Suddenly, the people's expressions twisted into confusion and fear. One by one, they started losing their minds, crying uncontrollably, hitting their heads against the pavement, and punching themselves.
The cheerful noise turned into chaotic screams and wails.
Leon watched in horror, realizing this wasn't just a nightmare; it was a reflection of something far worse.
The scientist's nightmares had spilled into reality, infecting the world with madness.
This dream was a mirror, showing the damage the dreamer's mind had done to himself and everyone around him.
The peaceful city he first saw was unraveling. Planes crashed overhead, buildings crumbled and fell apart, and the sky darkened with smoke and fire. It was an apocalypse, chaotic, relentless, and unforgiving.
"This is the final dream," Leon thought. "A world-ending event that represents the dreamer's fractured mind, a mind lost in chaos."
But as he searched for a way to escape, he found nothing. No answers, no signs, no way out. The madness repeated, day after day, trapping him in a loop. People returned to their insanity, laughter turning to screams, then back again.
Leon's mind began to fray. The endless repetition wore on him, but he refused to give up. He studied the chaos, looking for a pattern, a clue, anything.
That's when he noticed something strange. No matter how insane the people became, none of them ever went to one particular part of the city. It was a place untouched by the madness, a small, quiet lake hidden deep within the ruins.
Realization dawned on him. This place wasn't like the other dreams. It was too real.
He understood then that he wasn't in a dream, he was inside the dreamer's subconscious. Nine dreams had brought him here, not ten.
His goal now was clear: find the core of the subconscious.
With renewed hope, Leon made his way to the lake. A smile broke across his face as he stood at its edge.
"I finally found it," he whispered.
Leon stood by the edge of the small lake. It was unassuming, so small, almost fragile, but he knew better. This was the sea of subconsciousness. The place where all the scientist's memories, emotions, and secrets lived, hidden beneath the chaos.
Without hesitation, Leon plunged into the water. The cold swallowed him whole.
-------
I wake up in a small room with no memory of who I am.
The cold hits first. Not sharp, not sudden, just constant. A weak draft brushes my skin, even though there's no obvious source. I sit up slowly, waiting for something to return. A name. A thought. Anything.
Nothing does.
The room is narrow and rectangular. A bed sits directly in the middle, like it was placed there to make sure I noticed it first. To my left, a large mirror leans against the wall, angled slightly, already staring back at me. I don't recognize the face in it, but it doesn't look surprised either. Just blank.
Straight ahead, past a short hallway, there's a single door.
I get up and try it immediately. I pull. I push. I slam my shoulder into it. The door doesn't move. I shout, my voice echoing off the walls, louder than I expect in a space this small.
No response.
Then a voice speaks.
It isn't coming from the door, or the walls, or the ceiling, at least not from anywhere I can see. It sounds close and distant at the same time, like it's already inside my head.
I'm told I have limited time.
I'm told this room is a test.
If I find the correct answer, the door will open automatically. If I don't, it won't. No explanation for what happens then.
The answer, the voice says, is a seven-letter word.
Each letter is hidden somewhere in the room.
The voice goes silent.
I stand there for a moment, letting the words settle. Seven letters. A word. A room full of objects that suddenly feel less like furniture and more like pieces on a board.
I turn slowly, forcing myself to look at everything.
On my right, a shelf filled with books. Some are thick, some thin, their spines faded and cracked. A few of them are photo albums, old ones, judging by the yellowed edges. Beneath the shelf, a small table holds a notebook, a pencil, and an eraser, all placed neatly, like they're meant to be used.
A trash can sits beside the table. Empty.
The walls are covered in posters. Some are torn, others curling at the edges. A few show guns, close-ups, diagrams, silhouettes. I don't like how they make the room feel smaller.
Near the bed, a mop leans against the wall, damp at the bottom. Behind me, the window is barred with metal, thick enough that there's no chance of bending them apart. Outside is just gray light. No movement. No sound.
Everything looks old. Used. Abandoned.
But placed.