The: Cage Series

They call it The Cage not because of its bars—there are none—but because of its emptiness. A perfect cube of white, seamless light, sixty feet in each direction. No doors. No windows. No shadows to hide in. Just me, a thin mattress that materializes at 21:00 sharp, and a slot in the floor that produces nutrient paste twice a day. The paste tastes of chalk and guilt.

On cycle 1,648, I made my move.

Mira pressed her palm against the inside of the wall. For a moment, her hand passed through, and I saw the other side: a dark corridor lined with identical cubes, stretching into infinity. In each cube, a person lay curled on a mattress, eyes moving rapidly beneath their lids. Some wept. Some smiled. Some screamed silently. the cage series