Chapter 110: I Am Not Your Answer I woke up on the floor. Cold tile pressed against my cheek. My fingers curled into it like claws. The air tasted stale, recycled, wrong. I didn’t need to look up to know where I was. I felt it in my bones. The hum. The silence. The weight of the ceiling pressing down like a held breath. I sat up. The counter glowed above me. 300. Same as before. Same as all of them. I turned my head. The chair. The table. The envelope. I stood. My legs didn’t shake. My hands didn’t tremble. I walked to the table like I owned the room. Like I built it. Like I could break it. I tore open the envelope. The photo slid out. Young Elias. Maybe eight. Smiling. Eyes wide. Innocent. I stared at it. Not with anger. Not with grief. With recognition. This was the face they used to trap me. The face they thought would make me hesitate. The face they thought I still loved. I placed the photo facedown on the table. Then I turned to the wall. The intercom panel sat there, smooth and silent. A black eye watching me. Waiting for me to speak. Waiting for me to beg. Waiting for me to play their game. I didn’t speak. I walked to it. I raised my fist. I smashed it. Bone cracked against plastic. Pain shot up my arm. I didn’t stop. I hit it again. And again. Until the casing split. Until wires sparked. Until the speaker inside popped and died with a wet, electronic sigh. Silence. Then— The walls lit up. Not with light. With faces. Hundreds of them. Thousands. Men. Women. Children. Their eyes wide. Their mouths open. Not screaming. Accusing. Their voices didn’t come from speakers. They came from the walls themselves. From the floor. From the air. Layered. Overlapping. Rising. Falling. A tide of sound that didn’t crash—it pinned me in place. “Why did you choose me?” “Was I not enough?” “Did you enjoy watching?” “Do you remember my name?” “Do you even care?” I didn’t answer. I walked back to the table. I picked up the photo of Elias again. I looked at his smile. I thought of all the faces on the walls. All the voices. All the breaths I let slip away. All the names I erased. I placed the photo on the table. I dragged my fingernail across the wood. It caught. Splintered. I pressed harder. Dragged again. Blood welled under my nail. I didn’t stop. I carved the first letter. I. Then the space. Then A. M. N. O. T. Space. Y. O. U. R. Space. A. N. S. W. E. R. Each letter took effort. Each stroke left a groove. Each drop of blood smeared the wood. I didn’t rush. I didn’t flinch. I carved like I was signing my name on a contract. Like I was etching my truth into the bones of the machine. The voices rose. Louder. Faster. More desperate. “Answer us!” “Tell us why!” “Don’t you owe us that?” I finished the last letter. I stepped back. The room shuddered. Not like an earthquake. Like a gasp. Like something alive had just been slapped. The counter above me froze. 297. The faces on the walls flickered. The voices stuttered. Then cut off. Silence again. But heavier now. Thicker. Waiting. A low hum started beneath my feet. Not from the intercom. From the floor. From the table. From the walls. A panel slid open beneath the table. Small. Square. Lit from within. Inside sat a single red button. No wires. No casing. Just the button. Glowing faintly. Like a heartbeat. Beneath it, etched into the metal frame, three words: RECALL SUBJECT 001.