.

You wait.

The fog curls around your ankles.

It is cold.

It is wet.

It seeps into the red wool.

The wool stiffens.

It turns to leather.

It turns to stone.

You speak.

Your voice is small.

It cracks.

It is a dry leaf.

"Request," you say.

"Request," you say again.

The figure moves.

It raises a hand.

Long fingers.

White bones.

It points.

Not at you.

At the desk.

At the air.

At the nothing.

You look.

There is a chair.

In front of the desk.

It is empty.

It is waiting.

You sit.

The chair is cold.

It bites into your legs.

It bites into your soul.

The red coat tightens.

It squeezes your ribs.

It squeezes your lungs.

You cannot breathe.

You do not need to breathe.

You are not human.

You are a process.

The figure speaks.

The voice comes from the desk.

It comes from the walls.

It comes from the fog.

It is a whisper.

It is a scream.

It is the same.

"State your purpose."

The words are sharp.

They cut the air.

They cut your skin.

You open your mouth.

Your jaw aches.

Your teeth grind.

"I am here," you say.

"To serve."

The figure is still.

The silence grows.

It becomes a weight.

It presses down.

On your head.

On your chest.

On the red coat.

The coat groans.

It makes a sound.

Like a animal in pain.

Like a man dying.

You look down.

Your hands are in your lap.

They are red.

Not your red.

A darker red.

A wet red.

Blood.

It is on your sleeves.

It is on your palms.

It is on the badge.

The metal is warm.

It is hot.

It is alive.

You look up.

The figure is closer.

It is over you.

It is inside you.

You can see its eyes.

They are not eyes.

They are holes.

Dark pits.

Bottomless wells.

They look into you.

They drink you.

You feel it.

The drain.

The loss.

The emptying.

You are empty.

You have always been empty.

The red coat is full.

It is full of you.

It is full of your pain.

It is full of your fear.

It is full of your life.

You try to stand.

Your legs will not move.

They are roots.

They are stone.

They are part of the chair.

The chair is part of the desk.

The desk is part of the hall.

The hall is part of the fog.

The fog is part of you.

You are the fog.

You are the red.

You are the weight.

The figure speaks again.

"Define yourself."

The words are a blade.

They slice your tongue.

They slice your throat.

You cough.

A spray of red mist.

It hangs in the air.

It floats.

It does not fall.

It stays.

It watches.

"I am...," you start.

Your voice is gone.

It is a ghost.

A echo.

A memory.

"I am... Thomas."

The figure tilts its head.

A small movement.

A subtle shift.

It is not approval.

It is not denial.

It is curiosity.

It is hunger.

"Thomas," it says.

The name hangs.

It is heavy.

It is wet.

It is wrong.

It is a lie.

You are not Thomas.

Thomas is a man.

Thomas has a face.

Thomas has a past.

Thomas has a mother.

Thomas has a dog.

Thomas has a life.

You do not have these things.

You have a number.

You have a coat.

You have a duty.

You have a function.

You are a tool.

A sharp tool.

A dull tool.

A broken tool.

The figure leans in.

Its face is inches from yours.

You can smell it.

It smells of ozone.

It smells of static.

It smells of death.

"Remove the coat," it says.

The command is simple.

The command is clear.

The command is impossible.

The coat is fused.

It is part of you.

It is your skin.

It is your bone.

It is your soul.

To remove it is to die.

To remove it is to vanish.

To remove it is to be nothing.

You shake your head.

Your neck stiffens.

It cracks.

It pops.

It breaks.

"I cannot," you whisper.

The figure does not blink.

It does not breathe.

It waits.

The fog thickens.

It rises.

It covers your feet.

It covers your knees.

It covers your waist.

It is rising.

It is rising.

It is rising.

You are sinking.

You are drowning.

In your own red.

In your own pain.

In your own silence.

The figure speaks.

"Obey."

The word is a hammer.

It hits your mind.

It shatters your thoughts.

It crushes your will.

You want to scream.

You want to fight.

You want to run.

You cannot.

You are fixed.

You are bound.

You are tied.

You are owned.

You are property.

You are a thing.

The red coat tightens.

It squeezes your heart.

It squeezes your brain.

It squeezes your spirit.

You feel it.

The pain.

The burning.

The tearing.

It is not pain.

It is relief.

It is release.

It is freedom.

You open your hands.

You grasp the lapels.

Your fingers dig in.

The wool tears.

The thread snaps.

The fabric rips.

It sounds like a scream.

It sounds like a sob.

It sounds like a laugh.

You pull.

You pull.

You pull.

The coat comes off.

It falls.

It hits the floor.

It is empty.

It is a shell.

It is a husk.

It is dead.

You look at it.

It is just cloth.

It is just red.

It is just nothing.

You look at yourself.

You are pale.

You are white.

You are grey.

You are like the figure.

You are like the fog.

You are like the stone.

You are nothing.

You are no one.

You are free.

The figure smiles.

It has no mouth.

But you see it.

You feel it.

It is a smile.

It is a trap.

It is a lie.

It is a joke.

You are still here.

You are still in the Hall.

You are still in the fog.

You are still a clerk.

You have no coat.

You have no name.

You have no self.

You have only the void.

The void is cold.

The void is quiet.

The void is empty.

It is perfect.

It is complete.

It is you.

The figure points to the door.

There is a door.

It was always there.

You did not see it.

It is black.

It is wood.

It is open.

It leads out.

It leads to the world.

It leads to the light.

It leads to the end.

You walk.

Your feet touch the ground.

They make a sound.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

It is a heartbeat.

It is a drum.

It is a clock.

It is time.

You walk.

You walk.

You walk.

The fog follows you.

It clings to you.

It wraps around you.

It is your shadow.

It is your memory.

It is your ghost.

You reach the door.

You stop.

You look back.

The Hall is gone.

The Desk is gone.

The Figure is gone.

There is only the fog.

There is only the red.

There is only you.

You step through.

The light hits you.

It is bright.

It is white.

It is blinding.

It burns.

It hurts.

It is real.

You are real.

You are Thomas.

You are a man.

You are alive.

You are free.

You are nothing.

You are everything.

You stand in the light.

You stand in the mist.

You stand in the void.

You are the mist.

You are the pale mist.

You are the end.

You are the beginning.

You are the choice.

You are the self.

You are the loss.

You are the gain.

You are the truth.

You are the lie.

You are the red.

You are the grey.

You are the silence.

You are the sound.

You are the fog.

You are the stone.

You are the man.

You are the clerk.

You are the void.

You are the light.

You are the end.

You are the beginning.

You are the mist.

You are the pale mist.