Chapter 17: The Blade Answers I pressed the scalpel into Lena’s skin. Not deep. Not fast. Just enough to break the surface. Just enough to make the room believe I meant it. The steel slid in like it belonged there, like it had been waiting for this moment since the first breath. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t stop. I let the blade go shallow, just beneath the first layer, a clean line drawn across her abdomen. Blood didn’t gush. It didn’t even well. It just appeared, thin and slow, tracing the path I’d carved. The monitors flatlined. All of them. Every screen. Every beep. Every rhythm. Gone silent. No alarms. No warnings. Just flat, dead lines stretching across every display. I expected chaos. I expected her to scream. I expected the room to shake or the lights to burst or the air to vanish. I expected punishment. I expected reward. I expected something. Lena exhaled. Slow. Deliberate. Like she’d been holding that breath for years. Like she’d been waiting for me to make this cut so she could finally let it go. Her chest sank. Her shoulders relaxed. Her eyes stayed open, locked on mine, but the tension in them dissolved. Not relief. Not peace. Something heavier. Something final. Like she’d been carrying a weight and I’d just cut the rope. I didn’t pull the blade back. I held it there. Still inside her. Still resting just beneath the skin. I watched her face. I watched her chest. I watched the monitors, still dead, still silent. I waited for the room to react. I waited for the voice to speak. I waited for the counter to drop or jump or freeze. Nothing happened. The silence stretched. The air didn’t thin. The walls didn’t move. The only sound was my own breathing, ragged and uneven, and the soft, wet slide of the scalpel as I finally, slowly, withdrew it. A drawer opened. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just a quiet click beneath the operating table, followed by the smooth glide of metal on metal. I didn’t look right away. I kept my eyes on Lena. She didn’t move. She didn’t speak. She just lay there, breathing slow and even, the shallow cut on her stomach already starting to close, the blood drying into a thin, dark line. Her eyes stayed on me. Not accusing. Not forgiving. Just watching. Like she was waiting for me to see what I’d done. I turned. The drawer was small. Steel. Unmarked. Inside, a single folder. Thick. Yellowed at the edges. Bound with a frayed red ribbon. I reached for it. My fingers brushed the edge. Cold. Stiff. I pulled it out. The ribbon came loose as I lifted it. Pages spilled slightly, but I caught them before they fell. I set the scalpel down on the tray beside me. The steel clinked against the metal. Too loud in the silence. I opened the folder. The first page was a cover sheet. Bold black letters at the top: SUBJECT ZERO. Below that, smaller print: CONSENT REVOKED. No date. No signature. Just those words. I flipped to the next page. A medical chart. Not Lena’s. Not mine. A child’s. Name redacted. Age: 6. Diagnosis: Congenital spinal malformation. Procedure: Experimental decompression. Surgeon: Dr. Elias V. Assistant: Nurse Lena M. Varga. Date: Redacted. Outcome: TERMINAL. Cause of Death: Surgical error. Negligence. Cover-up. I flipped again. Photographs. X-rays. Notes in my own handwriting. Sketches of the spine. Calculations. Dosages. Timelines. All mine. All real. All signed. All stamped. All buried. I recognized the handwriting. I recognized the phrasing. I recognized the arrogance in the margins, the certainty in the conclusions. I wrote this. I planned this. I killed this child. And Lena helped me hide it. I flipped again. Consent forms. Dozens of them. All for the same procedure. All for different children. All signed by parents who didn’t understand what they were agreeing to. All stamped APPROVED. All filed under my name. All buried in hospital archives. All erased from public record. All except this one. This folder. This child. Subject Zero. The first. The only one who mattered. The only one whose consent was revoked. Not by the parents. Not by the hospital. By Lena. I looked up. Lena was still watching me. Her eyes hadn’t moved. Her breathing hadn’t changed. She knew I was reading it. She knew I was seeing it. She didn’t look away. She didn’t try to explain. She just lay there, strapped to the table, the cut on her stomach already fading, and waited for me to understand. I turned back to the folder. The last page was a letter. Handwritten. Not mine. Lena’s. Dated three days after the child’s death. Addressed to the hospital board. Detailing everything. The error. The cover-up. My role. Her role. Her guilt. Her regret. Her decision to revoke consent—not for the child, but for herself. She signed it. She never sent it. She buried it. Just like I buried the records. Just like I buried the child. Just like I buried myself. I closed the folder. I held it in both hands. The paper felt heavy. The edges cut into my palms. I looked at Lena again. She blinked. Once. Slow. Like she was giving me time. Like she was letting me catch up. Like she’d been waiting for this moment since the first photograph. Since the first question. Since the first breath. I didn’t speak. I didn’t ask why. I didn’t ask how. I didn’t ask what happens next. I just stood there, folder in hand, scalpel on the tray, blood on my fingers, and stared at her. She stared back. No smile. No frown. No tears. Just presence. Just truth. Just the weight of what I’d done, what she’d done, what we’d both let happen. The counter on my chest ticked down. 197. I didn’t look at it. I didn’t need to. I felt it. Felt the air catch. Felt the pressure build. Felt the folder grow heavier in my hands. I didn’t move. I didn’t breathe. I just stood there, holding the proof, staring at the woman on the table, realizing she was never the patient. She was the experiment.