Rayan no longer trusted anything. Not his memory, not his senses, not even the words he wrote with his own hand. He became a prisoner in his own mind, the walls of his cell built from doubt. Had he really written that page and forgotten? Was someone manipulating him? Was he actually losing his mind?
He threw all caution to the wind. His sole purpose became to expose this play, to force the actors to break their masks, to prove to himself that he was still the writer, the controlling mind.
He began to act in strange, calculated ways.
In the dining hall, he suddenly shouted the name of a famous actor, then watched the residents' reactions. Nothing. Just empty stares. He tried to talk to the Artist, not about her drawings, but about the price of charcoal pencils in the shops of Kailos. She didn't respond, merely drew a screaming face on her paper.
All his attempts failed, and every failure was interpreted by the institution staff as a deterioration of his mental state. They began to watch him closely, the nurses following him with their calm, vigilant gazes.
One night, he decided the only solution was to escape. Not to escape from the institution, but to get off the "stage" and find the "director." He waited until midnight and succeeded in picking the lock of his room's window with a metal clip from his notebook.
He jumped into the dark garden, feeling a momentary thrill of freedom.
He ran towards the long white wall. He knew there were security cameras, but he didn't care. All he wanted was to get to the other side. But before he could reach it, powerful floodlights illuminated the garden, and he was surrounded by a group of tall nurses. He didn't resist. He felt a sharp needle pierce his neck, and the world began to spin slowly before darkness enveloped him
He woke up in his room, but it wasn't his room. It was a room entirely white, with padded walls, containing only a bed bolted to the floor. He tried to get up but found he was strapped to the bed with leather restraints.
Dr. Elias entered, a look of paternal sadness on his face.
"Rayan," he said softly. "We've reached a difficult stage in your story."
Rayan stared at him with wide eyes. "My story? This isn't a story! You're the ones acting! This is all a play!"
Dr. Elias sat on a chair beside the bed. "All the world's a stage, didn't Shakespeare say that? But every play has a writer. And sometimes, a character goes off-script."
The doctor leaned forward, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Your character has become rebellious, Rayan. Behaving in unexpected ways, trying to break the fourth wall. It's making the plot chaotic. We may need to rewrite this chapter."
Rayan felt terror freeze his limbs. The doctor's gaze, his words... they were not the words of a doctor speaking to a patient, but of a writer speaking about a stubborn character he had created.
"I... I am the writer," Rayan whispered weakly, as if trying to convince himself.
Dr. Elias smiled. "Are you sure?"
The doctor pointed to a small table in the corner of the room. On it lay the manuscript of the novel "Maze of Mirrors."
"Look," said Dr. Elias. "You've reached the end of your page. From now on, I will have to complete the story myself."