You're running through a hallway that keeps rearranging itself.
Doors blink in and out of existence like bad thoughts. The walls flicker between hospital green and classroom beige. The floor beneath your feet pulses like something alive.
Behind you, the sirens still scream:
"PLAYER 451: TRUTH LEVEL BREACH CONFIRMED."
"OBSERVER INTERVENTION IN 00:58."
You turn a corner.
And stop.
There's a door.
Not like the others.
This one is carved from bone.
Etched with words that move when you don't look at them.
At the center, a sigil: a mouth sewn shut.
You open it.
Inside - silence.
Not quiet. The absence of sound.
The room is filled with tongues. Hung from the ceiling by red thread. Whispering words that don't make noise. Words that burrow.
At the far end of the room floats a man.
Or… the memory of one.
He's suspended midair, limbs limp, body covered in handwritten confessions. Phrases crawl across his skin like insects. Some are yours. Most aren't.
You step closer.
"Are you the First Liar?" you ask.
He doesn't respond.
Until he does - without moving.
"No."
His voice appears inside your skull, bypassing ears entirely.
"I'm the echo of him. A backup lie. One of many."
You blink.
"But I need to find the original."
He tilts his head, like a puppet yanked by invisible strings.
"Why?"
You hesitate.
"Because I want out."
He laughs without sound.
"Out?"
"The First Liar didn't want out. He wanted in."
"In to what?"
"To the truth."
The walls ripple.
The tongues start screaming silently.
He leans closer.
"You think you're playing a game?"
You nod.
"You think it ends when you win?"
Nod again.
He smiles, and it hurts to look at.
"There's no winning. Just remembering."
"And if you remember too much…"
He flicks a finger.
A jar appears midair. Inside it: your face. But your eyes are wrong. Glassy. Observer-black.
"…you become the thing that hunts you."
Your stomach drops.
"You mean—"
"You've been overwritten before. More than once. The First Liar? He was the first to notice."
The jar cracks.
Inside it, you open your eyes.
And grin.
A new voice booms overhead:
"OBSERVER ZERO IS AWAKE."
"CANDIDATE 451: ALIGNMENT SHIFT IN PROGRESS."
You fall to your knees. Your reflection in the jar crawls out. It stands beside you. Staring. Smiling.
You whisper:
"Am I still me?"
The First Liar's echo sighs.
"No. But if you lie well enough… you might survive anyway."
You scream.
And wake up—
In a corridor made of spinning film reels.
You're clutching your chest. No heartbeat.
No reflection.
The game has changed.
And you might be changing with it.
You're sprinting down a corridor that wasn't there five seconds ago.
The hospital is gone.
Now, it's a hallway made of film reels - walls coated in spinning celluloid, images flickering like memories caught on loop. The floor bends under your feet like gelatin. Every step reverberated like it's being recorded.
Behind you, the sirens wail louder.
"PLAYER 451 – OBSERVER INTERVENTION IN 00:59."
Time is bleeding through your hands.
You clutch your chest, expecting a heartbeat.
You don't have one.
You stop.
For a moment - just one - your name flashes in front of you, projected onto the wall by nothing:
"You were never real, [NAME REDACTED]."
"You were written."
You slam your fist against the projection. It shatters like glass. And that's when the door appears - etched in gold.
The handle burns your skin.
You turn it anyway.
Inside the Liar's Archive
It's a room of tongues.
Not books. Not data. Tongues.
Hundreds, nailed to the walls. Dry. Preserved. Whispering.
You step inside. The whispers stop.
There's someone at the center.
Not sitting. Not standing.
Suspended - in mid-air, held up by threads made of ink.
A man - or what used to be one. His skin is covered in scribbled words. Some shift as you look at them. Others blur when you try to read. A massive gash runs across his chest, stitched with typewriter ribbon.
He looks up.
Smiles.
"I wondered when they'd send another one."
You step closer.
He hangs like a broken marionette.
"Are you the First Liar?"
He laughs. It's dry. Crooked.
"First, last, next - it doesn't matter. We're all the same lie, told differently."
He flicks his fingers.
A thread slithers down from the ceiling, wrapping around your wrist.
Your eyes widen.
The walls shift.
Suddenly you're elsewhere.
Standing in a room filled with typewriters. Each one clacking on its own. Writing memories. Creating players. Inventing rules.
You see children being given names. Histories. Traumas.
One is handed your memory - a closet, a fire, a string.
The First Liar watches beside you, whispering:
"They think the game is to survive. It's not."
"What is it then?"
He leans closer.
"The game is to forget you were a story."
You jolt back into the Archive.
The tongues are screaming now, a thousand voices begging to forget.
The First Liar's threads twitch.
He leans forward.
"You touched the golden thread, didn't you?"
You nod.
His smile fades.
"Then they'll come for you, too."
"OBSERVERS DEPLOYED."
The ceiling rips open. A figure drops down - blank-faced, stitched eyes, hands like scissors.
An Observer.
But this one… is different.
It tilts its head.
Sniffs the air.
And then says, in a voice that sounds like your own, distorted:
"You shouldn't exist."
The First Liar looks you dead in the eyes.
"You want to survive?"
You nod.
"Then lie."
And he vanishes.
The Observer lunges.
You dodge - barely. Its hand clips your shoulder. Reality folds around the wound. The skin tries to reformat.
You crawl toward the exit. The door slams shut.
You turn.
The Observer lifts a mirror.
Not to see you - but to replace you.
Your reflection glitches.
It moves before you do.
Smiles before you even feel it.
"INITIATING PLAYER OVERWRITE…"
You scream—
And remember a memory that isn't yours.
You're in a bedroom.
A child is sleeping.
You are holding a knife.
You step forward—
No, no, this isn't you—
You rip your eyes away.
Back in the archive, you collapse.
Something inside your mind shifts. Breaks. Rearranges.
The Observer steps back.
Confused.
"CORRUPTED MEMORY DETECTED. CANDIDATE UNSTABLE."
You look up.
Bleeding from the eyes. Shaking.
But still… yourself. Whatever that means.
The Observer pauses.
Its face splits open.
Inside is your own.
Smiling.
And it speaks:
"The only way out is to forget who you were."
You run.
Not because you know where you're going—
—but because your reflection just smiled without you.
The Observer's laughter echoes behind you. No sound. Just a knowing. A glitch in the air. A pressure on your spine.
The hallway melts again. Peeling back like film, like flesh.
You fall—
And land in the Exchange.
It doesn't look like a vault.
It looks like a market.
A vast cathedral of flickering screens and whispering lights. Memories hang from strings like raw meat in a butcher's freezer. Rows of faces drift across monitors, flickering like ghosts trapped in static.
A voice welcomes you.
"Welcome to the Memory Exchange, Player 451. You have one (1) usable lie remaining."
You blink.
Your fingers are bleeding ink.
A stall appears in front of you. No vendor. Just a screen. It flashes options:
• "Mother's Voice – 3 Lies"
• "Home Before the Fire – 5 Lies"
• "Original Name – 7 Lies"
• "Exit – ??? Lies"
Your mouth goes dry.
A soft hiss behind you.
The Observer is still coming.
And it's… changing. Your face is almost fully grown into it now.
You spin.
"WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?"
It doesn't answer. It just steps forward - and you see it drag something behind it.
Not a weapon.
A shadow.
Your shadow.
Still moving. Still struggling.
"PLAYER 451 – IDENTITY STABILITY CRITICAL."
You scream.
And then you lie.
"I was never here."
The Exchange listens.
Everything glitches.
The Observer hesitates.
Your shadow flickers out.
The hallway blinks back into existence - but you're not in it.
You're in a memory. One that feels too good.
Soft light. A warm hand. Someone humming a lullaby.
You know this isn't yours.
But you cling to it anyway.
Because for once… you feel real.
"TEMPORARY IDENTITY ASSIGNED: SARA M. AGE 17. STATUS: DECEASED."
You shudder.
"No. No, I'm not—"
"Memory will expire in 03:00 minutes."
And suddenly, you remember dying in a car you never drove.
Remember the smell of cheap vanilla air freshener. The taste of copper. A scream that broke the windshield.
You're living a lie someone else already died for.
The Observer is waiting outside.
And now it knows where you'll be.
You lurch out of the Exchange.
Clutching at your head.
Reality spasms.
You collapse in a stairwell that loops in on itself. The steps curve up and down at the same time.
At the top: a mirror.
At the bottom: a door marked "FINAL ROUND."
But behind the mirror—
You see the First Liar.
Only… he's not alone.
He's speaking to another you.
Calm. Composed. Smiling.
This version of you nods. Says: "Don't worry. I'll take it from here."
And then?
The mirror breaks.
But the reflection doesn't.
It steps through the shards like they were water.
You step back.
But it isn't you.
Not anymore.
Their eyes are calmer. Smile tighter. Clothes a little cleaner. Confidence wrapped around them like a second skin. They're you - but better.
More believable.
They tilt their head.
"You weren't using the life right," they say gently. "So I took it."
You shake your head.
"No. I'm still—"
They raise a hand. Snap their fingers.
A memory plays.
You, sitting on a rooftop.
Alone. Cold.
Thinking about jumping.
"You didn't want to be alive, remember?" they say. "But I did. I still do."
And that's when you realize:
They don't just look like you.
They have your history.
Your voice.
Your favorite lie.
The round you're in now?
It's not part of the game.
It's an override.
"Welcome to Hidden Round 0: IDENTITY CLASH."
The Observer's voice buzzes from the wall like a virus.
"Only one version of you may continue."
Your replacement grins.
"I've survived every test better than you did. I didn't break during the fire. I didn't flinch when the First Liar offered me a way out. And I didn't cry when I rewrote our mother into someone else."
You freeze.
"…You did what?"
Their smile fades slightly.
"I had to. She was slowing us down. They were tracking us through emotional anchors."
They pause, glancing around.
"Funny, isn't it? You worked so hard to find the truth. I just picked a better lie."
And that's when it hits you.
This isn't a game about remembering.
It's a game about convincing the world who deserves to be real.
You step forward.
"I'm not letting you erase me."
They shrug.
"Then prove you're still the original."
The room glitches.
And suddenly, it's a courtroom.
Half-memory, half-stage. A jury of Observers. Silent. Watching.
A judge with no face slams a gavel made of bone.
"PLAYER 451 V. PLAYER 451-BETA"
"BEGIN ARGUMENT SEQUENCE."
Your double steps forward.
Starts monologuing.
But not to you.
To the Readers.
The ones watching. Feeding the game. Believing the lie.
And their story is perfect.
Painful. Sympathetic. Clean.
You open your mouth—
—but your memories are unraveling.
Words slipping like sand.
Unless you find a better lie—
You'll be erased..