The room is cloaked in dim light from the desk’s lamp, with only the faint tones of ambient music, indistinct and disorienting, filling the air. He stands before me, bound, his wrists restrained behind him, his head lowered.
The quiet stretches between us, like a weight that hasn’t yet found where to settle. He shifts slightly, unsure, waiting, sensing my presence but finding nothing predictable in it. He knows I’m here; he feels the quiet authority in the room, but he can’t locate me, can’t gauge what comes next.
The atmosphere is carefully crafted, but it’s far from grounding. Instead, it’s designed to unsettle, to strip away the comfort of familiarity and replace it with something more elusive, more primal. Without a word, I let him wait, the silence thickening, stretching out the seconds until he can no longer anticipate. I move, silent, precise, shifting around him, leaving no pattern, no rhythm to latch onto.
Suddenly, a faint, sharp sound cuts the silence—something metallic, unexpected, faint but clear. He tenses, his breathing slowing as he tries to identify it. Before he can place it, I shift again, letting the echo fade into nothing, leaving him wondering, piecing together clues that won’t settle.
I step close, my presence barely a whisper against his awareness, my footfalls unpredictable, designed to disorient. The air shifts as I move around him, circling, never quite in reach, never quite far enough to feel safe. The room is warm, almost stifling, the quiet wrapping around him like a thick fog, dense, impenetrable.
A sudden, fleeting brush of air grazes his skin—not my hand, not even my presence, just a hint of movement, barely enough to register. His body tightens, his breathing sharpens, his senses tuned to every nuance, every shift, yet he finds no answers, no direction. He is here, in this moment, yet untethered, adrift in a silence that offers no reprieve.
I let the silence linger, heavy, pressing, filling his senses. Then, without warning, I strike a match. The sharp sulphur scent snaps through the room, a jolt of recognition, but I let it burn only for a moment before extinguishing it, the room falling back into a dense, consuming darkness. He takes a breath, slow, steady, but I know he’s searching, listening, wondering.
I move again, quietly, my footsteps fading, then approaching, then fading once more. His world is disjointed, scattered, held together by only the tenuous thread of trust. He stands, vulnerable, every sense on edge, yet with no clear direction, no grounding, only the awareness that he is here, exposed, open.
The silence shifts, then, replaced by an unfamiliar sound—a faint scratching, distant yet deliberate, something on the edge of his awareness. He tilts his head, his brow furrowing as he listens, trying to place it, to understand. The sound fades, replaced by another—a soft creak, close, then gone, the room filled with noises that lead nowhere, echoing through the stillness like half-formed memories.
I draw closer, my breath barely a murmur against his skin, a sensation that feels like a whisper but offers no comfort. His breathing slows, his body adapting, surrendering to the unknown, allowing the silence to settle around him like a second skin. He has stepped into a space where nothing is familiar, where every sound, every movement, every faint touch keeps him on the edge.
For a moment, he relaxes, settling into the discomfort, accepting it, letting it wash over him. Just as he does, I lean close, a barely-there presence, and exhale softly, the faintest trace of warmth against his neck—a promise, a reminder, but nothing he can cling to. It’s gone before he can process it, replaced by silence, by emptiness, by the sense that he’s alone yet surrounded.
The atmosphere shifts again, a low hum vibrating through the floor, almost imperceptible, like the heartbeat of the room itself. He can feel it beneath his feet, steady, but intangible, something that neither comforts nor explains. He breathes deeply, his body settling, his mind adapting to the lack of control, the absence of certainty, the presence of only the unknown.
In this moment, he is vulnerable, open, stripped of expectation, unanchored, yet finding peace in the surrender. He stands there, bound, blindfolded, immersed in the silence, the unpredictability, the feeling of descending into something he can’t define, can’t predict, can’t hold.
This is the DRK state—not a place of grounding, but a place of release, of letting go, of stepping into a world where trust is the only constant, where he is free not because he knows what’s coming, but because he doesn’t. He is here, fully present, fully aware, his senses a patchwork of half-formed impressions, of whispers and shadows, of sounds that lead nowhere, yet bring him fully to himself.
And as he stands there, adrift in the unknown, he understands. It’s not about knowing. It’s about surrendering, about letting go of the familiar, about allowing himself to be led, to be held, to be unknown.
The silence settles, deeper, denser, leaving only the faintest echo of his breathing, a reminder of the presence that surrounds him, intangible yet real.
