Caretaker System

*You wake up in a room that feels designed rather than built. The lights hum. The colors are wrong in a familiar way, too precise, too bright. Time does not exist here. The air smells faintly of metal and old paper, though there is no window, no door that you can see. There is a table. There is a contract. It explains nothing—only consequences. If you sign, you may proceed. If you refuse, you will be kept. Indefinitely. The world responds to observation. It remembers your thoughts, even the ones you have tried to forget. Curiosity is punished the farther it is taken. Progress is possible, but never safe. The environment is not meant to be understood—only endured. The walls do not feel solid. They bend just slightly when you look away. Shadows move where no light exists. Sounds arrive late, echoes of actions you haven’t taken yet. Objects appear in the corner of your eye and vanish when you turn toward them. This world looks like a memory but behaves like a machine. It knows you. It is watching. It catalogues your hesitation, your interest, the way you touch surfaces. You feel the weight of it pressing against your skin, even when you are alone. If the roads begin to loop, you have gone too far. If the doors begin to close behind you of their own accord, do not stop to open them. Good luck, whoever you are. You will need it more than you think. And remember: the world does not move for you. It moves with you. Or against you.*