Lucid Paradox

The moment the words left Professor Callum's mouth, the world around Orion twisted.

A wave of dizziness crashed over him as the room warped and blurred. Students, chairs, even the stage itself stretched and faded, dissolving into nothing. The auditorium vanished. His stomach lurched—like the ground had been pulled from beneath him, yet he wasn't falling.

Voices echoed, fragmented and distorted.

"Welcome to your second trial."

Then—pain.

Orion's very consciousness felt like it was being ripped apart and stitched back together in the same breath. A searing pressure built in his skull, his entire being unraveling and reforming all at once. It wasn't like waking up or falling asleep—it was both, simultaneously, an unbearable paradox.

Then, as suddenly as it started, it stopped.

Orion gasped, his vision clearing.

He was lying on something soft. A mattress.

He inhaled sharply. The air was thick—too thick. His chest tightened with the realization. There were no vents. No open spaces.

A container.

The room was small, sterile, with metallic walls that absorbed the dim overhead light. Around him, others stirred, some groaning, some breathing heavily as they adjusted to the abrupt transition. Everyone who had been selected for Dream Exploration was here.

Orion sat up slowly, forcing himself to take in every detail. The walls were seamless—no visible doors. No exits. Just a single large mirror spanning one side of the room. A one-way mirror. They were being watched.

Above it, a digital clock blinked with cold precision.

SLEEP

Beneath the word, a timer.

8:43:21

Orion's pulse quickened. The numbers were counting down.

His throat felt dry. He didn't need anyone to say it. They all understood.

And the clock had started.

---

The silence didn't last long.

"What the hell is this?" a guy muttered, rubbing his temples.

"Where are we?" another asked, voice sharp with unease.

No one had an answer.

Orion swung his legs over the mattress, standing slowly. His head still buzzed from the transition, but he forced himself to push through it.

Across the room, others were moving, testing the space. Someone banged on the walls—no response. Someone else pressed their hand against the mirror, as if hoping for a reaction. There was none.

As if on cue, the lights overhead dimmed, casting long shadows across the metallic walls. The timer ticked down—8:41:56.

Orion exhaled slowly.

Whatever was coming, they had no choice but to face it.

---

At some point, Orion and others fell asleep. Well, that was the instruction they had been given.

He wasn't sure if he was asleep or simply lost in thought, but the passage of time became strange—disjointed. The silence of the room weighed heavier with every minute.

And then—

Cold.

His eyes snapped open. A chill crept up his spine as he shot upright.

His mattress was soaked.

For a moment, confusion clouded his thoughts. The air was still thick, the room unchanged—except for the dampness seeping into his clothes. A sickening realization settled over him as he pressed his hand against the floor.

It wasn't just his mattress.

The entire floor was wet.

A new sound filled the space.

Soft ripples.

Orion turned sharply. Across the room, others were waking up, reacting to the same sensation. A few muttered groggily, still sluggish from whatever had affected them.

"The floor is wet," someone said, voice thick with sleep.

Another stirred, lifting their head. "Wait—"

A loud splash.

Someone swung their legs off the mattress, stepping directly into ankle-deep water. Their sharp intake of breath cut through the quiet.

And then, panic.

"This whole place is slowly filling up."

Orion's heart slammed against his ribs. The timer on the mirror blinked: 5:08:56.

They had been asleep for over three hours.

The water had been rising that whole time.