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> [Simulation 14 initiated.
Subject: Trey O'Malley.
Scenario: Live Television Studio.
Location: Archived Broadcast #781.
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The lights were blinding. Trey's vision blurred into streaks of red and white as he blinked rapidly, adjusting. He stood on a stage surrounded by vintage cameras, flickering monitors, and an eerily silent audience. The set resembled a 1980s talk show—loud colors, cheesy props, frozen smiles painted on cardboard cutouts standing in for viewers.
A voice echoed from nowhere and everywhere:
**"Welcome back to another episode of 'This Is Your Guilt!'"**
Trey turned, confused. A spotlight snapped on, revealing a pristine host in a dusty red suit with a wide, unnatural grin and glassy eyes that didn't blink. He pointed toward Trey like he was introducing an old friend.
**"Tonight's guest? The boy who watched the world fall and never lifted a hand! Give it up for... Trey O'Malley!"**
A slow, looping applause track played. The cardboard audience began to move—jerky, animatronic spasms that barely resembled human motion.
Trey tried to step off the stage, but the floor beneath him rotated, spinning him back to the center. He was trapped.
"Let's talk about that time you walked past the drowning boy in the lake," the host said, holding up a grainy photo. It showed a child, thrashing in murky water—Trey, a younger version of him, was walking away on the opposite shore.
"That's not real," Trey muttered, hands shaking.
"Oh, but it *feels* real, doesn't it?" the host purred.
Suddenly, the studio dimmed. The monitors behind them flickered to life. Each screen showed different moments: a dog struck by a car that Trey hadn't helped; a girl he ignored crying at school; a man bleeding in a subway while Trey stared and kept scrolling on his phone.
The images weren't true. At least… not all of them. But in this place, doubt was more powerful than memory.
Then the applause stopped.
Silence.
And then…
**White noise.**
The studio was gone. Trey stood in a completely white room. No walls. No floor. No ceiling. Only *static*—buzzing, endless static.
He clutched his ears, but the sound came from inside his head now.
A low voice hissed, glitching:
**"YOU. ARE. NOT. A. GOOD. PERSON."**
Trey tried to scream, but no sound came. His voice was devoured by the static.
Then, one by one, *they* emerged—copies of him. Dozens of Treys, each twisted slightly: one sobbing, one laughing manically, one with blood dripping from his eyes, one hanging limply like a puppet.
They surrounded him.
One stepped forward, mouth twitching.
"Do you even remember what real feels like?" it whispered.
He ran. The static grew louder. The copies followed, chanting, screaming, mocking, crying. The noise rose until it wasn't sound anymore—it was sensation. It burned.
Trey dropped to the floorless void, clutching his skull, begging for the end.
Then—
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> [SIMULATION OVER.]
> [System note: Minor neural desync detected. Memory correction applied.]
> [Subject stabilizing... complete.]
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