Chapter 21: He Let It Fall I looked at the scalpel. It sat in my palm like it belonged there. Like it had always been there. The metal didn’t feel cold. It didn’t feel heavy. It just felt right. Like an extension of my fingers. Like the last piece of me that still made sense. Lena watched me from the table. Not moving. Not speaking. Just watching. Her eyes didn’t blink. Her chest didn’t rise. She was waiting. Not for me to cut her. Not for me to cut myself. She was waiting for me to choose. To act. To become the man she remembered. The man who signed the forms. The man who held the blade over a child’s spine and didn’t flinch. I didn’t want to be that man. I didn’t want to be any man. I just wanted the room to stop asking. I turned my hand over. The scalpel slipped off my palm. It didn’t clatter. It didn’t bounce. It just left my skin and fell straight down, like gravity had been holding its breath until I let go. It hit the floor with a small, dull sound. Not metal on tile. Not steel on concrete. More like something soft catching it. Like the floor had opened its mouth. I didn’t look down right away. I kept my eyes on Lena. Her face didn’t change. No surprise. No anger. No disappointment. Just the same flat stare. The same quiet knowing. Like she had already seen this moment a hundred times. Like she had written it into the walls before I ever woke up in that first room with the counter at 300. The voice came next. It didn’t crackle. It didn’t echo. It didn’t even sound like it came from the walls or the ceiling or the table. It just appeared inside my head, clean and sharp and final. “Refusal logged.” Two words. That was all. No judgment. No threat. No explanation. Just a record. A note in a file. A checkmark in a box. I still didn’t look at the floor. I waited. The voice didn’t stop. “Phase Three aborted.” Another two words. Another box checked. Another door closing. I felt the air shift. Not a breeze. Not a draft. Just a tightening. Like the room had sucked in its stomach. Like it was bracing. “Initiate Containment Protocol.” Three words this time. And then the walls moved. Not fast. Not violent. Just deliberate. Like they had been waiting for this exact moment to finally do what they were built to do. The glass behind me—the one showing the surgical theater, the child with the blue ribbon, me holding the scalpel with that awful certainty in my eyes—it sealed shut. Not with a slam. Not with a hiss. Just a soft click, like a vault locking. The reflection didn’t vanish. It stayed there. Frozen. Watching me. Judging me. But now it was behind glass. Thick glass. Unbreakable glass. The corridor ahead of me—the one I had walked down after the mirror shattered, the one that led me here—sealed too. The opening vanished. No seam. No crack. Just smooth, seamless wall where there had been space. The ceiling lowered. Not by much. Just enough to make the air feel heavier. Just enough to make my shoulders hunch without me telling them to. The lights dimmed. Not to darkness. Not all the way. Just enough to make everything gray. Just enough to make the edges of things blur. Just enough to make it harder to see Lena’s face. I looked down then. The scalpel was gone. The floor where it had fallen was smooth. No crack. No seam. No hole. Just flat, unbroken surface. Like the scalpel had never existed. Like I had imagined holding it. Like I had imagined letting it go. I dropped to my knees. I pressed my palms against the floor. I dug my fingers into the seams that weren’t there. I scraped my nails against the surface until they ached. Nothing. No give. No weakness. No hidden panel. No trick latch. No mercy. I stood up. I turned to the glass wall behind me. The reflection was still there. Me. Younger. In scrubs. Mask on. Scalpel in hand. Child on the table. Blue ribbon in her hair. I didn’t remember her name. I didn’t remember the surgery. But I remembered the look in my own eyes. Not fear. Not doubt. Something worse. Something final. I slammed my fist against the glass. It didn’t crack. It didn’t shake. It didn’t even echo. It just absorbed the impact. Like it was made of something that didn’t believe in force. Like it was designed to ignore me. I hit it again. Harder. My knuckles split. Blood smeared the surface. The reflection didn’t change. The child didn’t move. I didn’t move. I just stood there, breathing hard, staring at the man who had done this. The man who had let this happen. The man who had signed the forms. The man who had held the blade. The man who had let go. The counter on my chest flickered. It had been frozen at 150 since I pressed the panel behind the mirror. Now it moved. 149. Then 148. Then 147. Faster than before. Not one breath per second. Two. Maybe three. I didn’t count. I didn’t need to. I could feel it. Each breath was shorter. Shallower. Tighter. Like the air was being pulled out of the room with every tick of the counter. Like the walls were breathing for me. Stealing my air. Counting down my life in stolen gasps. I turned away from the glass. I faced Lena. She hadn’t moved. She hadn’t blinked. She hadn’t spoken. She just lay there. Strapped to the table. Watching me. Waiting. I didn’t know what she was waiting for. I didn’t know what the room wanted. I didn’t know what came next. I just knew I was running out of time. I dropped to my knees again. I pressed my hands against the floor where the scalpel had fallen. I dug my fingers in. I pulled. I pushed. I begged the floor to open. Nothing. I stood up. I walked to the wall where the corridor had been. I ran my hands over the surface. No seams. No cracks. No hidden switches. No mercy. I turned back to Lena. “Lena,” I said. My voice sounded small. Weak. Broken. She didn’t answer. She didn’t move. She just watched. I walked to the table. I leaned over her. I looked into her eyes. They were empty. Not dead. Not asleep. Just… waiting. Like she had already seen how this ended. Like she had already written the last page. I grabbed the straps holding her down. I pulled. I yanked. I tore at them. They didn’t budge. They weren’t meant to. I stepped back. I looked around the room. No exits. No tools. No weapons. No hope. Just me. And Lena. And the counter ticking down on my chest. 140. 139. 138. I walked to the glass wall again. I pressed my forehead against it. I closed my eyes. I thought about the child on the table. I thought about the blue ribbon. I thought about the scalpel in my hand. I thought about the certainty in my eyes. I opened my eyes. I looked at the reflection. I raised my fist. I slammed it against the glass. Again. And again. And again. Blood smeared the surface. My knuckles split open. The pain didn’t matter. The counter didn’t stop. 135. 134. 133. I turned away from the glass. I faced the room. I faced Lena. I opened my mouth. I screamed her name. “Lena!” The sound didn’t echo. It didn’t bounce off the walls. It just vanished. Like the room had swallowed it. Like it had swallowed everything else. I screamed again. “Lena!” Louder. Raw. Desperate. She didn’t move. She didn’t blink. She didn’t answer. The counter kept ticking. 132. 131. 130.