Plunging into Darkness

Renly closed his eyes and gradually slowed his breathing. In fact, he was somewhat worried. He was concerned that the environmental simulation and psychological preparation were not sufficient, lacking a real sense of crisis. Not only would he fail to achieve his initial purpose, but if the situation became too peaceful or too boring, he might just fall asleep, which would be a futile endeavor.

But as the coffin lid closed, the oppressive feeling of proximity washed over him. Even though it was pitch black all around, with no light whatsoever, he could still keenly feel the weight of the thick wooden board right above his nose. The entire space felt oppressively tight, as if even the air was beginning to thin, the invisible restraint causing him to start feeling restless involuntarily.

This wasn't like a soft hotel bed or a cramped bathroom in a Parisian apartment.

Renly attempted to adjust his position, but before his hands could even stretch out, there was a "bang" as they collided with the wooden board. Even through the thick cotton, his elbows throbbed with a dull pain. Reflexively lifting his legs, his knees harshly hit the board as well — he didn't even know why he raised his legs, but the pervasive sense of confinement made even simple movements seem impossible.

"Bang, bang, bang" — the steady rhythm came from above, indicating that they were nailing something. Renly cautiously raised his fist and tapped on the wood above — his forearm couldn't fully extend, only exerting a slight force. "Haha, don't nail it too tight, I still plan to get out," Renly joked lightly, but before his voice could even carry, it met the board and was sharply cut off. The abrupt impact made his brow furrow. It felt as if the sound waves were enclosing him, shrinking the space they could reach.

Anxiety began to swell uncontrollably.

Taking a deep breath, Renly swallowed hard, telling himself that this meant his plan was working, this was the effect he had hoped for. He began to focus, trying to ignore the surrounding factors and truly immerse himself in the world of Paul Conroy.

He was Paul. He wanted to continue living. He wanted to return to his wife, to his child. He didn't want to be buried alive like this. The fear of death gripped his heart. He had to struggle, he had to resist, he had to survive — he was Paul Conroy! Abandoned in the center of the desert, buried alive, with nobody even aware of his existence —

A ray of realization flashed through his mind: he was buried alive.

Suddenly, the sound of nails being hammered interrupted his thoughts, exploding beside his eardrums like thunderbolts. His thoughts were shattered, and the sensation overwhelmed him. They were sealing the coffin shut, as per his request, ensuring he couldn't struggle or escape.

First from the left above his head, then from the right above his head. The entire coffin quaked, causing his brain to throb. Soon it came from the left foot's side, followed by the right foot's side.

Was he in a funeral service company, or was he in the middle of the desert? Was he in Barcelona, or was he in Iraq? Was he Renly, or was he Paul?

Under the conscious guidance of his mind, his thoughts began to blur, sinking into confusion. The boundary between reality and illusion gradually faded, filling Renly with panic.

Don't panic, don't panic! If this is reality, then Matthew is outside, everything will be fine; if this is a dream, then once he wakes up, things will return to normal. So, he didn't need to worry, right?

"Bang, bang, bang" — the sound of nails hammering continued endlessly, seemingly without end. Now they were nailing at the top again — hadn't they already done that?

Renly involuntarily looked up, but... darkness, nothing but darkness. He tried to touch the wall, but his elbow hit it again. "F...!" The expletive was swallowed, teeth clenched, fingertips feeling only chilly silkiness, nothing else.

The panic slowly spread, not rushing but seeping like water through rock, tension not decreasing but steadily rising. Renly felt the air warming, sweat beading on his forehead and palms. The humid sensation made his mouth dry, an indescribable tension extending its tentacles.

Renly struggled. On one hand, he told himself he had to embody the role of Paul; on the other hand, he couldn't help but wonder — he only asked for nails in the four corners, so why were there so many? It sounded like more than ten. Had something gone wrong?

Once again, he raised his hand and knocked on the coffin. "Matthew?" Renly shouted, only to be met with silence. "Matthew?" he raised his voice, shouting, "Charles? Charles!" Renly yelled at the top of his lungs, waiting for a response, but... he was disappointed. Silence, complete silence surrounded him, darkness encroaching like a tide, suffocating him. "Matthew Charles Dunlop!" Renly gritted his teeth, issuing a final ultimatum.

Silence reigned.

All he could hear was his own breath, hot and rapid. Had something gone wrong? Had the shopkeeper seized the opportunity, subdued Matthew, and was now trying to suffocate him? After all, he had signed a waiver, hadn't he? Or perhaps there had been another accident — an earthquake, a fire forcing everyone to evacuate, so they hadn't heard his calls?

Or... perhaps he was truly trapped in the middle of the desert, kidnapped by Iraqi militants, thrown into a coffin, buried alive in the sand. He was alone now; not even God could help him. Alone in the vast desert, waiting for death.

The pounding of his heart grew louder, as though it might rend his chest at any moment, bursting forth. Panic, starting from his feet, surged to his head. His scalp tingled, his breath accelerated. Tiny beads of sweat, like peas, trickled down. His back was already drenched. He wanted to turn, but his shoulder collided with the wall. He couldn't even feel the pain; his taut muscles were numb.

No, he wasn't willing to wait for death. He absolutely wouldn't just wait for death to come silently.

He began to fiercely ram his shoulders against the wooden lid above, over and over. Yet, he remained in a supine position, limbs bound within the confined space, incapable of exerting force. Even if he collided with it, it seemed as though an ant were striking a tree- utterly lacking in strength.

Nevertheless, he didn't give up. Gritting his teeth, he struck again. The whole coffin gently trembled, igniting a flicker of hope that fueled every ounce of his determination. Every muscle tensed, he drew himself into the tightest coil. Kness and coccyx pressed against the walls, he then released all his pent-up energy like a spring, using his shoulders to crash into the wood. Overexerting himself, he momentarily lost control. The back of his head collided directly, the searing agony forcing him to clench his teeth.

Unrestrainable anger surged from the depths of his being. His hands pounded fiercely on the board just inches above, curses finally breaking free, "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" He hammered and struggled with all his might, screaming, "Is anyone there? Someone, please! I'm trapped inside! Is anyone there? Anyone?"

He erupted like a volcano, an unceasing surge, yet his struggles seemed trivial. His arms hit the wall before extending, feet met the wall before spreading apart, and muscles met the wall before exerting force. The cramped space suppressed nearly all his explosive power, compressing it like water beneath a surface, leaving him with no point of leverage, no source of propulsion, and forcibly caught halfway.

The stifling sense of frustration blazed forth, an uncontrollable eruption. All reason, all calm, were consumed in its flames, leaving only an all-consuming, desperate struggle. In this moment, even if God himself appeared before him, Renly would tear him apart with his bare hands.

"Hoo, hoo..." After his rapid breaths, exhaustion flooded in, followed by a throbbing ache in his brain. Within the sweltering air, oxygen seemed scarce, unexpectedly turning his stomach. "Gag." The retching sound scraped everything from his stomach, even the strong tea he'd had in the morning.

He could have turned his head to vomit aside, but he was a beat too slow. Some of the liquid trickled down his chin, warm and viscous, offering no relief. His stomach surged even more as if last night's dinner would surge halfway back up.

How wretched, how humiliating, how utterly despairing.

Fists clenched, he pounded the wall, not caring about the pain, just wanting to release his fury. Each hit followed the next, pain barely registering. His teeth were on the brink of shattering, "Ah, ah, ah!" He roared endlessly, until his vocal cords started to ache. Drained of his last ounce of strength, he collapsed onto the floor, relinquishing all struggles and rage. He lay there like a corpse.