There was nothing unusual about the house, until she tried to leave it. The front door opened, but the world beyond it did not belong to her. Instead of her quiet street, there stood a dim hallway lined with doors she didn’t recognize. Each one bore a number scratched into the wood—some low, some impossibly high. She stepped back, heart pounding, and slammed the door shut. Inside, everything remained the same. Warm lighting. Familiar furniture. Safe. Too safe. She searched the house for answers and found them in the study: a ledger and a jar. The ledger listed names, each paired with a number that matched the doors she had seen. Some entries were crossed out. Others had notes beside them: Paid. Released. The jar contained coins—dull, heavy, engraved with those same numbers. When she picked one up, a memory flooded her mind. A stranger’s life. Their regrets. Their final moments in the house. Payment, she realized. The house didn’t trap people. It charged them. She didn’t know the price yet—but she knew it wouldn’t be small. Days passed as she searched for more coins. Each one cost her something: a memory, a skill, a piece of herself she couldn’t quite name afterward. Eventually, she gathered enough. The front door opened again to the numbered hallway. She found her number. Inserted the coins into a slot beside it. The door unlocked. She stepped through—and into a courtroom. Voices filled the air, arguments already underway, as though the trial had been waiting for her arrival. Her lawyer squeezed her arm gently. “We’ll argue coercion,” he whispered. Across the room, officials presented the jar as evidence. The judge thanked them politely and asked to see the jar.