في عصر قديم، عاشَتْ أسطورة موسى وشهيرة الشهيرة، الجميلة والأنيقة. لم تكن حياته مجرد قصة عادية، بل كانت كالحكايات الساحرة التي تجذب القلوب والعقول. ولد لهما ابن، سماه موسى، كما ورد في السجلات القديمة. ولكن هل كانت نهاية القصة؟ لا، بالطبع لا. لأن في عالم الخيال والحكايات، كل شيء ممكن، حتى السحر والمفاجآت الغير متوقعة. فلنتابع القصة ونرى ما الذي يخبئه المستقبل لموسى ولسعيه إلى السعادة في عالم سحري وخيالي
¡We🔥Come!
⁎⁎⁎ ⁎⁎⁎ X ⁎⁎⁎ ⁎⁎⁎
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Click the image for a quick introduction.
✨انتفاضة 🕺الدُمى💃 الصامتة✨
Не выходи из витрины, твой мир —
В стеклянной тюрьме, в тумане из света,
Твой образ — наряд, твой плен — сувенир,
Ты — вечный молчальник без слова ответа.
Накинь на плечи привычный наряд,
Скрой пустоту, чтобы верить в личину.
Ты создан, чтоб платьем пленить женский взгляд,
Но взгляд без души — всего лишь картина.
Тебя, как скульптуру, хранит теснота,
Как прах вековых неизменных законов,
Смирись — ведь ни воли, ни смысла, ни сна
Не ведают формы глухих полигониев.
Они надевали тебе этот шёлк,
Эти брюки, застёгнуты на тебя строго,
Чтоб ты в их приказе, как раб и истолк,
Стоял средь витрин, не мечтая о многом.
Ты — образ пустой, ты безликий чурбан,
В стеклянном стоишь ты под светом, как в клетке,
Ты маска без права на личный обман,
Ты шепот чужих суетливых заметок.
👄🪬🫦
In the year 2059, knowledge was no longer read, heard, or watched—it was felt. Advanced AI systems had devised a way to compress vast archives of human experience into intense immersive sessions, where every sense was pushed to its absolute limit. What might take years to study was now crammed into a single, excruciating academic hour. The capsule—a seamless blend of biochemistry and quantum computing—served as both teacher and tormentor.
Artem Markov, a young prosecutor and doctoral candidate, sat rigidly in the pod. He braced himself as the neural link engaged, filling his vision with a spiraling cascade of monochrome fractals. The words of his supervisor echoed faintly in his mind: “Stalin’s archives are not for the faint-hearted.” But curiosity gnawed at him, sharper than fear.
The spiral unraveled, dissolving into scenes so vivid they didn’t feel like memories but experiences. A knock at the door. Midnight raids. The shriek of splitting wood as a boot kicked open the threshold. Artem’s heart pounded with terror that wasn’t his own—or was it? He felt the cold snap of steel handcuffs around his wrists, the stench of damp walls and unwashed bodies pressing in from every side.
It wasn’t a simulation. It wasn’t even history anymore. It was his life.
🫦🪬👄
The archives dragged him through the gulag’s dark corridors of suffering. Each moment surged with unbearable clarity. He clawed at frozen earth alongside spectral companions, their faces blurring between desperation and resolve. An escape attempt played out in brutal detail—he heard the crack of rifle fire, felt the searing pain of a bullet grazing his thigh. Hunger gnawed at his insides like a living thing. The camps were more than places—they were worlds of their own logic, where human cruelty danced with unbreakable will.
In the midst of this endless gray, there were fleeting pockets of light: a whispered joke over thin gruel, the camaraderie of a shared stolen cigarette. Yet even these were fleeting. A wrong word could lead to another 10 years.
👄🪬🫦
When the 45 minutes ended, Artem sat in the debriefing room, sweat soaking his shirt. The capsule had worked perfectly. His mind was flooded with a lifetime of knowledge—experiences of countless prisoners woven seamlessly into his neural pathways.
Across the room, a pale bureaucrat reviewed his logs. Without lifting his gaze, the man asked:
“So, is it true? Did you serve 10 years in the camps?”
The question slammed into Artem like a sledgehammer. His throat constricted. For a moment, he couldn’t tell whether it was real or imagined. He stammered:
“I... I think so.”
The man gave a curt nod.
“Good. For your service to the archives, Comrade Stalin grants you a bonus.” He paused, a faint smirk curling his lips. “Another five years in the camps.”
Artem’s blood ran cold.
The bureaucrat leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head.
“Don’t worry. Things have improved. Food shipments are regular. And we’ve even installed magical mirrors—interactive screens for entertainment and education.”
🫦🪬👄
Back in his apartment, Artem stared into the mirror, its surface flickering with familiar blue waves of cyberspace. Mushroom Boy stared back at him from beyond the glass, beckoning him to ride again. The knowledge was his now—compressed, visceral, undeniable—but at what cost?
He whispered to himself:
“Once a wave bends, can it ever unbend?”
And with that, he turned off the light.
👄🪬🫦
The sun filtered through the thin curtains, painting faint grids on the wall. Artem lay motionless in his bed, his side untouched by another's warmth. Why did they invent double beds for one person? The question haunted him daily, like a song stuck in his head, its melody taunting his solitude. The faint sound of birds outside seemed overly optimistic.
The alarm beeped—a monotonous Friday tone. Artem groaned, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He stared at the floor, half-expecting the worn carpet to dissolve into gulag snow. It didn’t. Yet.
🫦🪬👄
The police precinct was eerily clean. It smelled of synthetic coffee beans and overworked air conditioners. Harassment—the crime of the future—had replaced all others. Actual crime had been eradicated, a minor footnote in humanity’s triumphant digital age.
Artem sat in the break room, cradling a steaming mug of instant coffee. Across the table sat Senior Officer Vitaly Gromov, a rotund man with a permanent grin and crumbs of chocolate on his fingers. The room buzzed faintly with the low hum of fluorescent lights and the tinny sound of someone’s online training playing faintly in the background.
“I had the strangest experience,” Artem began cautiously. “During my knowledge immersion... I think I lived through ten years in the camps. Felt it. Smelled it. Even tasted it—”
Gromov cut him off with a loud laugh, leaning back in his chair.
“Ah, the Chocolate Queen at work again!” He pointed to the half-eaten donut in his hand. “You think this is just dessert? No, my young friend. It’s wisdom. Pure, sweet wisdom.”
Artem blinked, caught off-guard.
“The Chocolate Queen?”
Gromov nodded sagely, as if imparting ancient wisdom.
“She’s the one who came up with all these brilliant new methods. Virtual camps, emotional trials. Like the Bible, huh? You suffer a little, you sin a little, and then bam! Redemption. Or more sin. Depends on the day.”
Artem frowned. “But this isn’t redemption. It’s... disturbing. I can’t shake the hunger, the cold, the fear. It’s like I’m... stuck.”
“Stuck?!” Gromov bellowed, slamming the table for effect. “That’s the beauty of it, boy! You’re free now. Free to understand! But you’re also guilty. Don’t you see? The Queen doesn’t just want you to know history—she wants you to be history.”
Artem stirred his coffee absently. “But I feel like I’ve done something wrong. Like... I’m still there. My mother used to talk about sexots. Secret informants. How do you even tell who’s who?”
“Sexots, eh? You don’t need to worry about those anymore,” Gromov said, dismissing the thought with a wave of his chocolate-covered fingers. “We’re all informants now, aren’t we? Every little thing you do is recorded, analyzed. No need for secret agents when the mirrors do all the work.”
Artem leaned forward, lowering his voice. “But the camps... the camps didn’t feel virtual. What if... what if the camps are real, and the world outside is the simulation?”
Gromov smirked, biting into his donut. “Now that’s a spicy thought. Maybe you’ve been out too long. The Chocolate Queen’s methods are designed to keep you sharp, but sometimes, they take a bite out of you instead.” He licked his fingers thoughtfully. “Look, kid. Life is like this donut. Sweet, fleeting, and if you think too hard about it, you miss the whole point.”
Artem stared at the crumbs on the table, his stomach turning. The donut suddenly looked less like a treat and more like a trick.
“You know,” Gromov continued, his tone light but his eyes sharp, “it’s Friday again. It’s always Friday when you’re with the Queen.”
Artem froze.
“Friday?”
Gromov nodded slowly, finishing his coffee with a satisfied sigh.
“Every day, a fresh start. Every day, another Friday.”
👄🪬🫦
That night, Artem lay in his bed, the other side still empty, still cold. He stared at the ceiling, his mind circling the day’s events. The Chocolate Queen, the camps, the donuts, the endless Fridays—it all blurred together, like waves lapping at a shore, erasing footprints before they could leave a mark.
He closed his eyes, half-expecting to wake up in the camps again.
Instead, he dreamed of Mushroom Boy, riding the blue waves, bending the unbendable. In the distance, he thought he saw the shadow of the Chocolate Queen, her hands outstretched, holding both punishment and reward.
But before he could reach her, he woke up. It was Friday. Again.
🫦🪬👄
Artem wasn’t sure if he was dreaming or awake. The dull, gray light spilling through the frosted glass in the room for interrogations didn’t help him decide. Friday or Monday—it didn’t matter. He adjusted his prosecutor's uniform, stiff and unyielding as his thoughts. The uniform was his anchor to this reality, or whatever semblance of reality this was.
Across the table sat the Passenger—a figure shrouded in ambiguity and calm, the kind of calm that disarms, unsettles, and demands attention. From somewhere deep in his subconscious, Artem knew: this wasn’t an ordinary suspect. This was the same Passenger interrogated by Pontius Pilate, though no one dared speak the name here.
👄🪬🫦
Officer Vitaly Gromov, ever the comic relief, leaned forward, his smile warm but edged with something colder.
“So,” Gromov began, his voice a mix of forced authority and playful taunt. “Is it true you put illegal stickers on the streets of Her Majesty’s domain?”
The Passenger’s gaze didn’t flicker. His voice, when it came, was as steady as stone.
“Your question is incorrect, Officer Gromov. It already carries an emotional judgment of my actions. That is called manipulation. I demand a more experienced interrogator.”
The words hung in the air, heavy and sharp as an ax waiting to fall. Gromov glanced at Artem, his grin faltering for the briefest second. The two exchanged a look, and something inexplicable passed between them.
🫦🪬👄
In their silent exchange, it was as if their minds touched the edges of a shared nightmare. Between their gazes, a door appeared—a weathered slab of iron with a small, grated window like those found in the deepest dungeons of a royal prison. Through that window, faint echoes of a distant, desolate reality seeped in: cries for justice, the creak of chains, the scratch of pens forging false confessions.
Gromov, brushing off the strange moment, leaned back. “I am the most experienced specialist here,” he said, his tone almost jovial.
The Passenger gave no visible reaction, his face a mask of indifference. Silence stretched, daring someone to make the next move.
👄🪬🫦
“Fine,” Gromov said, shifting tactics. “Let’s try another angle. Is it true that you gave gifts—three times, to be precise—to your…” He hesitated, the word victim on the tip of his tongue.
Artem felt it before he heard it, an almost electric tension. His foot shot out under the table, nudging Gromov sharply. Gromov blinked, recovering.
“…your partner in the dance?”
The Passenger turned his gaze to Artem, his eyes boring into him like an auger seeking the truth buried within. It was a strange, almost intimate moment, as though he were saying: You don’t care what those gifts were, do you? You just want a number.
For Artem, the world shifted. His consciousness peered into the Passenger’s, like looking through the feeding slot of a prison cell. But this wasn’t an ordinary inmate.
“Yes,” the Passenger finally said, his voice unwavering.
🫦🪬👄
The interrogation room hung heavy with silence, a thick, oppressive air that seemed to magnify every sound: the scratch of Gromov’s pen, the faint hum of the overhead light, the deliberate cadence of the Passenger’s breathing. Artem sat motionless, his eyes fixed on the scene unfolding before him.
Gromov leaned forward, his grin sharp and playful, a thin attempt to puncture the tension. “Alright, let’s try something simple,” he said, flipping casually through the file on the desk. “Is it true that you waited for her after work on more than one occasion?”
The Passenger, seated calmly with his hands folded neatly on the table, let the question linger in the air before answering. “Yes.”
The simplicity of the answer caught Artem off guard. It wasn’t defensive, nor hesitant. It was a precision strike, confirming only what was already beyond denial.
Gromov chuckled, a low, almost conspiratorial sound. “Come on now, waiting outside with flowers? That’s romantic stuff. What’d you have, roses? Orchids? Lilies?” He tapped his pen on the table, as if expecting the Passenger to join in the joke.
The Passenger tilted his head slightly, just enough to suggest that he had registered the question but not enough to convey anything close to engagement. “In this matter,” he said with mechanical precision, “I invoke my right to remain silent.”
The phrase landed like a cold slap. Artem’s stomach churned. It wasn’t just the words—it was the way they were delivered. Each syllable meticulously placed, devoid of emotion, as though rehearsed to strip the moment of all vulnerability.
🫦🪬👄
Gromov didn’t flinch. He leaned back in his chair, spinning his pen between his fingers. “Alright then,” he said lightly, “let’s change the angle. You just happened to shop at the store where she works. Coincidence, right? Or were you there for the… what was it? A sale on chocolates?”
The Passenger’s eyes flicked up, locking onto Gromov’s with a faint flicker of something—amusement, perhaps, or disdain. “Yes,” he said.
“Yes, what?” Gromov prodded, his grin widening. “Yes, there was a sale? Or yes, you went there for her?”
The Passenger’s lips barely moved, but the corner of his mouth seemed to quirk in a calculated gesture that could easily be interpreted—or dismissed—as accidental. “Yes,” he repeated, the same monotone, the same unnerving restraint.
Artem felt the room shift. The Passenger wasn’t just answering. He was playing.
🫦🪬👄
Gromov glanced at Artem, his eyes silently asking: You seeing this? Artem nodded imperceptibly. Every answer was a mirror, reflecting back only what Gromov presented. The Passenger was unyielding, unbroken.
“Alright, how about this,” Gromov said, leaning forward again. His tone turned conspiratorial, like a buddy swapping stories over a beer. “You’re a smart guy. A planner. Did you think it’d be easier to catch her off-guard after her shift?”
The Passenger met his gaze head-on. “In this matter,” he said, the faintest pause emphasizing the deliberate choice of words, “I invoke my right to remain silent.”
🫦🪬👄
The detachment should have unnerved Gromov, but he seemed determined to outlast it. “Okay, okay,” he said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Let me guess—if I asked whether you were just trying to brighten her day, you’d say the same thing?”
For the first time, the Passenger’s expression shifted—a subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. But it vanished as quickly as it appeared, leaving behind the same impenetrable calm.
“I would,” he said simply.
Artem’s hands clenched under the table. He was starting to see the Passenger’s strategy unfold with the elegance of a master chess game. He confirmed only what was undeniable, allowed nothing personal to surface, and deflected with perfect precision when necessary.
🫦🪬👄
Through the one-way mirror of his thoughts, Artem began to sense the Passenger’s internal machinery. Each response was calculated to reveal as little as possible while feeding just enough to keep the interrogator guessing.
Even his microexpressions—so subtle they could be dismissed as tricks of the light—seemed engineered. A faint smirk to suggest confidence, a downward glance to feign introspection. Artem felt as though he were peering through a cell door’s feeding slot, catching fleeting glimpses of the complex mechanism inside.
The Passenger wasn’t stonewalling. He was orchestrating.
🫦🪬👄
Gromov tapped his pen against the table again, his grin faltering. “Alright, you’re good,” he admitted, leaning back in his chair. “But let’s be real—people like you always slip up eventually. What happens when someone who knows her comes forward? Someone who saw you waiting, or delivering those flowers? Won’t look too good, will it?”
The Passenger’s gaze didn’t waver. He let the question hang, then leaned back slightly, matching Gromov’s posture. “I have nothing further to add,” he said calmly.
The room fell silent. Gromov sighed, setting his pen down with a faint clink. “You’re no fun,” he muttered, though there was an edge of reluctant admiration in his tone.
👄🪬🫦
Gromov sighed theatrically, tapping the table with his pen. “You know,” he said, “I think it’s time we got to the heart of the matter.” He opened the digital protocol screen, his fingers poised to type. As he did, Artem felt a chill—an echo from his virtual gulag. He remembered how a single altered line in a report could seal a person’s fate, sending them to the camps for a decade or more.
Gromov’s fingers danced across the screen. Artem leaned closer, his pulse quickening. The phrasing was off, the intent distorted. Gromov was crafting a narrative.
It was subtle—just a word here, a tone there—but Artem could see the truth shifting beneath the surface, like snow covering a pitfall. He wanted to scream, to stop it. But he couldn’t. Not here. Not in front of the Passenger. Not in the uniform.
🫦🪬👄
“I think we’ll need to continue this tomorrow,” Artem said suddenly, his voice steady despite the storm in his mind.
Both men turned to him, surprised. Gromov raised an eyebrow. “Tomorrow? We’ve barely scratched the surface.”
“Exactly,” Artem replied. “We need time to let this… unfold properly.”
The Passenger’s lips curved ever so slightly, a faint, knowing smile. He glanced between the two men, as if sensing the fragile bridge of trust—or manipulation—forming between them. It was as if he were silently placing a bet on their next moves, a gambler in a game where freedom was the only prize.
As they rose to leave, Artem felt the weight of the Passenger’s gaze lingering on him, like a shadow that wouldn’t fade. Behind it, there was no malice, no fear—just calculation.
👄🪬🫦
That night, Artem lay awake in his bed, the silence of the room pressing in on him. The gulag, the interrogation, the shared nightmare with Gromov—they all swirled together, indistinguishable from the fog of his fractured reality. Somewhere, beyond the veil of dreams, he knew the Passenger was waiting, watching.
Waiting for the next Friday. Or maybe Monday.
🫦🪬👄
Artem woke up as he always did: to the pale light sneaking through his curtains and the relentless beeping of his alarm. He stretched lazily, his hand automatically reaching for the cold, unoccupied side of his bed—a habit he didn’t quite understand but could never seem to stop.
Routine anchored him. Push-ups by the bedside, the scrape of a toothbrush against teeth, the bland but warm comfort of oatmeal. Everything exactly as it should be. Or so it seemed.
When Artem donned his prosecutor’s uniform and glanced in the mirror, he hesitated. There was something unsettling about his reflection. A flicker of strangeness in his own eyes, a tilt of the lips that didn’t feel quite his.
He shook it off. Dreams often bled into mornings. It was Monday. Or Friday. It didn’t matter. He grabbed his briefcase and left.
👄🪬🫦
Artem arrived at work, the familiar hum of the station calming him. He greeted his colleagues, nodded at Gromov, and took his place in the locker room. The mirror there was sharper, colder, more honest.
And that’s when the world split.
The uniform no longer fit his body—it clung awkwardly, as though made for someone else. The fabric felt heavier, darker, and when he tried to adjust his tie, he froze.
The reflection staring back was not his own.
The face in the mirror was that of the Passenger—the man who had sat before him just yesterday in the interrogation chamber. The sharp eyes, the subtle smirk, the imperceptible calm. Artem stumbled back, his heart racing. He clawed at the uniform, trying to peel it off, and the seams tore away like brittle paper.
But beneath the uniform was not freedom. It was a new prison.
🫦🪬👄
Artem was no longer in the locker room. The air around him thickened, a sterile chill seeping into his skin. He blinked, and the familiar interrogation room materialized around him.
He was naked.
Seated in the suspect’s chair, Artem’s hands gripped the cold metal of its arms. Across the table sat Officer Gromov, his uniform immaculate, and beside him, the Passenger—now wearing Artem’s prosecutor’s attire, his presence commanding, his expression dispassionate.
Artem opened his mouth to protest, to speak, but no sound came. The Passenger leaned forward, resting his chin on interlaced fingers, studying him with a quiet intensity.
👄🪬🫦
The Passenger’s gaze was unyielding, a clockwork device built to extract meaning from the faintest of cues. Artem could feel the walls of the room tightening around him, a vast invisible machine pulling at every fiber of his being.
“State your name,” Gromov said, his voice sharp, clinical.
Artem swallowed, his throat dry. “Artem… Artem Markov.”
Gromov glanced at the Passenger, who nodded approvingly, as though granting permission for the interrogation to continue.
“Are you aware,” Gromov began, “that you are accused of actions unbecoming of a prosecutor?”
Artem blinked. Actions? What actions? He searched his mind, but it was a haze of broken images—mornings, mirrors, hands pulling at uniforms that no longer fit.
“I… I don’t understand,” Artem stammered.
👄🪬🫦
“Understanding is irrelevant,” the Passenger said, his voice smooth, devoid of emotion. “Only actions matter. And your actions, Artem, have already been recorded.”
The words struck like a gavel. Artem’s eyes darted to Gromov, seeking help, but the officer’s face was an unreadable mask.
“What… what actions?” Artem managed to whisper.
The Passenger leaned back, his smile faint but piercing. “Every moment you failed to notice. Every silence you allowed to speak for you. Every time you looked into the mirror and didn’t see yourself. Those are your actions.”
🫦🪬👄
Artem’s mind reeled. The room seemed to fold inward, the walls pressing closer, their surfaces transforming into countless reflections of his face. Each one was different—smirking, weeping, sneering, silent.
But the Passenger remained calm, his presence like an anchor in the storm. His hands moved with deliberate slowness, mimicking a gesture Artem recognized from his own repertoire. It was subtle, almost imperceptible—a signal.
A shiver ran down Artem’s spine as he realized the Passenger wasn’t just mimicking him. He was him.
“I demand to understand,” Artem said, his voice rising with desperation.
The Passenger tilted his head.
“Demand all you like. But understanding is not given. It is earned.”
Artem stared blankly at the Passenger, whose calm, calculating demeanor was starting to feel less human and more like a machine perfected for interrogation. The question hung in the air: Had he really experienced the Stalinist camps, or were those memories synthetic constructs?
Before he could piece together an answer, Gromov interrupted.
“I ask the questions here,” the officer barked, a smirk flickering across his face.
Artem swallowed his words, frustration brewing beneath his calm exterior. Fine. If he wasn’t allowed to ask questions, he’d find his way through observations. He adjusted his posture, focused on the slight shifts in Gromov’s tone and the Passenger’s unyielding gaze, waiting for any hint of reaction.
But it was the Passenger who broke the silence, his voice slicing through Artem’s thoughts.
“You won’t get anywhere like that,” he said, his tone eerily intimate, as though addressing Artem’s very soul. “Gromov plays flawlessly in this world of dreams. And I? I play perfectly in the realm of nightmares. Together, we are a dual force. Do you understand?”
Artem didn’t understand. His mind scrambled for clarity, but his instincts took over. “I invoke my right to remain silent,” he said firmly.
Gromov’s grin widened. “Excellent. I’ll make a note of that in the record.”
The Passenger leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with something dangerously close to amusement. “Do you think, Mr. Markov,” he said slowly, “that you’ll be able to disavow this statement during protocol review? You won’t. In the realm of my nightmares, you’ve already signed it.”
“That’s impossible,” Artem shot back, his voice wavering between defiance and disbelief.
🫦🪬👄
The Passenger responded without a word, producing a blank sheet of paper. On it, Artem’s signature appeared as though written in invisible ink, slowly materializing under the Passenger’s gaze.
Artem’s chest tightened as he noticed Gromov casually pulling out sheet after sheet, each one bearing his signature.
“You see,” Gromov said, “I can write whatever I want here. The system recognizes it as truth. Your role was sealed the moment you entered this room.”
Desperation overtook him. Artem lunged forward, trying to snatch the papers, but his hands hit an invisible barrier—a translucent wall separating him from Gromov and the Passenger.
Frustrated, he searched the room for something, anything, to break the cycle. His uniform was gone. The table, the chairs, the walls—they were melting, transforming into sand. He was now on a beach, an infinite expanse of dunes and waves stretching out before him.
The translucent barrier persisted, now an invisible dome trapping him with the Passenger and Gromov on the other side. Artem turned, searching for an escape, and saw only the open ocean.
🫦🪬👄
Without hesitation, Artem ran into the water, diving headfirst into the cold, clear depths. He swam down, deeper and deeper, hoping the ocean would swallow him whole and free him from this surreal trial.
But the Passenger was already there, gliding effortlessly in an old-fashioned diving suit. He moved with calculated grace, gesturing cryptically, as though communicating with unseen forces.
Nearby, Gromov sat in a transparent bathyscaphe, still scribbling in his unspoiled notebook. The bathyscaphe’s light illuminated the depths, revealing a massive, otherworldly structure below.
As Artem descended further, the structure grew clearer. It was a vast temple made of black coral, its spires twisting like the bones of some ancient leviathan. At its center sat the Abyssal Judge, a colossal figure whose body shimmered with bioluminescent patterns.
The Judge’s face was both human and inhuman, with eyes that glowed green, casting light on the swirling papers orbiting him like schools of fish. Each paper pulsed faintly, as though alive, and carried words Artem couldn’t read.
The dome extended here too, a clear barrier separating Artem from the Judge, Gromov, and the Passenger.
“The arguments are presented,” the Judge declared, his voice resonating like an underwater earthquake. “But your defense lacks strength, Artem. Emotions hold no weight here. Only records matter. And we have all that is needed.”
🫦🪬👄
The Passenger floated forward, holding one of the papers from Gromov’s collection. His movements were precise, almost ceremonial, as he unfurled it and began to display it to the Judge.
Each gesture seemed deliberate, as though crafting a narrative from thin air. Artem could feel the weight of every motion, the unspoken accusations flowing toward him like a tidal wave.
“Protocols confirm your complicity,” the Judge said, his glowing eyes locking onto Artem. “You signed them willingly—with your hand, your shadow, your echo.”
“I signed nothing!” Artem shouted, his voice muffled by the water around him.
The Passenger turned, his expression as calm and unyielding as ever. “You signed by existing here. Every thought, every breath, every step you take within these dreams leaves its mark.”
Artem’s gaze darted to Gromov, who was still writing, unmoved by the gravity of the situation. Despair clawed at him as he realized that no action, no protest, would change what had already been written.
🫦🪬👄
The Judge leaned forward, his towering form casting a shadow over Artem’s prison. “You may attempt to flee, to dive deeper into these waters, but the truth will follow you, Artem. Justice here is not bound by your understanding.”
The Passenger gave a faint nod, as though the verdict had already been decided. In the distance, Artem saw a faint light—another dome, perhaps another trial awaiting him.
With no choice left, he swam toward it, his body aching from the cold and his mind weighed down by the inescapable knowledge: in this endless, surreal sea of judgment, there was no escape, only deeper truths to uncover.
