Chapter 5: The Sanity Protocol

Chapter 5: The Sanity Protocol

The act of eating did not get easier. Each time, it was a fresh violation, a quiet, methodical horror performed in the humming silence. But Alex had learned to compartmentalize. He had built a wall in his mind. On one side was Alex Thompson, the graphic designer who loved sushi and felt queasy at the sight of a spider. On the other side was the Survivor, a cold, pragmatic entity that did what was necessary. The Survivor was in control now.

Hunger had been a scream; disgust was a whisper. The Survivor had learned to listen only to the scream.

But a new enemy had emerged, one that could not be sated with scavenged protein. It was the monotony. The endless, echoing sameness of the white labyrinth. The constant, unwavering hum of the fluorescent lights. The world had been reduced to three elements: white tile, polished chrome, and the humming silence. This new enemy didn't attack the body; it attacked the mind, sanding away at his memories, his identity, with the slow, patient abrasion of infinity.

He started losing track. He would wake up—a term he used loosely for the transition from a state of exhausted, dreamless sleep to weary consciousness—and not know which room he was in. Was this Room One, his base? Or was it Room Forty-Seven from his last pointless expedition? He once spent what felt like an entire day searching for the unique scratch he’d made on the door of his home base, a rising tide of panic in his chest, only to realize he was already in it.

Another time, he caught himself having a hushed, one-sided conversation with his own gaunt reflection in the mirror, only snapping out of it when he realized his throat was raw. The man in the mirror looked as terrified as he felt.

That was the breaking point. The fear of starvation was visceral, but the fear of his own mind unraveling, of becoming a babbling, witless ghost like the barefoot man in the stall, was a cold and deeper dread. Sanity, he realized, was a resource, just like water and protein. And his was running dangerously low.

And so, the Sanity Protocol was born.

It was an act of desperate rebellion, an imposition of brutal, artificial order onto the formless chaos of his prison. He needed rules. He needed ritual. He needed a purpose beyond simple, moment-to-moment survival.

Rule One: The Anchor. Room One was his home, his sanctuary. It was the center of his universe. Using the tip of his knife, he spent an entire waking cycle carving a deep, unmistakable ‘1’ into the surface of the mirror, just above the sink. The screech of metal on glass was a sound of creation, a declaration. This place was different because he had made it so.

Rule Two: The March. Aimless wandering was the path to madness. He needed structure. From now on, his expeditions would be standardized. He would travel through exactly twenty restrooms, no more, no less. He would walk a straight line, pushing through door after door. With each new room, he would use his knife to carve a tally mark on the inside of the door he’d just entered. A single, straight line. I, II, III, IIII… Twenty marks, then he would turn and follow the trail of scarred doors back to the anchor. This was not a search for an exit; he had abandoned that hope long ago. This was a job. A grueling, pointless, soul-crushing job. And it was the only one he had.

Rule Three: The Ritual. Upon returning to Room One, a strict sequence of actions must be followed. First, Drink. He would kneel at the sink and drink until his stomach was full, cleansing his system. Second, Hunt. He would set his trap in the trash can, bait it with a damp shred of his now-tattered t-shirt, and capture his protein for the next cycle. Third, Commune. The grim act of preparation and consumption, performed with the detached air of a religious rite. Fourth, Assess. He would sit with his back to the wall, his meager possessions laid out before him—the dead phone, the keys, the knife—and catalog his physical and mental state. Fifth, Rest. He would allow himself to sleep, to shut down, until the need to move or drink woke him again.

Rule Four: Remember. This was the most important, and the most painful, rule of all. During the Assess phase, he was required to actively remember the world before. He would turn on his phone, the screen remaining black, and trace the shape of Chloe’s face on its cold, dark surface. He had to say her name out loud. He had to recall the specific taste of the flat soda, the sticky feel of the cinema floor, the exact shade of red on the seats. He had to remember being Alex Thompson.

Cycle after cycle, the protocol became his reality. The passage of time was marked by the dulling of his knife blade and the changes in his own body. His once short brown hair grew long and tangled, falling greasy and limp into his eyes. His beard, which had started as a shadow of stubble, became a wild, unkempt thicket that covered the lower half of his face. He discarded his shoes and socks after they became hopelessly mildewed, and the soles of his feet grew tough and calloused from the constant marching on the cold tile. He was no longer just gaunt; he was skeletal, a creature of sharp angles and stretched skin, but his muscles were wiry and hard from the endless walking.

The march was a grueling meditation. The squeak of his bare feet on the tile, the scrape of the knife against metal twenty times, the heavy sigh of the doors opening and closing. These were the sounds that replaced music, traffic, conversation. They were the symphony of his new life.

He didn't know how many cycles had passed. Hundreds? A thousand? He had scratched so many tally marks into so many doors that the labyrinth was now scarred with the evidence of his passage, a map of his own cage.

One cycle, upon returning to Room One, he began his ritual. He drank from the tap. He hunted and performed the unholy communion. Then he sat down for the assessment. He picked up the dead phone, its smooth weight a familiar comfort in his grimy, calloused hand. He looked past it, at his reflection in the mirror, bisected by the crude ‘1’ he had carved into it.

He didn't recognize the man staring back.

He saw the wild hair, the tangled beard, the hollow cheeks. But it was the eyes that held him. They were not his eyes. They were the eyes of a feral animal, flat, patient, and utterly devoid of hope. They were the eyes of the Survivor.

He brought the phone to his face, his thumb tracing the invisible outline of a smile he could barely remember. He opened his mouth to perform the final step of the protocol.

“Ch…loe,” he rasped.

The name felt alien on his tongue, a collection of sounds with no meaning. It was a word from a different language, from a different world, spoken by a different man. The protocol was working. It was keeping the madness at bay. But the wall he had built in his mind was no longer a partition. It was a fortress. And Alex Thompson was locked so deep inside, he wasn't sure the Survivor could even hear his screams anymore.