Chapitre 1: Chapter 1
In the corner of the room, a solitary figure sat, shrouded by the half-light of dawn. His chair, worn by time and countless occupants, groaned softly under his weight. His eyes were fixed on the clock that hung above the desk, its hands steadfast in their ceaseless march forward. The only sound that pierced the silence was the rhythmic ticking, echoing through the emptiness like a heartbeat.
Tick... Tock...
The man's gaze remained transfixed on the clock, as if the simple act of watching could somehow alter its inexorable progression. His eyes, once bright and curious, had faded to a dull shade of resignation, mirroring the lifelessness of the room around him. The beige walls, untouched by personal mementos or the warmth of human connection, stood as silent witnesses to his endless cycle of existence.
Tick... Tock...
It was not the first time he had spent the loop staring at the clock. The rhythm had become a strange sort of comfort, a metronome to the symphony of his monotony. He knew each tick, each tock, as intimately as he knew the lines etched into his own palms. He knew each word in each paragraph, in each of the papers spread out on the messy desk. He had read them all, countless times, hoping for a clue, a hidden message, a way out.
Yet there was none.
Tick.. Tock...
He had to admit, there was something oddly comforting about the routine. A sense of control, perhaps, in the face of the chaos outside these four walls. The clock's steady ticking was the one constant in his life, a reliable rhythm amidst the maddening loop of his days. He stood up, his joints protesting, and approached the desk. His hand hovered over the clock's face, the smooth metal cool to the touch.
With a calm smile, he threw a punch at the clock. The sound of shattering glass pierced the silence, echoing through the room like a scream. He stared at the mess, the broken remnants of the clock scattered across the desk. His knuckles throbbed, a stark reminder of the reality that he had tried to escape. The room was still the same, the light still the same, the silence still the same.
But the ticking had stopped.
The sudden silence was deafening, more so than the shattering glass. He stared at his bloodied knuckles, the crimson droplets falling to the floor with a delicate splatter. He watched as they grew larger, merging into a puddle that reflected the shards of the destroyed clock. The pain was a mere afterthought, a fleeting sensation lost in the sea of his apathy.
Turning away from the wreckage, his gaze fell upon the bookshelf to the left of the desk. The books, a collection of leather-bound tomes and yellowing paperbacks, stared back at him, stoic in their orderliness. He had read them all, some multiple times. The classics, the mysteries, the dictonaries and romance novels that had once held the promise of a different life, a different world, a different love. Now, they were just words on pages, a blur of ink and hope.
At first he believed them to be clues, a hidden message from the game's creators that would explain his predicament. But as the loop of days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, he had come to realize that they were nothing more than a desperate attempt to maintain a semblance of sanity.
Tick...
The man blinked, his eyes slowly adjusting to the sudden intrusion of sound. Long ago, he had hoped that destroying the clock would bring about a change, a glitch in the system that would reset the loop, give him a glimpse of something other than the endless cycle of despair. But here it was, ticking away, as if nothing had changed. He stared at the clock, unmarred by the violence of his outburst, as if it had never been shattered.
With a sigh, he reached for the pen that had been lying on the messy desk. He twirled it in his fingers, feeling the familiar weight and the smoothness of the plastic against his skin. With a swift motion, he flung the pen upwards, his eye never breaking eye contact with the clock. The pen reached its peak, paused for a brief moment, then began its descent. The room held its breath, the only sound the echo of the clock's ticking, and the quiet whisper of the pen's descent.
Tick...
The pen hovered in the air, defying gravity, before he calmly reached out and caught it. The room remained silent, the only sound the rhythmic ticking of the clock. The action was so unexpected, so precise, it was as if he had practiced it a thousand times. But there was no joy in the feat, no sense of accomplishment. Just a quiet acknowledgment that time continued to pass, unchanged by his sudden actions.
Tock...
The pen clattered back onto the desk, the sound seemingly louder than the shattered glass had been moments before. He sank into the chair once more, the fabric groaning in protest. The clock remained unchanged, as if mocking his futile attempt at escaping.
Tick... Tock...
The man closed his eyes, deciding to listen to the clock's relentless rhythm. He focused on the sound, letting it fill his mind and push out the emptiness that had taken root there. For a moment, he felt a strange sense of peace, as if he could drown in the symphony of ticks and tocks.
Tick... Tick... Tick...Tick...
The man's eyes snapped open, the sudden change in the clock's rhythm jolting him out of his daze. The room was bathed in the same lifeless light as always, but the air felt charged with a tension that was palpable. He stared at the clock, his heart racing, as the repeated tick echoed through the room like a broken disk.
Out of the corner of his sight he noticed the blood on the desk, began to crackle with tiny red arcs of electricity. The sight was mesmerizing, a macabre dance of energy in the otherwise mundane room. He watched as the droplets grew smaller, the crimson light fading until they disappeared, leaving the surface pristine and unblemished. The silence was absolute for a moment before being replaced by the monotone ticking of the clock.
Tick... Tock...
The man's eyes narrowed as he studied the desk. The blood had indeed vanished, leaving behind an outline so faint it was almost invisible. It was a rectangle, no larger than a postcard, with edges that seemed to pulse with an eerie light.
Tick... Tock...
With trembling hands, the man picked up the pen again. He had seen enough of the clock's indifferent ticking, heard enough of its mocking tock. This time, he had a new idea, a desperate hope sparking in his chest. He placed the tip of the pen against his skin of his palm, feeling the cold metal press against his flesh. His heart pounded in his ears, louder than the clock's relentless beat.
With a quick jab, he pierced his skin, the pain a sharp contrast to the numbness that had settled within him. The blood welled up, a tiny bead of life in a sea of despair. He watched as it grew, the crimson droplet reflecting the room's lifeless light. And then, with a sense of determination that had long been buried, he brought the pen down and let the blood drip onto the faint outline on the desk.
The droplets hit the wood with a series of delicate plops, each one a silent declaration of his refusal to accept the unending loop. He waited, his breath shallow, his heart racing. But as the moments stretched on, it became clear that his desperate attempt had been in vain. The blood merely pooled on the desk, not absorbed or transformed as he had hoped.
The man felt the hope drain from him, leaving a cold emptiness in its wake. He dropped the pen, watching it clatter to the floor with a clang that seemed to resonate through his very soul. It was a small sound, insignificant, much like his own existence in this endless cycle. He leaned back in the chair, staring at the clock as if it held the answers to all his questions.
His eyes fell upon his bloodstained hand, the crimson a stark contrast to the pale desk. It was a grim reminder of his failure, but also a symbol of the progress he had made. For the first time, something had changed. The blood had not simply disappeared as it had done so many times before. It had reacted to his actions, some of his actions atleast.
The realization hit him like a bolt of lightning. The blood had only vanished when he had destroyed the clock.
With a roar of anger and despair, he lunged at the clock again. This time, his fist connected with the glass face with a ferocity that sent shards flying in every direction. The pain was intense, but he felt a strange satisfaction as his knuckles tore and bled, mixing with the shattered remains of the clock. The metallic tang of blood filled the room, a stark contrast to the sterile environment that had held him captive for so long.
The clock's hands froze in place, the second hand hovering at the twelve, as if time itself had been punched in the face. He stared at the wreckage, his chest heaving with the exertion of his futile rage. His hand throbbed, the blood painting a gruesome picture on the desk. He watched the crimson droplets fall one by one, joining the pool that had formed around the faint outline.
And then, as if responding to an unseen cue, the small red arcs of electricity reappeared. They danced around the drops of blood, swirling and entwining like a living tapestry. As they touched the outline, the red light grew stronger, more pronounced. The man leaned closer, his breath catching in his throat. The blood didn't just disappear this time; it was drawn into the rectangle, the edges pulsing with an intensity that was almost hypnotic.
The room was no longer silent. The clock had long ago stopped ticking, yet a faint whirring filled the air, a sound he hadn't noticed before. The man looked around, his eyes searching the corners of the room. It grew louder until it was all he could hear. And then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the blood-soaked outline on the desk began to glow. The light grew brighter, casting shadows across the beige walls that danced and twisted like ghosts in the early morning light.
He watched, his breath shallow, as the outline grew into a square, the edges flickering with a fiery red. It grew larger, consuming the space before him, until it was all he could see. The desk, the chair, the books, the shattered clock - everything disappeared into the crimson haze. And then, with a final pulse of light, the square collapsed into a smaller rectangle. A trapdoor, no larger than the palm of his hand, sat before him. The whirring grew louder still, and the rectangle began to slide open, revealing a dark compartment within.
With trembling hands, he reached into the opening. His fingers touched something cold and metallic. He pulled it out, and the light grew brighter, illuminating the object in his hand. It was a VHS tape player, the kind that had once been a staple of living rooms worldwide. The plastic was worn, the buttons yellowed with age, but it hummed with a quiet power that was undeniable. A pair of headphones draped from the side, the coiled wire thick and sturdy.
He stared at the device, the room spinning around him. His heart raced, and his palms grew slick with a mix of sweat and blood. What kind of twisted game was this? But even as he questioned the reality of the moment, he wore the headphones. The plastic was cold, a stark contrast to the heat of his skin. He took a deep breath, his hand shaking as he reached for the play button.
The silence that followed was thick, a muffled emptiness that made his ears ring. He waited, his eyes glued to the tape player, his mind racing with possibilities. The anticipation was almost unbearable, the quiet a living, breathing entity that filled the room. And then, without warning, the glitchy raspy voice shattered the calm.
"Wake up"
État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone