The quiet hum of fluorescent lights was the only sound that accompanied Nael as he sat, tense, on the cold metal chair. The woman across from him still hadn't introduced herself. Her dark hair was tied neatly in a bun, her posture perfect, her hands folded on the table as if she were the one being interrogated, not him.
She watched him in silence, eyes like dark glass—still, yet alert. For the third time since entering the room, Nael considered walking out. But something in him—curiosity, fear, maybe both—kept him rooted to the chair.
Between them, the folder sat like a loaded weapon. Nael hadn't opened it. He didn't want to see what was inside. He didn't want confirmation that his nightmares might be real.
The window behind the woman framed a sky that was bleeding from day into night. Streaks of purple, orange, and grey smeared the horizon like bruises. Nael's eyes flicked to the reflection in the glass. His face looked unfamiliar to him. Not just tired—haunted.
"I assume you've been sleeping poorly," the woman finally said.
Nael exhaled a short breath, dry and humorless. "You could say that."
"The dreams?" she asked, her voice still smooth, still calm.
"Dreams don't whisper to you when you're awake."
That made her pause.
She tilted her head slightly, curious. "What do they say?"
Nael clenched his jaw. "It's not always clear. Sometimes it's just noise. Like static. But other times… it knows things. About me. About my past. Things I haven't told anyone."
She nodded slowly, then opened the folder. Her fingers traced one of the photographs inside. "Do you recognize any of these people?"
He hesitated, then leaned in reluctantly. The photographs were old. Some in full color, others tinted in sepia, faded as though the years had tried to erase them. A few were clearly candid. Others looked like surveillance stills.
Children playing in a park.
A man in military uniform, staring straight into the lens.
A woman sitting at the edge of a hospital bed, her hand resting on an empty pillow.
"No," Nael said finally. "I don't know any of them."
"But they all know you," she said, closing the folder. "At least, they did."
He frowned. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"They were part of a program," she explained. "A long time ago. One that was never officially documented. It was buried—erased from public records. But some memories... are harder to erase."
Nael leaned back, crossing his arms. "And I was part of this?"
"We believe so. You were listed under a different name then. But the data matches. And the voice you're hearing—it's not the first time we've encountered it."
Nael's skin prickled with cold. "So, I'm not crazy."
"Not in the way you think."
He wanted to laugh, to break the tension with some sarcastic remark—but the weight in her eyes told him she wasn't joking.
"I came here because I thought this was some sort of research center," he said. "Some place for people dealing with... dissociative symptoms. Trauma, maybe. But this?"
She didn't answer. Instead, she stood and walked to the wall, pressing her hand against a smooth, silver panel. The wall hissed and shifted, revealing a hidden doorway.
Beyond it: a softly lit room with circular architecture. The walls were glass, tinted amber, and a wide, round couch wrapped around the center like a nest. Monitors lined the far end, black screens waiting to be awakened.
"This is the Whisper Room," she said. "You'll be spending a lot of time here."
Nael didn't move. "Why?"
"Because this is where it all begins to make sense."
The name alone sent a chill down his spi
ne.
Nael stepped into the Whisper Room with hesitant steps. The air inside felt denser, warmer, like the room itself was alive and breathing slowly. There was a scent too—subtle but persistent—something between old paper and rain-drenched stone. It stirred a feeling in him he couldn't place. Nostalgia laced with dread.
The woman followed him in, her heels clicking softly against the smooth floor. She stood beside him, but she didn't speak. Instead, she gestured toward the circular couch in the center of the room.
"Sit," she said simply.
Nael obeyed. The cushions were unexpectedly soft, almost too comfortable, like a trap meant to lull him into lowering his guard.
The monitors flickered to life one by one. Twelve screens surrounded him now, each showing a different view. Some displayed empty hallways, others dim-lit corridors or rooms with flickering lights. A few were live feeds of the facility—he recognized the lobby, the elevator, the stairwell he'd taken on his first day.
But one screen, directly in front of him, played a video on a loop.
It was him.
From earlier that morning. Sitting alone in the interview room. Same clothes. Same restless posture.
But behind him—clear as shadow against glass—was a figure.
Nael froze.
It stood just behind his shoulder. Not touching him. Not moving. But there.
A tall, thin silhouette with no discernible features. Its face was blurred, the shape of its body flickering faintly like a signal barely received.
He stood up instinctively and spun around. Nothing.
"I don't understand," he said, voice taut. "That thing—what is it?"
The woman didn't flinch. "We call it 'the Watcher.' It appears in recordings but never in real-time. Only certain subjects can sense it. Even fewer hear it."
Nael turned toward her. "And I'm one of those few?"
"Yes. You've been one of them for longer than you remember."
She walked to a side panel and slid it open. Inside were objects—personal effects sealed in evidence bags. She took one out and handed it to him.
It was a photograph.
Of him.
As a child.
He stood in front of an old, ivy-covered building, hand in hand with someone whose face was scratched out violently—inked over in thick black strokes.
He blinked. The memory rushed in.
"I've been here before," he said.
She nodded. "This place isn't new to you. But your memory... was altered. Fragmented."
Nael's breathing quickened. His hands trembled slightly.
"Why?" he asked. "Why would anyone do that?"
"To protect you," she said quietly. "Or maybe... to protect the world from what you brought with you."
A crackling sound filled the room. One of the monitors turned to static. Then another. And another.
Suddenly, all twelve screens were buzzing with interference—except one.
The center screen.
It now showed a room Nael didn't recognize. A child sat in the middle, facing away from the camera. Alone.
Nael stepped closer. "Who is that?"
The woman didn't answer.
Then, from the speaker above them, a whisper came—dry, echoing, and low.
"Nael."
He stumbled backward. The voice hadn't just spoken. It had pressed against his thoughts, like it was inside his head.
The child in the video turned slowly, revealing a pale face with wide, dark eyes.
It was him.
A younger Nael.
Tears welled in the boy's eyes.
And then
he whispered, "Don't let them in."
Nael blinked at the screen again, trying to make sense of what he'd seen. The grainy video flickered, playing back a moment that should have been familiar—his own posture, his anxious movements, his eyes darting in confusion. But what made his breath catch wasn't himself. It was the shadow standing behind him in the reflection. A figure that shouldn't have been there.
His heart pounded in his ears.
"Is this a trick?" he called out, unsure if the woman was still listening through the speaker.
There was no answer.
He paced the room slowly. The walls remained silent, the screens now blank. The digital pulse of the room felt eerie, like a dormant beast waiting to wake. The stillness pressed against his skin like static.
Then he heard it again.
A whisper—this time unmistakable. Not just in his mind, but a breath, a murmur laced with syllables that almost formed words.
He froze. The voice didn't come from the speaker.
It came from the wall.
Nael stepped closer. He placed his hand against the glass and leaned in. "Hello?"
The glass vibrated slightly beneath his fingers.
"Nael…" the whisper said. Louder now. Clearer. It didn't sound like the woman. It didn't sound like anyone he knew.
It sounded like him.
He staggered back.
"What is this place?" he whispered to himself, his voice hoarse.
The whisper responded. "You already know."
Panic clawed at his chest. He turned around, looking for a way out—but the door he had entered through was sealed shut. No handle, no keypad. Just smooth, impenetrable metal.
He backed toward the center of the room and sat slowly on the circular couch, eyes scanning the walls. "Okay," he muttered. "Okay, think."
He tried to remember more about how he got here. He had checked himself into the institute after the episodes had worsened. Visions, fragmented memories, voices. They told him it was stress, trauma, perhaps even psychosis. But nothing they gave him dulled the sense that he was being haunted by something not of this world—something buried in his past or twisted into his fate.
The lights dimmed suddenly.
In the center of the ceiling, a projector flickered on. Not the screen this time. The air shimmered, and a holographic image formed.
It was a scene. A room—not unlike the one he was in—but older. Dustier. A child sat in the middle, his back to Nael. The boy was building something with wooden blocks. A small camera hovered in the corner.
Nael leaned forward.
The boy turned.
It was him.
Not a likeness. Not a recreation.
It was a recording.
He couldn't be more than six years old. His expression was blank, focused entirely on the tower he was building. In the background, faint voices murmured—observers? Doctors?
The boy looked up suddenly and stared directly at the camera. Then, as if sensing something, his head turned slightly… toward Nael.
No. Not toward the camera.
Toward him.
Nael's blood ran cold.
"Who are you?" he demanded, standing up again. The child in the projection tilted his head slowly.
Then he smiled.
The projection vanished.
The door
behind him hissed open.
Nael hesitated at the threshold, staring into the newly opened corridor. A sterile hallway stretched ahead, its white lights humming faintly overhead. The air smelled like cold metal and antiseptic—clinical, lifeless. He turned back toward the Whisper Room, but the door had already begun to seal behind him with a soft hiss.
There was no turning back now.
He stepped forward.
The hallway's silence was unnerving. Each footstep echoed too loudly, reminding him how alone he was. Yet beneath that silence, there was always the whisper. Not constant, not even consistent—but it returned like breath, like the tide. A familiar rhythm just outside comprehension. Sometimes it was words, sometimes only emotion—a sorrow that pressed against his ribs.
He passed a door marked Observation A. Its small glass panel was blacked out.
The next one: Patient Archive 3.
And then—Nael Arwan – Clearance Level: Red.
He stopped in front of it.
His own name.
The door beeped as he neared, scanning his presence without him touching anything. Then it slid open, revealing a room bathed in warm yellow light. It looked like an office, but everything inside it was dedicated to him.
A wall of monitors.
Stacks of notebooks and data sheets.
Photographs—dozens, maybe hundreds—of him.
Some from his childhood, some recent. Some... he couldn't remember ever being taken.
He stepped inside, heart racing. On the largest monitor, his medical profile was open, scrolling slowly with notes written in a language he didn't recognize—technical, clinical, and cold.
But one line stopped him cold.
> Subject exhibits increasing resonance with Shadow Signal. Projected fusion event: 21 days.
"Fusion?" he whispered aloud.
"Means you're becoming one of them."
Nael spun around.
The woman was back, standing in the doorway. Her hair slightly undone now, her blazer open. She no longer looked like a therapist or an administrator.
She looked tired. Like someone who had once believed in something and now questioned it every day.
"What does that mean?" he demanded. "One of what?"
She stepped inside slowly. "We call them Shadows. Not because that's what they are—but because that's how they act. They follow. They linger. They whisper."
She gestured to the monitors. "They bond with the ones who can hear them. Most people can't. But you… you were born listening."
Nael's stomach dropped. "So what, you've been studying me my whole life?"
She nodded, slowly. "Not just studying. Protecting."
His hands curled into fists. "From what?"
"From yourself."
That broke him.
He laughed. Once. Bitterly. "You think I'm the danger?"
She looked at him—not with pity, but with understanding. "You don't know what's inside you, Nael. But it's not your fault."
Silence fell between them like a curtain. Then, softly:
"Why me?" he asked.
She looked away. "Because your father
was the first."
Nael's breath caught in his throat. His father? The man he hadn't seen since he was a child? Memories rose like ghosts—his father's blurred silhouette standing in the hallway at night, murmuring to someone who wasn't there… the way he'd glance over his shoulder even in the safety of their home. The way he vanished without explanation.
"You're lying," Nael said, though his voice lacked conviction.
The woman stepped closer, her gaze steady. "He was the first successful integration. The first to connect with the Shadow without losing himself completely. But he ran when he realized what it meant."
Nael swallowed hard. "What did it mean?"
"That the voices aren't just echoes of the mind. They're real. Ancient. And they've been searching for a way back into this world for centuries."
He backed away from her. "And now I'm the next vessel?"
"Not a vessel. A bridge."
Nael shook his head. "No. I didn't ask for this. I didn't choose this."
She didn't argue.
Instead, she walked to a console and pressed a button. One of the monitors blinked to life.
It showed a recording—grainy security footage from years ago.
Nael was in it.
A child, barely five, curled up in a hospital bed. Machines surrounded him. Electrodes were attached to his temples. But what drew his eyes wasn't his younger self—it was the figure standing at the corner of the room.
A silhouette. Faint. Shifting. Unmoving.
Watching.
"I don't remember this," he whispered.
"You wouldn't. We suppressed it. To keep you safe. But suppression doesn't last forever."
Nael turned to her. "Why now? Why is it all coming back?"
"Because the Shadow you bonded with is waking. And it's beginning to bleed into your waking world."
As if summoned by her words, the light in the room dimmed. The temperature dropped.
And Nael felt it.
Not a presence.
A pressure.
Behind him.
He turned slowly. His reflection stared back at him from the dark monitor screen. But his reflection was not alone.
A figure stood just behind his mirrored self. Dark eyes. A face half-lost in shadow. And a smile that didn't belong to any human mouth.
Then the whisper came again—low, guttural, yet strangely familiar.
"He opened the door… and now you must walk through it."
Nael stumbled back, heart hammering. The monitor shut off.
He gasped. "What was that?"
The woman didn't flinch. "That… was the beginning."
She placed a small object in his palm. A key. Old. Brass. Cold to the touch.
"Room Zero is waiting."
Nael looked at her, his fear thick in his throat. "What's in Room Zero?"
She gave him a look filled with something more than sadness—something closer to guilt.
"Your answers. And your father's shadow."