**Rag:** *Sheesh…*

  He let out a sigh, but his heart was still pounding like he had just run a marathon. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the whole thing was some kind of fever dream. Or was it just a nightmare?

  **The Man:** "There’s a number written down below—8509."

  Rag nodded, stumbling through his words as he tried to stay in character.

  **Rag:** *"Thanks… sir."*

  Don’t mess this up. You’re doing fine. Just act normal.

  **The Man:** "It’s okay. Glad I could help."

  Rag stood there for a second, still trying to shake off the lingering dizziness. The place he found was a small, beat-up apartment that looked more like a forgotten project than a home. Like someone had started building it and then just... stopped.

  He glanced at the door—some numbers on it, but that was about all he could focus on right now.

  **Rag:** *"Numbers. Right. But which ones? Damn it."*

  He rubbed his temples, frustration building up. *"I can talk, but reading? Nope, that’s out the window."*

  A dry chuckle escaped him. *"I can use a touchscreen, but I can’t read numbers. What kind of messed up logic is that? feel like a fever dream"*

  Everything felt like one big fuzzy mess.

  rag: What’s a fever dream anyway? I am just throwing random words, gross.

  Before he could dive any deeper into his own mental maze, the door made a soft beep, snapping him out of it.

  **Rag:** *"Oh. Okay, it opened."*

  He stepped in, breathing a little easier, but that feeling didn’t last long. The place was a mess.

  **Rag:** *"Damn, this place is a wreck."*

  The air was thick with the scent of old dust, a musty reminder that this place had been untouched for far too long. Rag stepped into the dimly lit room, the weak light flickering overhead, casting shadows across the cluttered space. It was as if time had paused here, the stillness hanging in the air like a forgotten secret.

  The floor was a patchwork of worn-out wooden boards, their edges peeling and scarred. Books were scattered across it, some half-open, their pages yellowed and curling at the edges, as if begging to be read, but abandoned in a rush. The crumpled papers, abandoned notes, and empty wrappers were strewn haphazardly, an artist’s chaotic masterpiece of neglect. A stale, sour odor clung to the room—old paper mixed with a faint trace of mold. Rag’s nose twitched at the unpleasant smell, the sourness almost tasting metallic as it tickled the back of his throat.

  By the desk, a half-eaten slice of bread sat forgotten, the edges dried out and beginning to mold, while the desk itself looked like something you might find in an abandoned factory—a once-important fixture now crushed under the weight of time. It was cluttered with random objects: an old lamp with cracked glass, a half-empty mug that had long lost its warmth, a stack of papers with scribbles Rag couldn’t quite decipher. And in the middle of this disarray stood the computer.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  The monitor was almost painfully clean, its bright screen a stark contrast against the chaos that surrounded it. It hummed faintly, its steady pulse almost alive, flickering intermittently as though it, too, was struggling to understand its place in the room. Rag’s fingers brushed against the cracked, cool surface of the desk, sending a faint chill up his arm. The door to the left was slightly ajar, but the darkness beyond it remained unknown, holding its own kind of invitation, or perhaps warning.

  There was something suffocating about the air, the scent of forgotten things, and the strange quiet that hummed just beneath the surface. Rag could feel it pressing against him, making the room feel even smaller than it was. It was the kind of place where your thoughts seemed to slow down, where the weight of the past pressed against you with each passing second

  **Rag:** *"What is that? And why is it making that noise?"*

  He clenched his jaw, trying to remember anything that could explain it. It was like reaching into the darkness of his mind and hoping something would stick.

  And then... there it was, a flash. A brief spark of recognition, something sharp, like a puzzle piece slamming into place.

  **Rag:** *"A computer?"*

  His fingers hovered over the keyboard. *"Wait, is that what this thing is?"*

  Rag squinted at the machine, its cold glow staring back at him like a single eye. It looked familiar, yet foreign, like a dream half-remembered. A computer, sure—but why did it feel like more than that? Why did it feel aware? He stepped a little closer, eyes narrowing. "Was this mine? Did I build this? Or did someone leave it here... waiting?" The idea unsettled him. Not the machine itself, but the way it sat there—silent, almost expectant, like it had been waiting for him specifically. Watching. Listening.

  He pressed a few keys, unsure of what he was even doing. The screen flickered to life.

  **Rag:** *"Okay... what the hell?"*

  The words on the screen didn’t make sense at first. They just kept repeating, over and over, like the machine was stuck in some loop. Almost like it was exhausted from trying to communicate.

  Then something different happened. The computer spoke.

  **Computer:** *"The Bluetooth device is ready to pair."*

  Rag blinked.

  **Computer:** *"Hey, why are you ignoring me?"*

  **Rag:** *"Whoa. Is the computer... talking?"*

  **Computer:** *"I am unable to sense any reason for your actions. You were just about to open the door completely unprepared. May I ask why?"*

  Rag squinted at the screen. What the hell was this thing trying to say?

  **Rag:** *"What do you mean ‘unprepared’?"*

  **Computer:** *"You were about to open the door. Completely unprepared. Why?"*

  Okay, now it was getting weird. The machine was... demanding answers?

  **Rag:** *"Hold on, okay? I have no clue what’s going on. Just... explain to me first."*

  The computer’s voice became more insistent. Like it wasn’t giving up.

  **Computer:** *“Are you not him? I can definitely say that you are indeed him. Are you getting so lonely that you’re trying to prank the machine you made yourself?”*

  Rag blinked, feeling a chill. What was it talking about?

  **Rag:** *"Wait, what’s Rag?"*

  A chill crept down his spine. *Rag. That’s me, right?* But nothing felt real. Not the name, not the situation, not even this strange computer. It was like something should be clicking in his brain, but it wasn’t.

  **Computer:** *"Answer me."*

  Rag froze, his mind racing to catch up. What was this machine, and why did it keep talking about him like that?

  **Rag:** *"What are you?"*

  **Narrator:** *“Oh, damn. He doesn’t remember his own name.”*

  ---