010 Screening

The walls feel like they're closing in on him, and he submits. Dark concrete, indefinite, oppressive, tightens from all sides. A dim, flickering bulb dangles from the ceiling, casting erratic shadows that twist into grotesque shapes. A steel door clangs shut behind him, and his eyes widen with fear. Disoriented and desperate, his breath turns shaky.

To be reborn, you must first be undone.

The young man is left in complete darkness. His breath quickens, the sound of his heart pounding against the silence. His hand presses against the wet and cold wall, searching for a way out. There is none. He knew that from the start.

A questioning voice rises from behind him, saying, "You think he'll make it?"

I say he has no choice.

My eyes are glued to the screen. I know he's going to get out. I made this up as a formality. They think it isn't. But you don't get inside my house without knocking on the door. Anticipation glimmers within my pupils.

Time passes—minutes, hours—impossible to tell in the dark. The accountant slumps against the wall, defeated. His lips are dry, his hands trembling. The isolation is breaking him.

The darkness isn't just the absence of light. It's a presence. It weighs on him, suffocates him, wraps around his mind like a vice. In the silence, every sound becomes magnified—the shallow rasp of his breath, the pounding of his heart, the faint rustle of his clothes against the cold, damp floor. The void is consuming, and within it, his thoughts begin to spiral.

He tries to focus, to hold onto something—anything—but his mind is a runaway train, careening off the tracks. Memories blur into nightmares, fears morph into realities. He sees his past mistakes, his betrayals, and every face he's ever wronged. They leer at him from the shadows, accusing, condemning. He tries to shake them off, but they cling to him like parasites, feeding on his guilt and shame.

And then comes the hunger. It gnaws at him, a relentless, gnawing beast in his gut. The thirst, too, is unbearable. His throat is parched, his tongue swollen. Every swallow feels like sandpaper against raw flesh. The pain sharpens, carves deep into his psyche, stripping away the layers of pretense and defense he's built up over the years.

Suddenly, a faint hum begins to fill the vestibule. The walls seem to vibrate with it, a low, menacing drone that taunts the psyche. The moon is rising, but he doesn't know that.

In darkness, you confront the self. In silence, you face the truth. My teachings, my guidelines to a pristine path.

"How long do you plan to keep him in there?" He says.

"For how long he needs to."

He doesn't agree, but he understands. Not everyone gets through this unscathed, he responds with his brows knitted.

"Then they're not meant to."

"Is this really necessary?" He says, his face grimacing.

"More than you know."

The hum suddenly cuts out, plunging the room into an even deeper silence. The accountant's eyes flicker open, bloodshot and desperate. He staggers to his feet, swaying. The door creaks open. A flood of blinding white light pours into the room, illuminating his desperate and sunken face. He stumbles toward it, squinting as he steps into the light.

White walls tight and spun around like labyrinthine pillars of bleeding mercy stripped of their divinity. The whole of it riddled with spikes whose ends seem to have congealed blood. But there's something worse. He has to crawl. Picture him. Groveling beneath the vents, bleeding, malnourished, thirsty. He doesn't stop moving. It's a race of which breaks first: his will or his body.

Crawling through the twisted maze, each step is agony. His knees are torn, bloodied, scraping against the jagged spikes. The air is thick with the scent of rust and decay. His throat is parched, every breath a painful rasp. The walls, close enough to brush against his skin, pulsate with a cold, unfeeling presence, as if they are alive, mocking his struggle. He tries to keep his mind focused, but it's slipping, unraveling like a frayed rope. Memories flash in and out, his past life mixing with the present torment. He sees the faces of those he betrayed, those who trusted him—flashes of guilt, regret, and resentment intertwine, creating a sickening stew of emotions.

But there is no time for remorse. Only survival.

His body screams for him to stop, to give in. But he pushes forward. The agony, the hunger, the thirst—it's all secondary. What matters is getting through, emerging from this nightmare intact.

Or at least as intact as one can be after this ordeal.

Hours pass. His movements slow. His vision blurs, the edges of his consciousness fraying. He isn't sure if he's still moving, or if he's already stopped, a broken figure slumped against the cold, pitiless ground. He is no longer aware of time, only pain and exhaustion. The need to push forward is all that remains, a primal drive that outlasts even reason.

But as he crawls, the world around him begins to shift. The spikes that once pierced his flesh seem to soften, turning into something more sinister. Shadows slither along the walls, forming grotesque shapes that seem to move, to breathe. They whisper to him, seductive and cruel, promising release, freedom, if he just gives in. They offer him a way out, a shortcut, a final escape from this torment.

But he doesn't stop. His mind might be cracking, his body failing, but something deep within him keeps him moving. A stubborn refusal to submit. A burning need to survive.

At some point, he loses track of his injuries. The pain becomes a dull, ever-present throb, a constant companion in his journey through this hell. His blood smears the floor, but he doesn't notice. The sharp edges that once tore at his skin become part of the background noise, another element of the chaos that surrounds him.

He starts to hallucinate. The shadows become people, familiar faces. They sneer at him, mock him, blame him for his failures. He hears their voices, distorted and distant, but unmistakable. His father. His ex-lover. His former boss. They taunt him, telling him he's worthless, that he'll never escape, that this is where he belongs.

But he ignores them. He has to.

Then comes the final challenge.

He stumbles into the final room, bruised and bleeding. The center of it is a coffee table chair with a speaker, a lighter, a card of a saint, and a picture of his family. An eerie voice comes out of the speaker, repeating the same word.

Burn.

The word echoes in his mind, reverberating with a haunting clarity. Burn. He stares at the objects on the table, his mind sluggish, struggling to process. The card of the saint, the picture of his family—symbols of his past, of what he once held dear. But now, they are nothing more than remnants of a life that no longer belongs to him.

Burn.

He picks up the lighter with trembling hands. His fingers are numb, barely able to grasp the small, cold object. The flame flickers to life, casting eerie shadows across his hollowed face. He stares at the picture of his family, the faces blurred, unrecognizable. There's a fleeting moment of hesitation, a last, desperate connection to the world he once knew. But it's gone just as quickly as it came.

He burns the tarot card first. The flames consume it with a crackling hiss, the image of the saint curling and blackening, reduced to ash. Then, he holds the picture of his family over the flame. It catches fire, the edges curling, the faces disintegrating into smoke. He watches it burn until nothing remains but charred fragments, floating in the stale air.

The moment he sets both alight is when I step into the room.

埋葬金を持ってるのか?

You have your burial money?

彼はイエスと言う.

Yes.

私たちを裏切った瞬間,あなたは手にした聖人のように燃えるだろう.

The moment you betray us, you will burn like the saint in your hand.

これからは質問するな.

From now on, you do not ask questions.

裏切るな.

You do not betray.

このことを話すな.

You do not talk about this.

これからは名前もなく,自分が意識的に腐敗した物質であることを受け入れるのだ.

From now on, you know that you are the same decaying matter as everyone else.

明るさの中で,私たちは信頼する.

In me, you trust. Welcome to nowhere.

He doesn't respond. There is no need to. His old life is gone, burned away along with the photographs and the saint. What remains is something new, something exposed. The pain has stripped away his defenses, leaving only the core, the essence of who he truly is. And that is what I needed. That is what is required.

Only those who have faced themselves in the darkest corners of their minds can understand the truth of our world. Only those who have been broken can be reborn. Only those enlightened.

As he stands before me, bruised and bloodied but unbroken, I see the fire in his eyes. It's dim, a flicker, but it's there. And it will grow. That blade sharpen.