The cell was silent.
Stone walls surrounded Ken, cold and uncaring. The torch outside the bars had gone out hours ago, leaving only dim gray light from a slit in the ceiling. No voices. No footsteps. No guards.
"It's been… hours," Ken whispered.
He hugged his knees, rocking slightly on the hard floor.
No one had come by.
No food.
No water.
Just stillness.
And next to him, lying in the shadows of the corner, was a knife.
A long, thin blade — chipped and slightly rusted. It hadn't been there before. Had someone left it? Had it been hidden?
Ken stared at it for a long time but didn't touch it.
"I'm not… touching that."
He didn't trust it. Didn't trust himself.
So he waited.
Time passed.
Maybe it was another day.
Maybe two.
Ken lay on the floor and listened to the silence press down on him like a weight.
No footsteps.
No keys jangling.
No one laughing or shouting in the halls.
"Is this part of it?" he muttered. "Is this the punishment?"
His voice cracked.
He hadn't cried yet.
But the silence was starting to feel alive — like it was watching him, whispering things without sound.
"Just wait," he told himself. "They'll come back. Someone will."
He slept.
Woke up.
Still in the cell.
Still alone.
His body didn't ache from hunger. His mouth wasn't dry. In fact, he wasn't hungry at all.
That was the worst part.
"A week…" Ken whispered.
He had stopped keeping track of time. The days blurred together.
His fingernails had grown out. Dust collected in the corners. His clothes were starting to smell.
But no footsteps ever came.
"This isn't normal," he said aloud. "This is… wrong."
Another day. Maybe another ten.
Ken sat in the corner, staring at the knife again.
"Am I stuck here?"
"Did something break?"
He stood and shouted at the door, slamming his fists against the bars until his knuckles turned red.
No answer.
"HELLO?! IS ANYONE THERE?!"
Silence.
"PLEASE! JUST SAY SOMETHING!"
His voice echoed, then faded.
No one replied.
It had been a month now.
Ken didn't feel like himself anymore.
His thoughts moved slowly.
His body was fine, but his soul was cracking.
He looked down at the knife again.
Picked it up.
It felt heavier than it looked.
He held it in his lap and stared at it for hours.
"If I kill myself…" he whispered, "will I reset again?"
"Or will I wake up here? In this cell… forever?"
He raised the knife slowly, hands trembling.
His throat tightened. Tears welled in his eyes.
"I don't want to do this."
"But I don't want to stay here either."
He placed the blade against his neck. Cold. Unforgiving.
"What if this is the only way out?"
He hesitated.
Tried to lower the blade.
But his hand moved on its own.
The metal bit into his skin.
His breath caught.
A line of red formed.
And then—
A deep cut.
Pain flared bright.
His vision went dark.
The silence swallowed him whole.
You have died.