[If this was your desire, why did you not try to achieve it before you died?]
The question hit Mike harder than the physical pain ever could. It was a mirror held up to his entire life. He looked down at his translucent hands, thinking of the thousands of hours he'd spent in that gray office, the promotions he never asked for, and the quiet evenings he spent alone in his apartment, choosing the safety of his couch over the risk of the world.
"Because I was afraid," he whispered, the truth finally breaking through the wall of his indifference. "If I tried and failed, then I'd know for sure that I wasn't significant. As long as I didn't try, I could still pretend that I could have been someone important if I just wanted to be. It was easier to be 'comfortable' than to be a failure."
The screen didn't flicker. It didn't punish him. It just sat there, cold and luminous, as the next question materialized.
[Is being cheap worth it for you?]
Mike went silent. He thought back to his thirty-eight years. He thought about the thousands of hours of sleep he'd gotten because he never took on the stress of leadership. He thought about the lack of gray hair, the steady paycheck, and the fact that no one ever blamed him when things went wrong because he was never the one in charge. He hadn't been humiliated, he hadn't been bankrupted, and he hadn't been broken by the world.
He had traded his soul for peace and quiet.
"Yes," Mike said, his voice gaining a sudden, defensive edge. "Yes, it was worth it. I lived a life without the crushing weight of responsibility. I didn't have to deal with the heartbreak of failing publicly. I was safe. I was warm. I had my books and my solitude. Compared to the stress of being 'significant,' yeah, being cheap was a bargain."
He waited for the screen to judge him, but it remained impassive. It simply processed his answer and shifted to the next line of inquiry.
[Then are you happy?]
The word "happy" hit him like a physical blow, knocking the wind out of his lungs. Mike opened his mouth to snap back a "yes", to defend the fortress of solitude he had spent thirty-eight years building but the word died in his throat.
Images of his life flashed by, stripped of the excuses he used to decorate them. He saw his apartment not as a sanctuary, but as a silent box lit by the flickering blue of monitors and littered with the trays of salt-heavy, frozen meals.
He thought of his social life, realizing now it was just a series of hollow performances. He'd mastered the script: the ritualistic drinks after work, the practiced small talk, and even the "deep" conversations he'd carefully engineered. Those weren't moments of connection; they were calculated maneuvers to keep people at just the right distance, close enough to be functional, far enough to be safe. He had played the part of a social human with such ease that no one noticed he was missing.
Every interaction had been a transaction. He was constantly "on," performing the version of Mike, he expected others to think, and it had left him emotionally bankrupt. He hadn't been living; he had been maintaining a facade until the power finally ran out.
The realization tasted like ash. He had never found a single person he could truly depend on, not because the world lacked good people, but because he was too "cheap" to pay the entry fee of vulnerability. He had locked his heart in a vault to keep it safe, only to realize he had let it starve to death in the dark. That hollow ache in his chest wasn't new; it was a phantom pain that had been there for years before his heart finally stopped beating.
The silence of the void stretched on, heavy and expectant. He desperately wanted to scream "Yes!" just to win the argument, to prove his life hadn't been a waste. But the memory of the white-hot punishment flickered in his mind, and the lie felt too heavy to lift.
"No," he whispered, the word barely a breath. "I wasn't happy. I was just staying busy so I wouldn't notice the clock running out."
The golden screen pulsed, its harsh glare softening into a warm, amber light as it acknowledged the weight of his honesty. The silence of the void felt less like a vacuum and more like a held breath. Then, a new line of text shimmered into existence.
[If you were given another chance at life, would you change?]
Mike lingered, the question echoing in the emptiness. He didn't answer immediately. He thought about the safety of his old life—the predictable routines, the lack of conflict, the comfort of being a ghost in the background. Part of him still craved that shelter.
"I... I'm not sure," he said finally, his voice steadying. "I don't know if I'm even capable of it. I didn't hate the way I lived—it was safe, and it was mine. But I know it wasn't enough. If I were given a second chance, I would try to change. I'd try to be the person who matters, the one who actually shows up."
He looked directly at the golden light, his expression a mix of uncertainty and a newfound, flickering resolve.
"But I can't guarantee it," he admitted. "Habits are hard to break, and I've been hiding for thirty-eight years. All I can promise is that I wouldn't just be waiting for the clock to run out this time."
The screen remained silent for a long moment, the amber light swirling slowly like liquid gold.
Then, the golden surface flickered. The cold, geometric lines dissolved, and in their place, a simple, glowing smiling emoji appeared. It felt strangely out of place in the vast, dark void, almost playful, yet unnerving.
The emoji vanished as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by new lines of text.
[Assessment Complete. Integrity Verified.]
[Decision: Based on the candidate's responses, Route 2 has been determined as the optimal path, superseding the original plan.]
Mike frowned, a chill running through him that had nothing to do with the temperature. "Route 2? What was the original plan? What does that even mean?"
The screen pulsed, the light turning a slightly sharper shade of gold.
[Due to the complexity of the adjustments required for Route 2, the energy allocation has been shifted. The initial offer is revoked. You are now granted only one question.]
[You may begin your first and final inquiry.]
Mike stared at the words, feeling a phantom thud in his chest, a frantic, hollow thumping against his ribs. It was the only proof he was still "alive."
The safety of a backup plan had vanished. He had gone from three chances to a single, final shot. This was it. One question to bridge the gap between the man he was and whatever he was about to become.
His mind raced through the possibilities. Should he ask about the "Route 2" and the mysterious path they had chosen for him? Should he ask about his future and the world he was being sent to? Or should he look backward and ask for the truth about his death?
The golden light of the screen waited, indifferent to his panic. He knew that whatever he asked would define the starting line of his second chance. There was no room for hesitation, and no second take. He had to make it count.
He took a slow, deep breath, trying to clear the noise in his head.
"Okay," he whispered. "This is my question."