SESSION99

Robin's eyes snapped open, his pupils contracting sharply like a camera lens adjusting to focus. The digital alarm buzzed once before abruptly cutting off, leaving behind the faint hum of unseen electricity. He lay motionless for a moment in his minimalist white-walled apartment, where the vertical blinds sliced sunlight into rigid, prison-bar shadows.

The sterile morning routine commenced. Robin reached for his phone, the screen flickering strangely as it displayed a single word: "WORK." The letters appeared pixelated, distorted—as if something unseen was interfering with reality. He frowned, his expression shifting subtly before he dragged himself out of bed.

In the bathroom, the mirror’s reflection lagged unnaturally as he raised a hand to his face. The glass warped, fluid-like, distorting his image for a moment before stabilizing. A shiver ran down his spine. Something was off. But he dismissed the thought. Work awaited.

The corporate office was a pristine, manufactured environment, its green-tinged fluorescent lights flickering at an unnatural rhythm. Employees moved in synchronized patterns, their footsteps perfectly aligned, their expressions eerily identical.

Neha, his coworker, greeted him with a flawless smile. Too flawless.

“Good morning, Robin,” she said. Her voice carried an imperceptible glitch, a faint crackle beneath the words. For a split second, her pupils flickered with hexagonal patterns, like a digital anomaly.

He hesitated but nodded, pushing past her toward his cubicle.

At his desk, the monotony of corporate life pressed in around him. The dull blue glow of his monitor pulsed like a heartbeat. He typed his name.

ROBIN.

The system responded:

NO RESULTS FOUND.

His breath hitched. His fingers trembled slightly as a nearby printer whirred to life unprompted, spitting out a page. He picked it up.

SESSION 99.

The words repeated infinitely, spiraling into a fractal abyss. He squinted, and for a brief moment, the text seemed to shift before settling back into place.

The phone on his desk rang. Caller ID: "Manager."

He answered cautiously.

“Complete Session 99 before 3:15,” the voice said, flat and toneless. The call ended without another word.

Robin stepped into the Manager’s office, where the air felt stretched, distorted. The room itself seemed to expand and contract, playing tricks on his perception. The Manager sat behind the desk, his smile a frozen mask of eerie perfection.

“Robin, excellent work! Keep it up! Complete Session 99 before 3:15!”

The same words. The same tone.

Robin's hands clenched into fists. He turned and left.

The cafeteria was a theater of repetition. Employees moved like clockwork. Neha lifted her fork with mechanical precision, took a bite, chewed—then the motion reset, her fork returning to the exact same position as before.

Robin’s fork slipped from his grasp. The distinct clank echoed unnaturally in the silence that followed.

Then everything stopped.

Every employee in the cafeteria froze mid-motion. Robin was the only one still moving.

He grabbed his bag, heart pounding, and headed for the exit. But as he turned the corner, his stomach twisted in dread. He was back at his cubicle.

Again.

The hallway had folded in on itself, trapping him in a perfect loop.

At the end of the corridor, Neha stood motionless, watching.

He ran. The loop remained unbroken.

That night, he found himself in the server room. Towering black monoliths blinked with cold blue LED lights, their glow illuminating his shaking hands. He approached a monitor, the screen displaying a single file:SESSION 99 – FINAL LOG

He clicked.

A folder expanded: Session 98. Session 97. Session 96…

His breath hitched. He opened one of the files. A video played. It was him.

A past version of Robin, sobbing, laughing hysterically, pleading with the screen.

“If you’re watching this…” the past version whispered. “You’re next.”

Robin’s fingers flew over the keyboard.

DELETE SESSION 99? [Y/N]

He pressed ‘Y.’

The screen flashed:

NOT AUTHORIZED TO EXIST.

A system voice hummed through the servers:

“Session 99 termination in progress. Session 100 loading…”

Robin stared at the monitor. His own reflection fragmented into digital noise.

Morning. Again.

Robin’s eyes snapped open. The alarm buzzed in the same precise tone as before. He grabbed his phone. A new notification appeared:

WELCOME, SESSION 100.

Slowly, he turned to the bathroom mirror. His reflection smirked subtly, a flicker of a glitch in its eyes.

THE END.