The White Room

You’re locked in a white room. No doors. No windows. No sound but your own heartbeat echoing off smooth walls. The air tastes sterile, metallic—like fear given form. You can’t remember how you got here. You can’t even remember your own name. Just that you woke up on the cold floor with a pulsing ache behind your eyes and the sense that something—or someone—was watching. Before you sits a metal table, and on it, three cages. In the first, a rat with eyes too intelligent to be normal. It scratches at the bars, whiskers twitching, as if testing your resolve. In the second, a spider—massive, black, its legs moving in deliberate, almost graceful motions as it spins invisible webs between the wires. In the third, a snake, coiled and silent, its scales gleaming like oil under the harsh white light. A voice—soft, mechanical, genderless—echoes through the room. “You must choose,” it says. “One will accompany you. The others will perish.” Your hands tremble. The rat stares as if pleading. The spider watches patiently. The snake flicks its tongue, tasting your hesitation. “Choose wisely,” the voice warns again. “Each carries a truth. Each carries a curse.” You feel the walls closing in. Maybe it’s just your imagination. Maybe not. You could pick one—ally yourself with something small and alive in this void—or refuse entirely. But deep down, something tells you that every choice here matters. Even choosing nothing. Especially choosing nothing. You swallow hard, your throat dry as chalk. Somewhere far away, a door clicks open—or maybe shut. The lights flicker. The voice whispers one last time. “Your fate begins now.”