the echo chamber

**The Echo Chamber**

Clara’s eyelids fluttered open. Her throat burned as if she’d swallowed sand. The air tasted stale, metallic.

The room was dim, lit only by a flickering overhead panel. She lay on a narrow cot, her limbs heavy, her mind clawing through fog. *Where—?*

She forced herself upright. The walls were concrete, unadorned except for a single poster peeling at the edges: **PROJECT PHOENIX: RESTORING HOPE.** The words meant nothing to her.

Her fingers brushed a wristband. Plastic, no numbers, just a faintly glowing blue strip. She tore at it, but it clung like a second skin.

A door hissed open.

A woman in a lab coat stepped inside, her smile smooth as wax. “Good, you’re awake.” Her voice was honeyed, rehearsed. “How do you feel?”

Clara’s tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. “Where… am I?”

“Safe.” The woman tilted her head, clipboard in hand. “You’ve been unwell. Do you remember anything?”

Fragments flashed—a car skidding, rain sheeting against glass, a stranger’s hand gripping her arm. *No.* She shook her head.

“Rest,” the woman said, nodding to a tray of water and pills. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

The door sealed shut.

Clara didn’t touch the pills.

---

Night bled into a gray, timeless dawn. The wristband pulsed faintly.

She paced the room, her fingers tracing seams in the walls. No windows. No vents. Just the cot, the poster, and a sink that spat rust-tinged water.

When the door opened again, Clara lunged.

The woman sidestepped, unfazed. Two figures in scrubs flanked her. “Let’s avoid theatrics,” she said. “You’ll upset the others.”

*Others?*

The hallway outside was a labyrinth of identical doors. Some bore scratches. One, near the end, had a handprint smeared in something dark.

“This way,” the woman said, guiding Clara to a common area. Plastic chairs, a flickering screen looping nature scenes. A dozen hollow-eyed people sat listlessly. A man rocked back and forth, muttering, “*It’s not real, it’s not real—*”

Clara’s wristband buzzed. The screen glitched—a split-second flash of a logo: **PHOENIX: PHASE THREE.**

“Time for your assessment,” the woman said.

---

The assessment room was cold.

Strapped to a chair, Clara fought as wires snaked across her temples. The woman’s voice dripped into her ear: “Don’t resist. We’re rebuilding you.”

A jolt of electricity.

Memories erupted—not hers. A child laughing. A city skyline crumbling. A needle in her neck.

*Whose life is this?*

The machine whirred. The woman sighed. “Subject 22: Cognitive rejection persists. Recommend… escalation.”

---

Back in her room, Clara clawed at the wristband until blood welled. It detached with a *snap*.

The door didn’t hiss. It swung open.

The hallway was dark now, emergency lights casting jagged shadows. From behind doors came whimpers, screams. The man from the common area staggered past, clutching his head. “They’re *editing* us—”

Clara ran.

At the corridor’s end, a steel door labeled **ARCHIVE**. Inside, files piled high. Her own name. Photos of her—before the accident, before *them*.

A report stamped **TERMINATION APPROVED** slid from a folder.

Footsteps echoed. The woman’s voice, icy: “You’re jeopardizing the future.”

Clara gripped a fire extinguisher. “What future?”

The woman smiled. “Ours.”

Behind her, figures in scrubs advanced, syringes gleaming.

The last thing Clara saw was the poster on the wall, its message now clear:

**PROJECT PHOENIX

WE WILL BE BETTER.**

---