The True Trigger

After Allahu Akbar, I sat quietly at my desk, lost in thought. This situation wasn't frightening or anxiety-inducing. Sitting alone in a dimly lit office, snapping my own neck and resetting it—sure, that sounded terrifying on paper, but humans are creatures of adaptation. There had to be a reason for me snapping my own neck, and just as surely, a reason why nothing changed after it reset. I needed to find those reasons. No cause, no phenomenon; no phenomenon, no reality.

Tap, tap. Drumming my fingertips on the desk, I stared at the only source of light: the work PC glowing steadily. Let's retrace my memories.

Yesterday afternoon, I'd teamed up with Park In-ha to tear apart the New Millennium Salvation Society's headquarters, then parted ways in high spirits. She punched her number into my smartphone, but on the way back, I chucked it into the Han River and got a burner phone. Late that night, back at the office, I scoured the Mysticism Gallery, snagged a job posting, accepted it, and drafted the resume it required. After submitting it to GRM, I crashed on the sofa, finally ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠ready for some shut-eye.

Then came the fateful 3 a.m. knock that drew me to the front door. That's where my clear memories end. The unpleasant sensation of my hands gripping my jaw and temples, snapping my neck—that was the cutoff. And suddenly, my body was back at the desk. How did I get from the door to here? And in a state before I'd even submitted the resume? Did I skip time?

That's when I glanced out the window, sinking deeper into the mire of my thoughts.

The odd part isn't the 3 a.m. knock that roused me.

To be blunt, anyone could knock. It could've been some weirdo from my past gunning for me, storming the office. Or a curse, evil spirit, or demon reaching out to ruin my sweet sleep. Plenty of possibilities. The real key wasn't "3 a.m." or "knock." It was whatever drew "me" to the "front door."

The knock at 3 a.m. just happened to fit perfectly. If something more suitable had been available, that would've triggered it instead. Like familiar voices from office staff outside the door.

I glanced at the door, but no voices suddenly echoed from beyond. So my thoughts and this phenomenon were unrelated. Or maybe the trigger had already fired, no need to repeat.

Assuming the trigger's been pulled, let's think it through.

If the goal was luring me to the door to make me open it myself, mission accomplished. But what next? Make me snap my own neck? Rewind me ten minutes? And to what end?

...Why assume there's a goal at all?

No cause, no phenomenon; no phenomenon, no reality—but there's one exception: actions without purpose.

I pulled a pocket watch ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠from my coat. The second, minute, and hour hands were shattered, as if forcibly wrecked. I checked the PC and burner phone times—both ticking normally. From 2:50 a.m. toward 3:00.

3 a.m. and the knock weren't crucial, but they were definitely the branching point. It all started there, after all. "The beginning is half the battle" doesn't apply here. A beginning is just a beginning. Repeat it enough, though, and it becomes a challenge.

No knock this time.

I'd expected it to ring out from the door right at 3 a.m., but nothing. No repeat meant no challenge. So I was under observation—or experimentation. Or maybe just some entity's brief amusement. Drift back to sleep like this, and I'd wake to morning sun in the office, business as usual.

Would I, really?

Look outside. Not a speck of light, yet I perceived the darkness with eerie clarity. Not just black everywhere, but darkness—odd, since darkness is recognized by the presence of light. We don't call black paint "dark paint."

I noticed black snow falling from the sky. Recognizing it as black meant I knew it was dark out, and I could distinguish colors and shapes.

"Morning won't come."

More precisely, the darkness wouldn't retreat. The trigger was already pulled.

Trigger, trigger, trigger. What the hell was the trigger? Opening the door? Snapping my neck? Submitting the resume? Checking the window? Confirming the time? Sinking into this thought spiral?

Listing them out goes on forever, but I had to figure it out. Only then could I perceive, understand, analyze, conclude, accept.

At 3:05 a.m., I stood, lay on the sofa.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

Crack! Neck snapped, back at the desk.

"......"

Lying on the sofa was the second trigger?

Time read 2:51 a.m. Five minutes later to trigger, one minute earlier back. A bit more breathing room for thinking.

Anyway.

1. Hear knock, open door > Accept phenomenon, trigger fires.

2. Ignore, lie on sofa for sleep > Reject phenomenon, trigger fires.

What if I neither accept nor reject?

I quietly stood, peered out the window. Black snow falling. The world overlayed in black, growing darker.

Suddenly, the window handle caught my eye—big enough for an adult man to pass through easily. Open it, would frigid winter air and black blizzard rush in? Or reconnect me to the severed outside?

Mindlessly twisting the handle—thunk! Something like a black snowball slammed into the glass.

"......"

Closer look: not snow, a black bird—crow, probably. Then two, three, four, five, six—numbers swelling, slamming madly, until they sealed every gap in the only window to the outside world.

Now, alone in pitch black, save for the sole light.

Slowly, I gripped my jaw and temples with both hands.

Snap it? Consciously, not unconsciously—rewind again? What even is rewinding? I don't die.

After all, I am—

Instead of snapping my neck, I stuck out my tongue and bit down hard. The thick flesh sheared off under my molars, tumbling free as dark red blood gushed out.

A human body with a snake's tongue—not mine originally. Who gave me this snake tongue? Who granted me the serpent's power?

Clutching my bubbling mouth with both hands, I clamped it shut. Remember. No mistakes. No confusion.

What did I see that night? What moved me? What changed me?

My frantic, homeless eyes locked on an impossible office scene: a small crucifix. Jesus with a crown of thorns, nailed, face twisted in agony—the classic.

I hated that thing so much. Acting like he bore all the world's sins and misery alone, so self-righteous. I hurled it away in rage.

Challenging the great(akbar), vast(akbar), absolute(akbar) one—like hurling the crucifix in defiance.

The real trigger started there!

All else was just a show.

Finally, I spat the pooled black liquid from my mouth. Poison. The first poison, born with the world itself. So potent it toppled Adam and Eve—the Creator Yahweh's first humans—from God's embrace. Unprepared children cast from parents, thrust into the world's harsh winds. Bearing sin, punishment, misfortune in frail flesh and mind.

Just like... my life.

I looked up at the wall where the crucifix was embedded. Jesus, weeping blood, slowly inverted, then dropped with a thunk.

Like that night, a massive inverted crucifix crashing before me on the way home.

I watched my severed tongue writhe, morph into a small snake, swelling rapidly. House-sized now, it coiled around me, flicking its tongue. Then grinned human-like.

The snake squeezed me lovingly, wrapping my neck like a scarf, gazing soulfully into my eyes with a lick.

The primordial serpent, tempter of the fruit of knowledge, exiled from Eden forever. Yahweh's sole ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠failure.

Thus, I thrust my face forward, neck bones be damned, and bit its head clean off.

"Why the fuck's my tongue so goddamn long, you piece of shit?"