Ethan's eyes snapped open.
He was in what looked like an abandoned 20th-century cinema—walls draped with peeling red velvet, faded posters clinging on. The projector hummed, casting images not of a film, but of himself: a young agent in cheap sunglasses, gray trench coat, haggling with a street vendor.
"…What the hell?" he muttered.
On screen, his double suddenly looked up and smiled oddly: "This is a scene you weren't supposed to watch."
Rustling swept through the seats. Ethan glanced down—every seat was filled with "colleagues" in Bureau uniforms, each cradling giant tubs of popcorn, munching loudly.
"Shhh! Quiet! The twist is coming!" one of them hissed.
A chill crept up his spine. On screen, the trench-coat Ethan entered a building. The elevator closed, faint bloodstains on the wall. A flicker later—he was burning down an archive room, row upon row of files going up in flames.
"I never did that," Ethan rasped.
"Of course you don't remember." The Ethan on screen spread his hands, firelight glinting in his shades.
The theater burst into applause, like they'd just seen a summer blockbuster. Someone yelled: "Burn it all! Saves us reading the budget report!"
Sweat slicked Ethan's brow. He turned to leave, but every exit was chained shut. On one iron door was a handwritten note from the Director: "No entry without a ticket."
He searched his pockets—only a crumpled slip: "Deleted."
Suddenly the screen flickered. A cold interrogation room appeared. Another Ethan sat shackled, blank-faced. Across from him, the Director sipped coffee.
"You think you're an agent?" the Director's voice drawled. "No. You're our most successful experiment. Your memories were erased, over and over. Your so-called loyalty? All post-production implants."
The audience erupted in laughter, some wiping tears. "He actually believed it for so long! Funnier than the annual raffle!"
Ethan's chest tightened. He lunged at the screen, trying to rip it apart. His hand sank through the surface like water, dragging him inside.
Now in the interrogation room, he faced his shackled double. They locked eyes, silence sharp as knives.
"You're not the real me," Ethan growled.
"Wrong. You're the fake," the other sneered. "Your memories are just stitched scraps. The real parts were cut out, tossed away like meat trimmings. You think you're chasing truth? You're just babysitting garbage."
The Director clapped. "Marvelous! Two Ethans strangling each other—way more fun than budget meetings."
They lunged, hands clamping around each other's throats, veins bulging in mirrored strain. The air thinned, suffocation swelling in their lungs.
"Which… one of us…" Ethan gasped, "…is real?"
The other's eyes glowed eerily. "Real? Hah… the one full of holes lives more truthfully."
The theater curtain crashed down, devouring everything.
Ethan jolted awake.
Back in the archive room. Files scattered on the desk, words blurred like soaked ink. A salty popcorn smell lingered in the corner. A colleague poked his head in, grinning.
"Ethan, did you nod off? Dream something? Don't tell me you dreamed of burning archives! Ha!"
The laughter had a sly edge. In his arms, a tub of popcorn still steamed.
Ethan stared at the kernels, suddenly seeing chewed bits of white brain tissue.
He said nothing, only thought one bitter line:
—If truth is nothing but chewed-up memories, then I'm nothing but a joke.
And the audience? They've already laughed a thousand times.