Chapter 16: The Blade Knows I pressed the scalpel into my chest. Not hard. Not deep. Just enough to break skin. Just enough to let the room know I was serious. Just enough to make it react. The metal slid in slow, like butter through warm bread. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t breathe. I just held it there, letting the tip sink until I felt the resistance give. A bead of blood welled up, dark and thick, and rolled down the curve of the blade. I watched it. I didn’t wipe it. I didn’t move. I just let it sit there, glistening under the sterile white light. The room didn’t wait. The walls didn’t crack. They didn’t shudder. They didn’t scream or groan or warn me. They just dissolved. One moment I was standing in that white surgical chamber with Lena watching me from her chair, arms folded, eyes sharp. The next, the floor dropped out from under me and the ceiling peeled back like wet paper. The air changed. It got colder. Sharper. Drier. The light shifted from soft white to harsh fluorescent, flickering just enough to make my eyes twitch. The smell of antiseptic hit me, sharp and chemical, but I didn’t react. I didn’t cough. I didn’t gag. I just stood there, scalpel still in my hand, blood still on the blade, and looked around. I was in an operating theater. Not a memory. Not a vision. Not a trick of the light. A real, live, functioning surgical suite. Monitors beeped in steady rhythm. IV bags hung from metal stands. Surgical tools lay arranged on a steel tray, gleaming under the overhead lamps. The table in the center was occupied. Strapped down. Limbs secured. Chest rising and falling in slow, even breaths. Eyes open. Watching me. Lena. She wasn’t in scrubs anymore. She was in a hospital gown, pale blue, tied at the back. Her arms were pinned to the table with thick leather restraints. Her legs too. A breathing tube snaked from her mouth, taped to her cheek. Her hair was pulled back, but a few strands had escaped and clung to her forehead with sweat. Her eyes were wide. Not scared. Not pleading. Just watching. Like she’d been waiting for this. Like she’d known it was coming. A voice crackled over the intercom. It wasn’t the soft, coaxing tone from before. It wasn’t the whisper of a ghost or the echo of my own guilt. It was flat. Mechanical. Unforgiving. “Operate or forfeit thirty breaths.” I didn’t move. I didn’t look at the counter on my chest. I didn’t need to. I could feel it ticking down in my ribs, in my throat, in the hollow behind my sternum. Each breath was heavier now. Each inhale dragged like sandpaper. Each exhale left me emptier. I knew what thirty breaths meant. I knew what losing them would do. I’d be down to 167. Maybe less. Maybe the room would choke me faster after that. Maybe the air would thin. Maybe the walls would close in. Maybe Lena would stop breathing. I didn’t know. I didn’t ask. I just stood there, scalpel in hand, blood drying on the steel, and stared at her. She didn’t blink. She didn’t look away. She didn’t try to speak around the tube. She just watched me. Her eyes followed the scalpel. Tracked my hand. Waited for me to move. There was no fear in them. No anger. No sadness. Just expectation. Like this was the moment she’d been waiting for since the beginning. Since the first photograph. Since the first question. Since the first breath. I took a step forward. The floor was cold under my shoes. The tiles were polished, reflective, showing my distorted shadow as I moved. I didn’t look down. I kept my eyes on her. On the rise and fall of her chest. On the slow blink of her lashes. On the way her fingers twitched against the restraints, just once, like she was testing them. Like she was reminding herself they were real. I stopped at the edge of the table. The scalpel felt heavier now. Warmer. Like it was alive. Like it remembered the last time it cut into flesh. Like it was eager to do it again. I didn’t grip it tighter. I didn’t loosen my hold. I just let it hang there, hovering over her abdomen, the tip pointing down, the blood still clinging to the edge. The intercom didn’t speak again. It didn’t need to. The command was clear. The consequence was clear. The choice was mine. Operate. Or lose thirty breaths. Simple. Brutal. Final. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do. Not really. Not specifically. The room didn’t give me instructions. No diagram. No incision line. No target organ. Just her. Just the scalpel. Just the command. Operate. That was it. That was all. I could cut anywhere. I could slice her throat. I could open her chest. I could carve into her stomach. I could do it slow. I could do it fast. I could make it clean. I could make it messy. The room didn’t care. The voice didn’t care. Lena didn’t care. All that mattered was that I did it. That I made the cut. That I performed the act. I lowered the blade. Slowly. Deliberately. Letting the tip drift down until it was just above her skin. I could see the fine hairs on her stomach. The faint blue veins beneath the surface. The rise and fall of her breaths, steady and calm. She didn’t tense. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t try to pull away. She just lay there, eyes locked on mine, waiting. I hesitated. Not because I was afraid. Not because I didn’t want to do it. But because I didn’t know what it would mean. What would happen after the cut? Would the room change again? Would she scream? Would she die? Would the counter stop? Would the door open? Would I remember something new? Would I forget something old? I didn’t know. I had no idea. And that was the worst part. Not the blood. Not the blade. Not the breaths ticking down. The not knowing. The uncertainty. The feeling that no matter what I did, it would be wrong. That no matter where I cut, it wouldn’t be enough. That no matter how deep I went, I wouldn’t reach the truth. I took another breath. The counter dropped. 198. I didn’t look at it. I didn’t need to. I felt it. Felt the air catch in my throat. Felt the pressure build behind my eyes. Felt the weight of the scalpel drag my arm down another inch. The tip touched her skin. Just barely. Just enough to make contact. Just enough to feel the warmth of her body against the cold steel. Just enough to see the faint indentation where the blade pressed in. She didn’t react. Not a twitch. Not a gasp. Not a blink. She just kept watching me. Her eyes didn’t waver. Her breath didn’t hitch. Her chest didn’t freeze. She just lay there, letting me touch her with the blade, letting me hover there, letting me decide. I didn’t move. I didn’t pull back. I didn’t push forward. I just held it there. Letting the moment stretch. Letting the silence press in. Letting the beeping of the monitors fill the space between us. Let