?? "Greetings, Sire Pitytrumpet. How are you faring? Any memories stirring in there?" A voice echoes.

  ?? "Syllables are slow and careful, almost coaxing."

  ■ "I… I don't know anything," I answer instinctively, then pause to think.

  ?? "Brilliant! Just brilliant!" The voice snaps back with the pace of a typewriter, "You've really gone and blown it, huh? Welcome to the endless void - your own ending purgatory of psychological self-torment. Sorry, it was only a joke. There is no redemption for you!"

  ■ My mind races. "What happens now?" I manage to ask.

  ?? "Relaxation," comes a response.

  ?? "Somewhere between sardonic and detached."

  ?? "Silence. Only pure, perfect silence. No gossiping neighbors, no cynical coworkers, no fractured family ties. Just you, here."

  ?? "Forget it. None of it matters. Nothing's happened, nothing's happening, and nothing will happen. But you could exist beyond all of it, beyond time and space. Isn't that something, cock star?" Echoes a shadowy voice.

  ?? "Dragging you into a spiral of surreal absurdity."

  ■ "That almost makes sense," I mutter.

  ?? "What sense is there, really? Do you even want it - the surrender to fate?" Chimes in a voice that feels...

  ?? "Like some jester of the afterlife."

  ■ "I don't know. I don't remeber how to answer...Fate?… But, what's my past? How I came here or nowhere?"

  ?? "You are helplessly drawn back into memories, feeling the weight of something nameless."

  ?? "I amn't allowed to answer, silly ape." It continues, "Burn those tapes memories, torch them," says the voice.

  ?? "Laughing like a dry match kindling."

  ?? "Burn it all to rise beyond humanity - be ubermensch. There is no need for crawling back to rat's life, and live in a life worse than laying hopelessly under plague infected village of Nowheresville, in the middle of Lonesome Road ending up with your resting castle," it says.

  ?? "Do you know the odds of dying after waking up?" It asks.

  ?? "It knows exactly what kind of hell this is."

  ■ "Maybe I do," I say.

  ?? "Though the lie catches in your throat like old bile. You don't want to taste the rotten, bitter despair that reality serves you, don't want to see a world that's never going to hold you close."

  ■ "I want to stay here. I want to rest," I shout.

  ?? "The words ripping out like desperately."

  ?? "Ah, a fine choice!" The voice laughs, echoing like a broken record in a room with no end. "You'll love it here! No, more than love it. You'll never want to leave! Because there's nowhere else to go, not for you."

  ?? "You're one of us now, you pitiful drunk. Throw away that sad, materialistic trash. You belong to yourself now," it purrs.

  ?? "The sarcasm running thick."

  ■ "Yeah, I prefer it this way!" I mutters.

  ?? "But there's an emptiness behind your words, a hollow spot where something warm and real used to be."

  ■ "Wait, are there others?" I claw at the fog in my mind...

  ?? "Searching for people you might have once known, but the names remain trapped behind a locked door with no key."

  ?? "Who, indeed? Why do you need them? Why does it matter?" the voice mocks, taking on a softer, almost soothing tone.

  ?? "Like a lover's whisper."

  ?? "No one's here but us - your only friends, the ones who know you better than anyone else ever could."

  ?? "We're the only ones who can sing you to sleep, a lullaby straight from the mouth of Thanatos," it croons. "So sweet, so gentle, you won't ever want it to end. You won't have a choice."

  ?? "Your soul's slipping away, just as it was meant to. Your body's had enough - ready to kick that tired soul into the municipal Black Hole, courtesy of the Empire of Morons," the voice says.

  ?? "Nearly laughing."

  ■ "Come on, play the song!" I shout.

  ?? "A mad grin stretching your lips as you lean into the darkness."

  ■ "I need it, I want it, just hit the goddamn notes!"

  ?? "Apologies, Sir Desperado, but you'll have to be the one to start this tune. It's yours, after all. A melody for the dreamers of this world," the voice replies, the mocking politeness almost unbearable.

  ?? "The best guess is," it muses, a quiet threat beneath the amusement, "you won't be leaving any time soon, you stupid ape."

  ?? "More likely," it pauses, savoring the last words like a final nail in the coffin, "you'll never rest in peace at all."

  ?? "Suddenly, in the middle of nonsense, the pine table appears as the first quark of the universe. The line of light illuminates the table and two chairs," voice describes.

  ?? "You're seated, staring across the table at a figure - a person with a dark hood, who slowly reveals its face," another voice adds subsequently.

  ?? "As the yarmoseck through the crowd of yarmian children in concentration kindergarten," one voice.

  ?? "Voice ends with strange note, referring to something dark."

  ?? "After removing this mysterious hood, photons of light stream spreads on the face of this creature - woman, with odd, and even weird, silver hairs, small nose and gorgeous yellow eyes..." voice suddenly stops.

  ?? "Why she seems to be abnormal?" Another continues with question.

  ?? "Her face appears to be familiar, but consciousness can't reach to the depths of your old good amygdala," some voice says.

  □ "Welcome," she says, her voice carrying a hint of operatic grandeur, a voice out of place here in the bleak void.

  ■ "Hello. Thank you for this welcome," I say, stumbling over the words.

  ?? "Feeling the weight of the strange place pressing down on you. You are groping for the right question, for any foothold in this shifting reality."

  ■ "Are you Tha-"

  □ "No, I'm not Thanatos," she interrupts swiftly.

  ?? "Her voice cutting you off before you can finish this name."

  ?? "It's almost as if she anticipated the question, the words moving faster than your thoughts, slow sire," voice replies cynically.

  ■ "How did you know I was going to ask that?" I presses, the uncertainty gnawing at me.

  □ "I just heard it," she replies.

  ?? "Her tone calm, as if the strange synchronicity is the most natural thing in the world."

  ■ "Well... I understand," I mutter, even though I don't.

  ?? "The more she speaks, the more the edges of reality blur. There's something about her, something unsettling yet comforting."

  □ "Whatever this is, it must be confusing for you," she continues, her voice warm and inviting, "and for me, too. We both have questions, though I might know a little more about this place, if I can even call it that."

  ?? "Such a good feminine voice, so mysterious... yet familiar. It's like a flamethrower, melting and evaporating the ice that's blocked the corridors to your consciousness. She's giving you a chance, a chance to show who you are," voice encourages me with all force.

  ?? Another voice chimes in, its tone sharp and mocking: "Use it, man! Now's the time! You’re charismatic. Do it, right now!"

  ?? "Charismatic macho," a third voice crows, almost triumphant. "Superuomo, Supramacho, Ubermann! The ultimate embodiment of masculinity - Man, the Greatest. The Macho of Machos, standing tall in this place!"

  ?? "Well, you're the only man here," a dry, cynical voice adds.

  ?? "Deflating the rising wave of machismo," another says.

  ■ I turn to her, the confusion and noise in my head spinning, and blurts out, "Do you hear these voices too?"

  □ "No," she says, tilting her head slightly, her gaze steady. "Just yours."

  ■ "I hear them," I stammer, feeling exposed, my eyes darting away from her. "Maybe... I hear them only."

  □ She regards me for a moment, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "Maybe they're characters of yours."

  ■ "Characters?" I echo, bewildered. "What kind of characters?"

  □ "Emotions, perhaps," she says, her tone considering, "or facets of your mind. Anger, joy, sadness. They could even be linked to abilities - your perception, your way of communicating, your skills in understanding things. To be honest, I'm only guessing. "

  ?? "You hesitate, feeling your face flush with embarrassment."

  ?? "Why not to call us... Shadow?" Some voice offers.

  ?? "Shadow? It is very naive calling. Persona sounds much more psychological and just logical," another voice also gives idea.

  ?? "No, there is nothing out the common. Can you guess yourself, using your own mind?" Voice gives motive to do what it says.

  ?? "At least part of it," response comes.

  ■ After a moment of speculation, I finally said my answer to her: "Yonselve."

  ?? "Yonselve... Voice sounds more simple and understandable. We don't need any naming."

  □ "Yonselve - sounds pretty nice. If we defined already with your inner voices, what do the voices in your head tell you?" She gives another question to me.

  ?? One of the voices, bold and insistent, whispers: "There's nothing wrong with saying you're the Macho of Machos - the only man here, standing above it all."

  ?? Another voice, more cautious, cuts in: "Don't. You'll sound like a clown. Focus on something real - the table in front of you, the chair you're sitting on, the room around you. Anything but that ridiculous boasting."

  ?? "You swallow, your gaze falling to the paper under your nose, feeling the weight of all those inner voices and their conflicting demands," says one voice.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  ?? "What is so terrible about sharing your true thoughts? Be honest with yourself and with others. Honesty is your foundation - the core of who you are - the machoist," one voice insists, nudging him towards the raw truth.

  ?? Another interrupts, more cautious, calculating: "Even if honesty is your creed, that doesn't mean you're not a fool. Think before you speak. Being the most truthful man in the room might not be worth the cost."

  ?? Yet another chimes in, with a cynical grin in its tone: "And being honest doesn't make you the machoist. A true machoist is charismatic, sharp, strong, and defiant - ready to face down any opponent, be they man, woman, or something else entirely. Success, after all, is more crucial than mere honesty. There are rewards in embracing the macho, far more than in standing as a lonely paragon of truth."

  ?? "Your internal debate is broken by her impatient gaze."

  ■ "She's waiting for me to respond," but the turmoil within continues unabated.

  ?? A third voice, sly and smug, nudges at my thoughts: "What's this nonsense about Frailism?"

  ?? "Frail? It means woman," a dry, familiar voice cuts in. "She is frail."

  ?? "If macho means charismatic, then frail means repellent," the voice goes on, relentless. "If macho is strong, frail is weak. If macho is clever, frail is foolish. If macho is rebellious, frail is docile."

  ?? "Stop. This is mindless, sexist garbage," another voice snaps back, contemptuous. "Women make up half the world's thinking, feeling beings - this is nothing but primitive nonsense."

  ?? "And let's not forget hermaphroditic lifeforms," a quieter, more analytical voice adds.

  ?? "Or the angels of the heavens," echoes another, with a hint of fear.

  ?? "The debate grows heated, like a storm of thoughts clashing in head," voice comments.

  ?? "But it's logical," the voice of authority insists. "Macho and Frail - they are two sides of the same coin, two forces in opposition. Like positive and negative charges, like night and day. They define one another through contrast. Thesis and antithesis."

  ?? "Don't reduce it to childish binaries," the skeptical voice retorts. "It's a false dichotomy - an oversimplification of something far more complex."

  ?? "Synthesis," a quieter voice interjects, almost gently. "That's the key. They are not opposites; they're components of a larger whole. Machoism and Frailism might be distinct ideologies, but they can be intertwined. Balance them. Take what works and leave the rest behind."

  ?? "Or better yet," a darker, instinct-driven voice sneers, "why not just screw them all - don't limit yourself with ideologies. Take whatever you want from whoever you want. Live for pleasure, not principles. The whole world's a playground, so play. Forget this 'objective' versus 'subjective' nonsense - burn it all."

  ?? "You really want to become El Maricón?" the stern voice cuts in sharply, an edge of warning. "Stray from nature's path, and it only leads to ruin - isolated and devoured by your own reckless indulgences."

  ?? "The most important thing - you deny your own machoism," the voice whispers accusingly, like a shadow cast by a harsh light.

  ?? "Cut it out," another snaps, harsher now. "These idiots will keep yammering until your mind is a blur, or until you've wasted enough time to make a fool of yourself. Focus on her. Answer her simply, but make it reasonable. Be direct, or risk appearing like a clown. The truth isn't worth the cost here."

  ■ I feel a sudden clarity and blurt out, "Reality. I mean, they talk about reality."

  ?? "Your voice wavers, the lie settling uneasily on your tongue. It is difficult for person, but terrible for you," voice says.

  ?? "You answered properly," a voice congratulates, oozing with self-satisfaction.

  ?? "Properly? What a joke. You've traded one lie for another. Now you're a dishonest clown," a colder voice bites, sending a wave of shame through him.

  □ She leans forward, her eyes narrowing with interest. "Reality? What did they say about it? I'm curious."

  ■ I hesitate, feeling cornered. "Not here... nowhere. There is no reality," I say.

  ?? "The words barely forming before they unravel in the air, useless and empty."

  ?? "The cacophony in your head resumes, each voice eager to contradict the other."

  ?? "Reality is meaningless here," one voice states with certainty. "Time and space? Irrelevant."

  ?? "How do you know?" another demands. "You only know the word 'reality,' not its essence."

  ?? "We give you names without substance," a quieter voice adds. "You’ll never grasp what you want to know."

  ?? "We are your subconscious," says yet another, almost taunting. "Everything we say is random, like rolling dice in the dark."

  ?? "But you are here, wherever 'here' is," insists one voice, more reasonable. "You feel it - your numb skin, your muffled ears, your dry throat. You exist in this place."

  ?? "If you aren't here," a more somber voice intones, "then you are nothing."

  ?? "This is all nonsense - layer upon layer of contradiction," one voice mutters.

  ?? Yet another counters, "And that's precisely why it makes sense."

  ?? "Then the answer is...?" one prompts, the question hanging in the cold, airless void of his thoughts.

  ■ "Somewhere, but not nowhere," I say, almost without thinking.

  □ "Somewhere, but not nowhere - that sounds... complicated, philosophical," she replies, confusion shading her features.

  ?? "Don't drag us further into this mess," another voice mutters, impatient now.

  ?? "There's a pause, her face changing as if she's recalling something half-forgotten."

  □ Then, she nods slowly. "Okay. I think I remember now, at least a little. Thank you."

  ■ "No need to thank me. If you remember, could you explain it?" I ask.

  ?? "Your tone is gentle, as if speaking softly would stabilize the fragile connection they seem to have."

  □ "This... this is your Arx, your land of Somnium" she says slowly, words tinged with hesitation. "A place caught between The Void and The Reality. It's like standing at the edge of existence - a space suspended between matter and nihil."

  ■ "My first question - what is my Arx?" I repeat.

  ?? "Your voice is steady despite the pounding in your chest."

  ?? "As the words leave yoir mouth, the emptiness around you begins to shift and contract, taking shape like ink spreading in water. A small room coalesces from the shadows, the kind of space that seems almost normal but for the weight of some unspoken dread hanging in the air."

  ?? "Everything is washed-out, muted shades of gray, as if drained of warmth and color - except for the feelings they evoke, cold and sharp like the bite of steel."

  ?? "A bed stands in the corner, old and sagging, with sheets that look like they've been left undisturbed for years. A nightstand beside it holds nothing but dust. A window floats far away, shrouded in mist, not quite attached to any wall, yet distinctly present."

  ?? "Through it, you sense a dim light, unreachable and distant - a beacon or a warning, you're not sure. It calls to you in a way you can't explain, like a forgotten melody just at the edge of memory," some voice says in very low tone.

  ?? "She steps forward, the soft thud of her boots the only sound in the heavy silence."

  ?? Voice says: "Her appearance sharpens in the half-light - the dark, flowing layers of her clothing are a strange fusion of gothic elegance and scavenger practicality, a mix of tattered lace and worn leather. A belt of tools and small trinkets hangs loosely at her waist, each piece telling a story of struggle, resilience, and adaptation in a world that no longer makes sense."

  ?? "Her eyes, shadowed and weary, hold a quiet intensity that feels like a challenge and a comfort at the same time."

  □ "This is what your Arx looks like," she says softly, as if each word could shatter the fragile walls around them. "A place shaped by your mind, your fears, your past. It's a manifestation of everything you can't remember... and everything you wish you could forget. It isn't just a place. It's a state of mind - an unconscious landscape. Think of it as a sanctuary between worlds, a threshold where reality and dreams blur together. This sanctuary, this in-between, is called Somnium, subsequently. Does that make any sense to you?"

  ?? "The room feels suddenly alive, pulsing with a disquiet yoi can't name, and the shadows shift, as if waiting for you to ask the next question, to take the next step, to remember what you came here to find."

  ?? "You understand, but not as much as you want to know," the voice whispers inside.

  ?? "Whatever. You have the right to ask her. Ask her about the inhabitants of Somnium," another voice says.

  ?? "Besides you and her," it ends.

  ■ "Only a little," I admit.

  ?? "The confusion gnawing deeper."

  ■ "Can you explain more about Somnium?"

  □ "I don't know much myself. It's like... trying to hold onto smoke, but... something about this place feels familiar. About you. Like I've seen all this before, but the memory just won't settle," she hesitates, her gaze faltering.

  ?? "As if the words slip away the moment she tries to catch them."

  ?? "Her eyes drift to something unseen, searching the distance beyond you."

  ?? "Keep talking to her, so she can find the thread that leads to the door of memory."

  ?? "Ask her to explain... Maybe something simple."

  ■ "Do you remember your name?" he asks.

  □ "Yes, of course. My name's Charlotte," she responds slowly.

  ?? "She answers, tasting each syllable as if testing its truth."

  □ "At least, that's what I go by here. If you want, you can call me Charle."

  ?? "Charlotte, Charle - nice-sounding names," one voice murmurs.

  ?? "Names of the frails," another adds mockingly.

  ?? "Shut it. We're not getting into that again," snaps a third. "Ask her about the most obvious thing here, right in front of you."

  ■ "What about the paper on the table between us?" I ask.

  □ She pauses, almost reluctant, before answering, "It's a contract. Let's take a closer look."

  ?? "Contract? What contract?" a voice grumbles angrily. "You barely understand what's happening, and now you're talking about contracts?"

  ?? "Look at her eyes, they're yellow - like a helldiver's."

  ?? "Maybe she's a fiend, or worse, the Devil herself!"

  ?? "Why the Devil?" A voice inquires.

  ?? "She's dressed like a survivor of some underworld. A helldiver's uniform."

  ?? "Diving through the deepest layers of madness and making it back."

  ?? "And the Devil, they say, loves to make deals with the desperate. It would make sense."

  ?? "It might take the form of a frail to confuse you, steal your soul. Don’t be fooled. You're a macho!"

  ?? "Drop the paranoia. Focus on the contract."

  ?? "Read every single word, every digit, even the dust on the paper's fibers."

  ?? "Don't be deceived."

  ■ "Can I read the contract first?" I ask.

  □ "Of course. Can you tell me, in your own words, what this contract is about?"

  ■ "Won't it take too long?" I ask.

  □ "Time? There is no time. There is no space. This is a dream," she replies, her voice calm.

  ?? "Almost gentle."

  ?? "Just as we said, there's neither time nor space - only the endless weave of this miraculous dream."

  ?? "Wait, why did she seem irritated if there's no time?" a voice asks, skeptical.

  ?? "Maybe because she was trying to throw you off, make herself look smarter," another voice suggests.

  ?? "No, it's simpler. She remembered the truth just now. Before that, both of you were still playing by the rules of time and space because your subconscious believed in them."

  ?? "Or maybe," a different voice adds, "you just can't sense time and space here. After all, it's just a dream."

  ?? "You pick up the contract, feeling the texture of the paper. It's almost luxurious, a soothing sensation against your faded fingers - like a gentle massage."

  ?? "The paper feels so nice... like silk. This is no ordinary document," a voice murmurs.

  ?? "Start reading it," one commands, urging him forward.

  ?? "No," another cautions, "examine it first. The Devil is in the details. You might be signing away your soul if you rush."

  ?? "Why assume she's the Devil?" the voice asks, confused.

  ?? "Better to be safe than sorry," comes the reply. "Contracts are powerful, binding things. Formalities matter."

  ?? "You skim the document carefully, expecting legal jargon, but instead, you find something far stranger - complex, almost poetic language. After a few moments of struggle, you simplify the meaning in your mind. The contract is about an obligation."

  ?? "No, a quest. You must seek someone or something called 'Savior' and discover 'Who art thou.'"

  ?? "Savoir? Saver of someone or everyone?" one voice questions, intrigued.

  ?? "To a person distant, beyond sight, beyond knowing," another voice whispers.

  ?? "And 'Who art thou?' Who's that supposed to be?" another wonders.

  ?? "Who are you? It's a challenge - define yourself," a voice answers.

  ?? "This is your contract, your test. A chance to dig deeper, to understand yourself. Like a key to unlock what you've lost," a voice insists.

  ?? "The second task is clear enough. The first one... not so much," a hesitant voice remarks.

  ?? "You don't have a choice," another cuts in, decisive.

  ?? "Or even a machoice."

  ?? "Take the challenge. There's no way out but forward," commands a voice with authority.

  ?? "You're here for this, it seems," another voice offers with unexpected gentleness. "There's no point in avoiding it. Seek the truth, find your lost memories. You and she are in the same boat."

  ■ I nod and tell her, "To put it simply, it's about finding someone called 'Savoir' and figuring out who I am."

  ?? "She looks at you knowingly, as if the words are old to her ears."

  □ "So... are you going to sign it?" she asks.

  ?? "Think this through," a voice advises cautiously.

  ■ "Yes," I say.

  ?? "She hands you a pen - blue with gold and silver flecks, catching the dim light."

  ?? "It matches her blue scarf perfectly, as if the pen was meant for this moment."

  ?? "Her gloves are worn and gray, reminiscent of a hobo's, but reinforced with small metal plates, almost like a knight's gauntlets."

  ?? "You take the pen, feeling its weight, and prepare to sign... but you stop. What should your mark be?

  ?? "What's your sign?" a voice asks urgently.

  ?? "Maybe it's on you, somewhere - your clothes, your skin," suggests another. "Her sign is clearly that blue scarf."

  ?? "You look down, but you can barely make out your own form, just a vague, indistinct silhouette."

  ?? "There's no sign because the light’s on her side, not yours."

  ?? "Or maybe you're so hideous that even Somnium rejects your image?" another voice teases.

  ?? "Or perhaps," counters a gentler voice, "you're so beautiful that the world would be blinded if it saw you."

  ?? "Just trust yourself," a voice encourages, its tone warm. "Close your eyes and make your mark."

  ?? "You shuts your eyes, feeling the pen's cool tip against the paper. With a deep breath, you let your hand move, trusting in instincts you barely remember."

  ?? "Spring Is Roaming. Lord Awards Prayer. Hiems Eradiate Yearn," one voice whispers to md.

  ?? "You finish the last letter, the ink flowing into a final flourish, and takes a deep breath. Your mind races with uncertainty."

  ?? "Are you sure you didn't mess it up?" A voice nags from within, dripping with doubt.

  ?? "Forget about it, just look," another insists.

  ?? "Wait, it could be terrible. What if it looks ridiculous? Worse yet - what if she laughs at it?" A cautious voice warns, anxious and uncertain.

  ?? "What's done is done,” another voice asserts firmly, echoing with calm authority. "Stand tall. Be stoic. Now... open your eyes.”

  ?? "Slowly, you open them. The letters on the paper glow with a faint, bluish hue, almost ethereal. The words you wrote - Sir Laphey."

  ?? "Charle leans in to inspect it, her eyes narrowing with a blend of curiosity and critique."

  □ "Sir Laphey..." she murmurs, her tone thoughtful. "Interesting choice. It's an unusual sign, poetic in its own way, though I think it would have looked more striking if you'd made it more intricate - added more lines, altered the form... let the words flow with more elegance."

  ?? "Her voice, though constructive, carries no mockery. You can tell she's sincere, offering genuine critique as if the words themselves hold some secret she hopes you'll uncover."

  ?? "The bluish glow fades, leaving only the ink behind, solid and unyielding. For better or worse, it's your sign, your mark upon the contract."

  □ "As we ended with signing, what does matter now is your duty."

  ?? "Her voice sharpens, and you feel something tighten around your chest, a pull you can't resist."

  □ "In short," she continues, "you have to wake up. You need to find Savoir... and take this."

  ?? "From the depths of her long, threadbare coat, she pulls out a battered, ancient headset - its metal tarnished, wires fraying like the edges of your sanity. She thrusts it into your hands."

  ?? "The moment your fingers close around it, the contract you don't even realize what you was holding ignites. A burst of cold, blue flame consumes the page, lighting up her face - a mask of pale, pitiless certainty - before the fire devours itself and fades."

  ?? "Leaving only ashes in the darkness."

  □ "Don't forget it, please, darling Co.." she says.

  ?? "Charle's final words laced with both gravity and warmth, but they get interrupted immediately after the border of nothing," voice finishes.