Silence.
Thick, oppressive, almost unreal.
Felix opened his eyes. The ceiling light blazed above him, a white sun that scorched his vision. He blinked several times, trying to focus. The world around him was blurred, like a dream slipping through the cracks of memory.
The smell of disinfectant burned his nostrils. White sheets. White walls. Beeping in his ear.
A hospital?
He was alive. Somehow.
"You're awake?"
A voice. Calm — almost too calm.
Felix turned his head. A man stood at his bedside in a white coat, wearing a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. Cold, professional… empty.
"Where am I?" Felix whispered. His throat felt like sandpaper.
"You're in the infirmary at the Rosemary Center. You passed out in the street. Just a minor fainting spell. Nothing serious."
Fainting?
No. That wasn't right.
He frowned. The memories came back in flashes. He'd been driving. Rain pounding the windshield. Then headlights. Screeching tires. Metal twisting. Pain. Blood. His own scream—
He looked down at himself. No cast. No blood. No bruises. Not even a scratch. Just a strange lightness, like his body was made of smoke.
"No… there was an accident. A car. I hit a truck," he stammered.
The doctor's smile didn't falter.
"It must have been a dream. The brain often constructs vivid scenarios during fainting episodes. You should rest a little longer."
Felix's pulse quickened. He wasn't listening anymore.
Something was wrong.
Too quiet. Too clean. No nurses walking by, no voices from nearby rooms. No window letting in natural light.
The ceiling light hummed, its glow almost unbearable.
He sat up, ignoring the doctor's voice. "I want to leave," he said. "I want to see the street. My car."
The doctor's tone changed. No more pretense.
Colder now. Sharper.
"Please lie down, Mr. Felix."
Felix stood, legs shaky beneath him. There was only one door, and a small window set high in the wall. His breath quickened. His instincts screamed at him to move.
He dashed toward the table, climbed up awkwardly, and shoved the window open.
A cold wind slapped him in the face.
And what he saw beyond the wall made his blood freeze.
A crimson sky. No sun. Just swirling clouds that pulsed like a dying heartbeat. The ground below was cracked and scorched, stretching into an empty wasteland. No cars. No trees. No sound — only wind and distant, shifting shadows.
His heart pounded.
"This isn't a hospital," he muttered.
"It's a trap."
He jumped.
The fall was longer than he expected, but he hit the ground, rolled, and got up unscathed. He didn't think. He ran.
He didn't know where he was going — just that he had to get away from that place.
Minutes passed. Maybe hours. Finally, gasping, he stopped. Dust swirled around him. His hands trembled. His knees buckled.
And then he remembered something.
A book. An old novel he'd read years ago. In it, the dead awoke in replicas of the real world — flawed illusions designed to keep them docile. Hell wasn't fire and torture. It was a loop. A place where the dead didn't know they were dead.
Memory was the key.
The only thing the soul could carry.
And now, he remembered the crash. The cold. The way the world faded.
"So I'm dead…" he whispered.
He sank to the ground. The wind howled louder, swirling ash around him.
But if this wasn't life…
Was it Hell?
Or something worse?