Conductor's Rule

You returned home tired and drained of energy. The office had worn you out, and the familiar heaviness behind your temples hinted that a long night of insomnia or headache lay ahead. This time, you decided not to suffer. You simply flopped down on your bed, fully dressed, in your jacket and shoes, and fell into a deep, listless sleep.

And then the fall began. Not a sharp, abyss, but an endless one, as if you'd been ripped from your own body and thrown into the void. You woke up from the impact—a fiery pain in your temples, a spasm running through your body. The cold of the tile seeped through the fabric of your suit. You were lying on the floor. But it wasn't your floor.

Raising your head, you saw infinity. Endless vaults stretching into the gray distance, bathed in the dim, pitiless light of fluorescent lamps. Hundreds of arches, and beyond them, hundreds more.

And then you saw him. A man. He stood ten steps away from you, his back turned, motionless as a monument. The moment you rose to your feet, the man, without turning around, moved off smoothly and silently.

Instinctively, you followed him. His steps were silent, but yours echoed, loud and lonely. He walked—you walked.

And then it clicked in my head. To get out, I need to not follow him. I need to go towards him.