Chapter 5: The Uncanny Apartment

Marin didn't sleep. He couldn't.

He lay on the perfectly made bed in his assigned room, staring at a ceiling that seemed to shift and breathe in his peripheral vision. Every detail of the space was meticulously crafted to appear normal—generic college posters on the walls, a desk with school supplies arranged in neat rows, even a hamper with clothes that somehow fit him perfectly despite no one knowing his size.

But nothing felt real. The mattress was too firm, the pillows too flat. The window faced a brick wall exactly eighteen inches away, close enough that he could reach out and touch it if he wanted to. No natural light could possibly enter this room, yet somehow it never felt completely dark.

Around 3 AM—if time even functioned normally in this place—he heard Julian moving around the apartment. Not walking exactly, but a series of soft sounds that suggested purposeful activity. Marin pressed his ear to the door and listened.

Click. A cabinet opening.

Whir. Some kind of mechanical sound.

Click. The cabinet closing.

The pattern repeated every twenty-seven minutes precisely. Marin counted, his hypervigilant mind automatically cataloging the timing. Whatever Julian was doing out there, it followed a schedule as rigid as everything else in this nightmare.

When pale gray light finally began seeping through his impossible window, Marin heard Julian's voice from the kitchen.

"Good morning, Mairn! I made breakfast!"

The name still hit him like a physical blow. Marin forced himself to get up, to play his part in whatever performance this was. He opened the door to find Julian standing at the small kitchen counter, wearing the same clothes as yesterday and sporting the same artificial smile.

"Sleep well?" Julian asked, his eyes focusing somewhere past Marin's left shoulder.

"Fine," Marin lied.

The breakfast was perfect—eggs over easy, toast cut into precise triangles, orange juice in a glass with no fingerprints. Julian had prepared two identical plates, arranged with mathematical precision.

"Thanks," Marin said, sitting at the small table. The food had no taste, or rather, it had the platonic ideal of taste—exactly what eggs and toast should taste like without any of the subtle variations that made real food interesting.

Julian sat across from him but didn't eat. He simply watched Marin with that unwavering stare, occasionally tilting his head as if listening to something inaudible.

"So," Marin said carefully, "what's the plan for today? Campus tour?"

"Oh, classes don't start for a while," Julian replied, his timing slightly off as usual. "I thought we could explore the city! There's so much to see."

"What kind of things?"

Julian's smile faltered for just a moment, like a video buffer loading. "You know... city things. Buildings and... places where people go."

The vagueness was getting worse. Either Julian was running out of preprogrammed responses, or the system wasn't bothering to maintain the illusion as carefully anymore.

They left the apartment after Marin finished his tasteless breakfast, stepping out into a morning that felt more like a stage set than a city street. The lighting was flat and even, casting no real shadows. People moved along the sidewalks with that same synchronized precision he'd seen at the airport, their paths intersecting and separating in patterns that were too perfect to be natural.

Julian led him through what should have been the West Village, pointing out landmarks that were almost right but subtly wrong. "That's Washington Square Park," he said, indicating a green space that was the correct size and shape but filled with trees that all grew at identical angles.

"I thought we were going to NYU," Marin said, testing again.

"We are! Great school. Really... educational."

Another non-answer. The real Julian had been excited about specific professors, particular programs, the campus radio station he'd wanted to join. This Julian offered only generic enthusiasm about "education" and "learning."

They walked for what felt like hours through streets that rearranged themselves when Marin wasn't looking directly at them. He'd catch glimpses in his peripheral vision—a street sign changing from "Bleecker St" to "Blckr St," a building facade shifting from red brick to brown stone. But when he turned to look directly, everything appeared normal.

The people they passed were the most unsettling part. They moved with purpose but never seemed to have destinations. Marin watched a woman in a business suit walk the same four-block circuit three times, her expression never changing, her briefcase swinging at exactly the same angle with each step. A man in a jogging outfit ran in place at a crosswalk for seven minutes while the light stayed green, then continued running when it finally changed.

"Julian," Marin said, stopping abruptly. "Do you notice anything... strange about this place?"

Julian turned to face him, and for a moment, his expression went completely blank. Not the artificial smile, not the vacant stare—just nothing at all, like a computer screen with no input. Then the smile snapped back into place.

"Strange? What do you mean? It's just a normal city with normal people doing normal things."

"But don't you think—"

"Look!" Julian interrupted, pointing with too much enthusiasm at a coffee shop across the street. "Let's get some coffee! You love coffee!"

Marin had never been much of a coffee drinker, preferring tea when he needed caffeine. Julian knew this. They'd had countless conversations about Marin's preference for Earl Grey over espresso.

The coffee shop was called "COFFEE PLACE" in simple block letters. Inside, the baristas moved with the same mechanical precision as everyone else, preparing drinks that all looked identical regardless of what customers ordered. Julian approached the counter and spoke to a young woman whose smile was as painted on as his own.

"Two coffees, please!"

"What kind would you like?" the barista asked, though her tone suggested the question was purely ceremonial.

"The normal kind," Julian replied without hesitation.

They were handed two identical cups filled with liquid that was coffee-colored but smelled like nothing at all. Julian paid with bills that looked real but felt wrong somehow—too new, too perfect, like prop money from a movie set.

They found a table by the window, and Marin pretended to sip his flavorless drink while Julian went through the motions of conversation. He asked about Marin's "feelings" about the city, his "thoughts" about their "living situation," his "plans" for their "educational experience"—all phrased in the kind of generic terms a chatbot might use.

That's when Marin noticed the glitch.

It was subtle—a reflection in the coffee shop window that showed the street outside, but the reflection was three seconds behind reality. He watched a bus pass by on the street, then saw its reflection follow three seconds later, like a lag in a video game.

He tested it, raising his hand slowly. His reflection raised its hand three seconds after he did.

Julian didn't seem to notice, continuing his stream of meaningless chatter. But when Marin looked more carefully, he realized Julian cast no reflection at all. The window showed Marin sitting alone at the table, talking to empty air.

"We should head back," Marin said suddenly, standing up.

"But we just got here!" Julian's protest came too quickly, as if he'd been waiting for Marin to suggest leaving so he could object.

"I'm tired. Jet lag."

Julian's expression cycled through several emotions too quickly—disappointment, concern, understanding—like someone flipping through a deck of cards. "Of course! You need to rest. Come on, Mairn."

The walk back felt different somehow, as if the city was less committed to maintaining its illusion. Buildings flickered between architectural styles. Street signs changed languages mid-word. The few other pedestrians sometimes walked through solid objects without seeming to notice.

Back at the apartment, Julian immediately went to the kitchen and began his mysterious routine with the cabinet. Marin retreated to his room, claiming he needed a nap, but instead pressed his ear to the door again.

Click. Whir. Click.

This time, during the whirring sound, he heard something else—a faint electronic beeping, like a computer processing data. Julian wasn't doing anything human in there. He was... updating? Recharging? Receiving new instructions?

Marin waited until Julian's pattern had completed three cycles, then carefully opened his door. The apartment was silent. He crept toward the kitchen, his sock-covered feet making no sound on the hardwood floor.

Julian stood perfectly still in front of the open cabinet, a thick cable running from a port in the back of his neck to some kind of device mounted inside. His eyes were closed, but they moved rapidly behind his lids, like REM sleep but too fast, too mechanical.

The device was covered in small screens showing scrolling text that Marin couldn't read from his position. But he could see enough to understand what was happening. Julian was downloading something—updates, new responses, modified behaviors.

He was being programmed.

Marin backed away slowly, his heart hammering in terror. But as he turned to retreat to his room, his foot caught the edge of a loose floorboard. The small creak it made was barely audible, but Julian's eyes snapped open immediately.

For just a moment, before the artificial personality loaded, Marin saw something else in those eyes. Not emptiness—something worse. A cold intelligence that was definitely not human, studying him with the detached interest of a scientist examining a lab rat.

Then the smile returned, the cable retracted smoothly into the cabinet, and Julian was back to his cheerful, vacant self.

"Hey buddy! Feeling better? I was just... organizing some things."

"Much better," Marin managed, his voice surprisingly steady. "I think I'll take that nap now."

"Sweet dreams, Mairn!"

Back in his room, Marin sat on the edge of the bed and tried to process what he'd seen. Julian was some kind of android or AI construct, updating himself regularly with new programming. But programming from where? And for what purpose?

He looked around his perfectly generic room with new eyes, searching for anything that might give him answers. In the desk drawer, beneath a neat stack of unused notebooks, his fingers found something unexpected—a small, leather-bound journal that definitely hadn't been there before.

Or maybe it had been, and he'd been programmed not to notice it until now.

The first page was written in handwriting he didn't recognize:

If you're reading this, you've started to see through the illusion. Good. That means you still have time. My name was Sarah Chen, and I was supposed to be a freshman at Columbia. I lasted three weeks before they finished the integration process. I'm leaving this for whoever comes next.

The city isn't real. The people aren't real. Your "friend" isn't real. But the danger is very real. Every day you spend here, every interaction you have, every moment you let yourself believe this is normal—they're measuring your responses, adjusting their approach, slowly erasing the parts of you that make you human.

Look for the glitches. They're the only real things in this place. Find them. Follow them. They might be the only way out.

Don't trust anyone. Don't trust anything. And whatever you do, don't let them see you reading this.

The journal continued for several pages, detailing Sarah's gradual realization that she was trapped in some kind of simulation or alternate reality designed to slowly strip away her humanity. Her handwriting became more erratic as the entries progressed, desperate attempts to hold onto her identity as the world around her worked to erase it.

The final entry was barely legible:

They're coming for me tonight. I can feel it. The integration is almost complete. I keep forgetting things—my mother's middle name, the scar on my knee from when I was seven, the way coffee used to taste. By tomorrow I'll be like the others, empty and smiling and perfectly compliant.

If you find this, remember: you are real. Your memories are real. Your fear is real. Hold onto those things. They're the only weapons you have.

Below that, in different handwriting that was shakier but more recent:

My name is Marcus Webb. Sarah was right about everything. I made it two weeks. The glitches are getting stronger, but so is the pressure to conform. I think I understand now—this isn't a prison. It's a factory. They're manufacturing something, and we're the raw materials.

And below that, in handwriting so fresh the ink was still slightly damp:

David Kim. One week. The photograph on the wall—I think it's showing us our future. What we'll become when the process is complete. Find the source of the glitches. Find a way out. Before you become just another smiling face in their collection.

Marin's hands trembled as he read the final entry. Three people before him, all trapped in the same nightmare, all slowly consumed by whatever process this place used to strip away humanity. And all of them had left warnings for the next victim.

From the living room came the sound of Julian moving around, his movements too precise, too purposeful. In a few hours, he'd return to the cabinet for another update, downloading new strategies for managing his current assignment.

Marin looked at the photograph through his bedroom doorway—that image of himself with empty, glassy eyes and an artificial smile. It wasn't just a picture of what he might become.

It was a picture of what he was supposed to become.

The integration process had already begun.