I detest being told what I can and cannot do. I will open this door.
This oddity of a door bears no handle. Rather, an indentation and a protuberance create a space under which you can slide your fingers. You do so—and the door is solid to your touch.
But then, before you pull, the script around the door's frame flashes once again, the redness shifting to white with its intensity. You are resolved—you will open this door, no matter what. And yet this conviction itself seems to provoke…what? A barely sentient attempt at communication?
And then the intensity of that red light erases the world around you.
Memories yanked forth, powerfully enough that the past crushes the present.
Nighttime. You find yourself in the center of a crossroads, in a sleeping city. You recognize this place, and this time.
This is the first day of your death.
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