[ WP ] You wake up to find yourself in a room with 5 doors . They are labeled 'peace ' , 'honor ' , 'truth ' , 'power ' and 'fortune ' . Which door do you choose to open and what happens ?

I know that Jefferson is many things, but in all our time together he never struck me as a liar. I did n't think of him as an all-truthful paragon of virtue, of course, but I doubted that the labels on the doors were bluntly false. If they were misleading, there would be a trick to it, something that might be defined as a game or a joke. After all these years, I was terribly tired of games. 
 
 The plaque was tall, grandiose even. Gold plated with flowery lettering that made it just that much more difficult to read in the sub-par lighting. I spat some of the blood from my mouth and rubbed it over the surface of the metal, letting it fill in the words with crimson. If nothing else, I was comforted by the fact that Jefferson was most likely twitching in his seat as I defiled his shiny masterpiece. 
 
 `` DETECTIVE GOWER,'' it read. 
 
 `` BEFORE YOU ARE THE PATHWAYS YOU HAVE LEFT IN LIFE, PRESENTED IN THE FORMS THAT YOU MIGHT RECOGNIZE THE MOST EASILY.'' 
 
 `` FEEL FREE TO EXPLORE YOUR OPTIONS, BUT KNOW THAT YOU WILL ONLY BE ABLE TO TRULY PROCEED DOWN A SINGLE ROAD THIS FATEFUL NIGHT.'' 
 
 `` WITH LOVING ANTICIPATION, YOURS TRULY, 
 
 JEFFERSON.'' 
 
 The room was a large rectangle, and bare on three of the walls. The last wall was lined with doors, each identical and spaced evenly across the vast expanse. Five doors in total, each with a clear label across the solid surface, each with a simple handle and no locks that I could tell. From left to right, the doors read PEACE, HONOR, TRUTH, POWER, and FORTUNE. I did not know, at the time, what Jefferson might have planned for me, but I had my suspicions. 
 
 Re-reading the plaque in the center of the room once more, I moved to study each door in turn. The labels for each were simple enough, slide in name-tags that are found in almost any building that might be referred to as an office. Of all the lines on the plaque, it was the opening that worried me the most. All of the pathways I have left in life, in the most recognizable forms? If that was so, TRUTH was something that I both desperately wanted to know, and never wanted to find out. 
 
 Pushing that from my mind, I quickly strode over to stand in front of the door labeled POWER. If nothing else, I was hopeful that it might contain controls to the literal power supply of the building. I doubted it would be a good choice to make, but it hardly seemed as if it could be terrible either. Given that I could explore all the options but only follow through with one, I had the feeling that merely opening the door would not be enough to lock in my choice. I tried not to dwell on that as I pulled the door open with a jerk. 
 
 Much to my relief, there was no sudden dimming of the lights, no'click' of locks or sinister sounds of different type. Instead, I was greeted by a small room that ended suddenly, as though someone had put a wall up in a corridor where none had previously stood. In this room was a table with a box on top. The door opposite the one I had opened read'ARE YOU SURE?', and I knew that once that was opened I would be unable to return. Perhaps it would not open at all unless I entered the room and closed the door labeled POWER behind me. All of this was pushed to the back of mind as my eyes fell upon the box in the center of the table. 
 
 Perhaps it would have been more appropriate to describe the object as a crate, given its seemingly solid wooden construction. For a single terrifying moment, I recalled the ending of the film'Se7en', and wondered if Jefferson was the kind of criminal who would pluck his riddles from popular fiction. I had no wife though, not since Maria had left me all those years ago, so I managed to calm down enough to push onward. Just to be sure, I walked to where FORTUNE was spelled out in bold lettering and pulled that door open as well. Another crate waited on the table in front of me. 
 
 Two boxes, then. I knew that behind the other three doors waited only more boxes, and I yanked the doors open one by one to verify this. Each room was the same, a small corridor which ended abruptly with a door that read'ARE YOU SURE?'. In each room was table, and on each table rested a wooden crate. On each table aside from the one in the room labeled HONOR, that is. 
 
 It had been the last door I had opened, and it irked me that Jefferson would have somehow had the thoughtfulness to figure out that I would do so. Or maybe he thought I would go for HONOR from the beginning, and I acted in total disregard of his plans? Either way, the table was laid bare, aside from an unassuming coffee mug I knew all too well. It was a sturdy looking mug, white ceramic formed into a solid looking cylindrical shape with a thick handle attacked to the side. The mug was known well among the men at the station, both for its unusually bare face and the rather large chip it bore in the rim. In this moment, though, the most distinguishing feature of the mug was the bloodied fingerprints and bright red smears around its body. 
 
 I took a moment to calm myself. Jefferson was no doubt delighted in my actions, I swore that I would give him no satisfaction. The mug, however, stubbornly remained in the center of the table no matter how hard I willed it away, and the images I had of its owner would not leave my mind no matter how hard I might try to force them out. He had been a kind man, and a good cop. I began to laugh as I was suddenly struck by Jefferson's reasoning. The paths that I had in life, in the ways I would most recognize? Of course this mug had been here. A good father who neglects his personal life in the dedication he had for his work, for the promised he had made to the victim's family. How else would you describe this man, if not with HONOR? 
 
 The first box I opened was that of FORTUNE. In all honesty, this was just a matter of procrastination - there was no-one in my life that I might describe with fondness as being'fortunate'. Jefferson surprised me once again, though. In this box was a medal, one I recognized very well indeed. Its recipient had been a poor cop, dirty and corrupt to the core. He'd eventually been the target of a string of attacks by one of the many gangs in the city, no doubt after he had a falling out with their leader. After his partner was killed, he sold his sob story to the media and had made some easy money. He'd amassed a small fortune from the blood of others, or at least that's what I assumed Jefferson was getting at. The medal was laid upon a small white pillow, and the crate itself was wet with yet more blood. I closed the lid on it forever and turned to the other doors. 
 
 POWER was next, the lid lifting off the crate with ease. I did n't know what I might find underneath, but I knew without a doubt who it would belong to. The Chief of Police was the ultimate figure of authority for me, and Jefferson must have felt the same way. I was wrong yet again. Inside the box was a mobile phone, it's large screen unblemished and the box itself seeming totally clean. It had belonged to a woman, a female detective who had commanded the attention of the station. She had brooked no insult from any man, or woman, and it was true that even the chief knew better than to be too abrupt with her. It seems that Jefferson knew a lot more about the precinct than I had thought. The phone had no SIM inserted, but he had changed to the background to an almost artful shot of a pair of bound wrists. 
 
 At this point, I could no longer ignore the box in the room labeled TRUTH. I had come so far for this, I had to know. I had to know that I had been chasing the right man all these years, that my marriage to Maria had been sacrificed for something worthwhile, that the man who murdered our daughter might be brought to justice if only I could carry on. The box in the room labeled TRUTH, was empty. It crashed into the wall with the table, breaking large rents into to the plaster of the corridor as it broke apart into scraps. I could n't believe it, I could n't accept that he knew nothing, that the truth had n't been with him from the start. It was too much of a coincidence to ignore. She had fit his profile, along with the others that had disappeared. He'd always taunted me with his messages, refusing to speak about her, replying to my questions with frustrating counter-questions of his own. 
 
 The box that brought PEACE was perhaps the funniest of them all. It was peace, in the most easily recognizable form, just as Jefferson had promised. Not just peace, it was *a* piece. Hilarious. My police-issued firearm sat in a carefully arrange crate of shredded paper, and I laughed hollowly as my fingers closed around the cold metal of the weapon. In front of me, the sign laid out its message in thick capital letters.'ARE YOU SURE?'.
