The air pressed thick against 404’s chest, every breath clawing through him like it had to fight its way free. He hasn't given an answer to the masked figure but does he even have a choice, surprisingly the guy is still waiting for an answer, ironical right?By now, he should have dragged him to wherever he wanted.
---
The masked figure stood motionless, blocking the corridor with nothing but silence. No weapon drawn. No sudden strike. Just… waiting.
404’s instincts screamed at him—run. And so he did.
He darted left, boots pounding against metal, flinging himself down a passage lined with jagged shadows. A door loomed ahead. He slammed his palm against the panel. Locked. Another turn—another door. Locked. Locked. Locked. Every path sealed as though the place already knew his panic, already rewrote itself to cage him in.
“Damn it!” His voice cracked raw, echoing back like the Grid itself mocked him.
He spun and sprinted back, but the masked figure hadn’t moved. He still stood in the same spot, head tilted slightly, as though observing a child throwing a tantrum.
Something inside 404 snapped. He lunged forward, teeth grit, swinging his fist at the mask. But the figure stepped aside without effort, letting him stumble past. No counterattack. No pain. Just… nothing.
“Why aren’t you fighting me?!” 404 spat, trembling with fury and exhaustion.
The figure finally spoke, low, steady—every word deliberate.
“Because I don’t need to.”
That calm unnerved him more than any blade could.
404 staggered back, chest heaving. His mind flashed—09’s voice, that final desperate order before the world collapsed: Run.
But had 09 meant from this place? From them? Or toward them?
He pressed his palms to his head. “What the hell do you want from me?”
The figure’s reply was maddeningly simple.
“Nothing. Yet.”
The silence that followed pressed heavier than their words.
Finally, after what felt like forever, 404’s knees weakened. His chest burned. He had run, fought, screamed, and the Grid swallowed every effort without mercy. He could either collapse here, broken and cornered—or follow, and live long enough to unravel whatever game this was.
He straightened slowly, bitterness cutting into his voice.
“Fine. I’ll go with you. But don’t think for a second I trust you.”
The mask tilted once again, almost like a nod. He didn’t celebrate, didn’t gloat—just turned and started walking into the endless dark veins of the Grid.
And against everything in him, 404 followed.
YOU ARE READING
INPUT REJECTED
Science FictionHe woke up in a scrap chamber - no name, no memories, no identity. Just a flickering message on his wrist: "INPUT REJECTED." In the cybernetic city of SYNAXIS, where every soul is scanned, sorted, and assigned a function by the all-seeing AI ARG0, h...
