During the day, it buzzed with voices, equipment humming, chairs scraping across the floor. But after midnight, it was hollow and sharp. The fluorescent lights hummed too loud, the air smelled faintly of bleach, and every sound seemed to echo against the tile. Brielle swiped her ID to unlock the door, the click of the mechanism startling her in the quiet.
She told herself this was practical. She needed more hours logged for her independent study, needed something concrete to show on her med school applications. Everyone else padded their resumes with shadowing hours, but Brielle wanted something more unique. Something that stood out.
Her project was small, technically only under the umbrella of her advisor’s research: studying neurological responses under simulated environments. But she’d pushed it further, digging into articles that blurred the line between neuroscience and theoretical physics. Parallel cognition. Multiverse modeling. Not real science, her advisor had said with a smile, more philosophy than biology. But he let her keep at it as long as she backed it with medical applications.
So here she was, rerunning tests on sensory feedback loops, tinkering with data she wasn’t even sure she understood, hoping the sheer effort would impress admissions committees.
She shrugged out of her jacket, pulled on a pair of goggles, and set up the equipment. The machine in front of her wasn’t anything dramatic — just a patchwork of sensors wired to a central processor, a makeshift setup she’d been piecing together for weeks. She connected the electrodes, booted up the program, and logged into her laptop to start recording baseline readings.
For an hour, it was all routine. She calibrated the sensors, adjusted the voltages, recorded data points. She played white noise through the speakers and tracked how it shifted the brainwave simulations she was modeling. She tweaked the frequency, logged the changes, sipped cold coffee that had been sitting in her thermos all day.
Then the lights flickered.
At first, she thought it was just the old wiring. The building was notorious for power hiccups. But the flicker stretched longer than usual, a stutter that made the shadows twitch across the walls.
Brielle froze, her hand hovering over the keyboard.
The monitor glitched. A line of code repeated itself, stuttering across the screen in loops that weren’t part of her program. She tapped the keys, trying to stop it, but the data kept climbing, numbers spinning higher than her calibrations should’ve allowed.
“Shit,” she muttered under her breath.
She reached for the power switch.
The machine roared to life instead. The hum of the processor turned into a vibration that rattled the table, the electrodes sparking faintly. A low, rushing sound filled the air, like water pulled through a drain.
The room bent.
Not physically — not in a way she could explain — but her vision warped, the edges curving as if the walls were folding inward. The fluorescent lights stretched, bleeding into streaks of white. The sound deepened, a whirlpool in her ears.
Brielle tried to back away, but her legs felt pinned, like gravity had shifted.
There was a flash. Blinding, sharp, swallowing.
And then silence.
She gasped, stumbling backward. The machine sat quiet on the table, as if nothing had happened. Her laptop screen glowed steadily, no glitches, no strange code. The lab looked the same — walls, benches, the faint smell of disinfectant.
But the air felt heavier, charged.
Brielle ripped off her goggles and pressed her hands to her face. Her pulse raced. She told herself it was just exhaustion, too much caffeine, too many late nights. She’d fried the system, scared herself, nothing more.
Except when she walked out, the world felt wrong.
The campus looked the same at first glance. The quad stretched out under the glow of lampposts, pathways scattered with late-night stragglers. But the people glanced at her longer than usual, their eyes lingering, whispers floating after she passed.
At first, she thought she had something on her face. She tugged at her shirt, adjusted her hair. But the looks kept coming.
Her phone buzzed. Notifications poured in — dozens of them, lighting up her screen so fast she couldn’t catch them all. Mentions, tags, reposts.
Confused, she stopped in front of one of the library windows and caught her reflection.
Her breath hitched.
It was her. Same black curls tumbling past her shoulders, same features, same brown skin and familiar eyes. But… not.
Her cheekbones looked sharper, her lips fuller, her curls glossier. Her skin glowed under the lamplight like it had been airbrushed. She didn’t look different, not exactly. She looked like herself on her best day ever, magnified, the kind of effortless beauty she only ever saw on billboards.
Her phone buzzed again. She swiped, and the words blurred together:
Brisbunches1_: Brielle spotted leaving campus lab at midnight, new pics just dropped, she’s glowinggg.
She backed away from the window, heart racing.
And then a voice cut through the night.
“Oh my God—” a girl gasped, clutching her friend’s arm. Her eyes were wide, fixed on Brielle. “That’s her.”
Brielle blinked. “Me?”
The girl nodded, breathless. “You’re Brielle. Like… the Brielle.”
More eyes turned.
And Brielle realized she wasn’t invisible anymore.
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