Forbidden Rules

Stepping through the black door, Jack found himself back in the initial pure white room. His wounds were still bleeding, the pain now a dull, numb throb. But he stood tall, his gaze as sharp as a blade.

[Congratulations, Mr. Jack Anderson. You have passed all the trials.]

"My reward?" Jack asked coldly. The book in his hand gave him an unprecedented sense of confidence.

[Of course. Your daughter's recovery and the trust fund will be activated the moment you leave this place.] The Guide paused. [However, before you depart, you have one final choice. Consider it... a bonus prize for the victor.]

On the wall in front of Jack, an image appeared, presenting two options.

Option A: [FORGET]. You will forget everything that happened here—the pain, the scars, the fear. You will begin a new, worry-free life with your recovered daughter as a lucky father. Your injuries will be healed without a single scar.

Option B: [REMEMBER]. You will leave with all your memories intact. Your wounds will heal, but the scars will remain forever as proof of your courage. You will always remember the truth of this trial.

Jack looked at the two options and laughed. This was the final, and most vicious, trap. It tested whether he had truly understood the core of the "Forbidden Rules"—that true freedom isn't an ignorant, blissful happiness, but the right to move forward with full awareness, scars and all.

He thought of the wounds on his arm and face, the burning pain that was proof he was alive.

He glanced down at the deep red book in his hand—The Forbidden Rules.

Then, in full view of this space, he began to tear the book apart with his good right hand, page by page, slowly and resolutely.

"I don't need your options," Jack's voice was not loud, but it resonated like thunder in the white room. "Everything I went through is mine. My pain, my scars, my memories—they belong to me. It's not your place to decide whether to erase them or preserve them."

He tossed the torn pages into the air, and the black scraps of paper fluttered down like butterflies in mourning.

"I didn't come here for you to give me a multiple-choice question. I passed the trial. Now, give me my reward. It's not your gift; it's the prize I earned with my own flesh and blood."

He lifted his head, his gaze seeming to pierce through the void, to stare directly at the "Guide" hidden behind the curtain.

"I choose my own freedom."

A long, dead silence descended upon the pure white space.

It could have been a second or a century, but then the entire white world, like a cracked eggshell, became covered in fractures and shattered with a deafening roar.

Light flooded in.

...

Blinding sunlight, the familiar smell of disinfectant.

Jack's eyes snapped open. He was lying in a clean, white hospital bed. Outside the window were blue skies, white clouds, and the sound of birds chirping.

He instinctively touched his left arm. It was wrapped in white gauze, but he no longer felt any pain. He touched his cheek; a clearly defined, scabbed-over scar was there.

The hospital room door opened, and a doctor in a white coat walked in, a relieved smile on his face.

"Mr. Jack Anderson, you're finally awake! I have incredible news for you. Lily's surgery was a complete success! And... an anonymous charitable foundation has paid for all of your medical expenses and has even set up a massive trust account for you..."

Listening to the doctor, Jack's eyes began to well up with tears. He slowly raised his bandaged hand and looked out the window at the sky.

The world was still the same world, but he was no longer the same Jack. He had won everything, and he had the scars to prove it.

Just then, a voice he knew all too well, a voice he hated with every fiber of his being—that calm, toneless, electronic voice—spoke one last time, seemingly directly inside his mind.

[Congratulations, Mr. Anderson. You have earned your freedom.]