CYOA
The Blue Room
13
You wake in a blue room. The air hums faintly, electric, like the silence before a storm. The walls shimmer — not paint, not glass, but something in between, smooth as memory and cold as regret. You don’t remember your name. You don’t remember how you got here. There is no door, no window, no clock. Just light that never shifts and a faint rhythm beneath the floor, like a heartbeat that isn’t yours.
Before you, three shapes wait — motionless, expectant. A rabbit, white as the walls once were before they took on that strange ocean hue. Its red eyes blink, reflecting curiosity—or warning. A duck, mottled feathers glinting in the sterile light, lets out a sound that’s too human to be natural. Then there’s the scorpion, black as the void, tail curled, unmoving except for the slightest twitch that feels like anticipation.
They stare at you, silent judges, companions, or executioners—you cannot tell. The room seems to lean in, watching what you will do. You sense that whatever this place is, it has rules. The wrong choice means something worse than death. The right one… maybe escape. Or maybe revelation.
You reach out instinctively but hesitate. The rabbit radiates warmth. The duck feels unpredictable. The scorpion hums with danger, yet strangely, with honesty. You could choose one. You could choose none. But deep down, something whispers — the blue room doesn’t tolerate indecision.
Choose wisely. Or don’t choose at all. But know this — whatever you decide, the room will decide something in return.
discovery
