The cold followed him wherever he went.
Not the cold of the weather, nor the chill of his own body—but an inner cold, one that seeped from a place so deep within him that he could never quite reach it. The cold of emptiness.
Everything in his life was perfect… or at least, that was what he was always told.
His job at "ExcelTech," one of the leading tech companies, was stable. His colleagues were friendly. His salary was good. His future was secure. His family loved him, supported him, treated him like something fragile, precious—something they were afraid of losing. Even his friends, despite their constant worry, never abandoned him. They stayed by his side, always trying to keep him anchored to this life—a life he had never truly felt he belonged to.
Everything was exactly as it should be.
And yet, he felt nothing.
He walked through the crowded streets of the city, hearing the blaring horns of cars, watching countless faces pass him by, observing the world as it moved forward… but he was never a part of it.
Everything felt distant, as though he were looking at life from behind a thick sheet of glass. He could see it all, but he couldn't touch it. He couldn't feel it.
When he sat in front of his computer screen, typing lines of code, analyzing system data, fixing technical issues, all he saw were silent symbols—meaningless commands he followed without thought.
His body moved. He smiled when expected. He answered when spoken to. He laughed when it was appropriate to laugh.
But inside, he was hollow.
"Triton, are you okay? You look pale today."
It was a colleague's voice. He didn't turn. He didn't even feel the need to respond.
How could he explain that he wasn't sick, wasn't depressed, wasn't sad—but also, wasn't okay?
How could he explain that everything felt like a long, endless dream? That his life didn't feel real? That he felt like nothing more than a shadow walking among the living?
Falling Into Nothingness
When he returned to his apartment that night, he wasn't thinking about anything in particular.
Everything was hazy. Blurred.
He opened the balcony door, stepping into the cold night air. The city stretched out beneath him, glowing with life.
And then…
He found himself standing at the edge.
He didn't know how he had gotten there.
He hadn't decided anything. He hadn't even been thinking about dying.
But his feet were there, at the precipice, and the wind pushed against him gently—like a whisper, urging him forward.
He stood there, in that moment that stretched into eternity.
Then—
Awareness disappeared.
Everything became silent. Dark. Empty.
As if the world had ended.
When Wakefulness Is Not Wakefulness
Triton woke to an unfamiliar cold—not the kind that accompanied early mornings, but the kind that seeped into the bones, the kind that drowned the body in deep, icy waters.
He wasn't in his bed.
He wasn't in his home.
He opened his eyes slowly, staring at the ceiling above him. It was pale, worn—like time had eaten away at it, leaving behind only faint traces of gray. The air was different, thick with the scent of disinfectants, but not the kind he was used to from the hospital he had visited so many times before.
Lifting his head slightly, he noticed something strange. His body felt drained, yet there were no medical devices attached to him. No machines beeping. No wires piercing his skin.
No parents sitting beside him.
No tired, worried gaze from his sister.
He was alone.
He tried to move, but then he noticed his clothes…
They weren't the soft, white hospital garments he had grown familiar with. They were heavier, rougher—dull gray, resembling more of a uniform than patient attire.
Something pressed against his wrist. He looked down.
A leather strap circled it tightly, engraved with a string of numbers.
Not his name.
Only numbers.
His heartbeat quickened.
Where was he?
Slowly, he got up. He took a few unsteady steps, feeling the cold floor beneath his feet. The room was small. The walls were bare. No windows. No furniture, except for the metal bed he had woken up on.
His eyes drifted toward the only door in the room.
He moved toward it, reached for the handle—
And then he heard it.
Screams.
Not one.
Many.
Layered, overlapping, distorted—coming from multiple directions at once.
He stepped back, a sudden wave of dizziness hitting him.
This isn't real.
But he was here.
This isn't his world.
But he was standing in it now.
Taking a deep breath, he turned the handle, pushing the door open—
And his breath caught in his throat.
A long corridor stretched before him, its dim lighting casting shadows that danced along the pale gray walls. Doors lined both sides, identical in every way. Each one had a number.
Numbers. No names.
And from behind each door, the screams continued—endless, tortured, as if they belonged to souls trapped in some unseen hell.
Then—
The door in front of him slammed shut.
By itself.
As if the place had rejected his attempt to leave.
Triton staggered backward, his pulse hammering in his ears.
This isn't happening.
But it was.
Because he was still here.