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**"Entering simulation. Subject 11. Trauma-based penal experiment initiated."**
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Trey found himself in a cramped, dimly lit room that smelled faintly of dried flowers and old books. Sunlight filtered softly through heavy curtains, drawing lazy patterns on the worn-out rug. A frail woman sat on the edge of a bed, her pale face marked by exhaustion but brightened by a gentle smile.
"Morning, sweetheart," she whispered, her voice barely audible but coated with a warmth that seemed to defy her fragile appearance.
Trey blinked, feeling a child's body respond to the name **Milo**. His limbs were small, his perspective closer to the ground. The woman's tired eyes—his mother, no doubt—gazed at him with a mixture of love and sorrow.
"Come here, my little star," she said, stretching out her arms. He moved toward her, feeling a wave of helplessness and longing. She hugged him tightly, her bony arms trembling.
Days passed in a slow, bittersweet routine. Each morning, she made an effort—sometimes baking cookies that barely held their shape, other times attempting a game of cards when her hands didn't shake too much. Trey could sense the child's awareness of her pain, of the way her face twisted when she thought he wasn't looking. Yet, the boy—*he*—held on to every moment, clinging to the hope that if they tried hard enough, this illness wouldn't steal her away.
It happened quietly—an afternoon when the sun was too bright, the room too quiet. He had fallen asleep on the couch, and when he woke up, she was gone. The bed where she had lain was stripped, the sheets folded neatly. The scent of lavender lingered in the air.
**The funeral was suffocating.**
Faces blurred, strangers hugged him tightly, their arms too heavy, their whispers too sharp.
*"The poor child."*
*"Such a burden, even when she was on her last breath."*
*"I heard she never got a moment's rest."*
Every word stabbed deeper, a collection of invisible wounds. He tried to retreat to the corners of the room, away from the suffocating mass of sympathy.
Days passed. The house felt heavier, colder. The caretaker assigned to him was brisk and impatient, her kindness buried beneath routine and duty. She didn't smile, and her words were clipped.
It happened one night, a storm rattling the windows. The caretaker's voice cut through the silence like a knife.
*"If you hadn't been such a burden, maybe she'd still be alive."*
Everything froze. The world spun violently, and Trey's mind burned with the weight of guilt. The room twisted, the air too thin to breathe. Her voice echoed, bouncing off the walls, ripping through his skin.
Before he realized it, he had grabbed the nearest object—a porcelain lamp. The caretaker's shocked face blurred before him. He heard a scream—his own or hers, he couldn't tell. The lamp shattered, splintering into pieces. Over and over, the shards scattered, glimmering like shattered stars.
And then, stillness. Heavy, suffocating stillness.
Blood pooled beneath her head, mixing with the fragments of the lamp. Her eyes stared vacantly—accusingly. Trey's reflection in the shards stared back—wide-eyed, broken.
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**"Simulation over. Subject terminated."**
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