Chapter 22: What Do You Want Me to Ask? I stared at the glass. My knuckles were split. Blood smeared the surface. The reflection didn’t care. It just stayed there. Me. Younger. In scrubs. 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. The counter on my chest kept ticking. 130. 129. 128. 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 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 whispered. “What do you want me to ask?” The room didn’t answer right away. It just sat there. Silent. Still. Then a low hum started. Not from the walls. Not from the ceiling. Not from the table. From everywhere. The hum grew louder. Not painful. Not threatening. Just… present. Like the room was waking up. Like it was listening. 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 started to glow. Not bright. Not blinding. Just a soft, steady light. The reflection didn’t change. The child didn’t move. I didn’t move. The glow spread. Covering the entire surface. Then the word appeared. Big. Bold. Black. “WHY?” That was it. One word. No explanation. No context. Just “WHY?” I stared at it. I didn’t understand. Why what? Why did I let her die? Why did I sign the forms? Why did I hold the scalpel? Why did I let go? Why did I forget? Why did I wake up here? Why is Lena here? Why is the counter ticking? Why is the room sealed? Why is there no exit? Why is there no mercy? Why? I shouted. “Why did I let her die?” The word on the glass didn’t change. It just stayed there. “WHY?” I shouted again. “Why did I let her die?” Louder. Raw. Desperate. The glass didn’t crack. It didn’t shake. It didn’t even echo. It just absorbed the sound. 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 open. 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. 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. I stared at the glass. My knuckles were split. Blood smeared the surface. The reflection didn’t care. It just stayed there. Me. Younger. In scrubs. 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. The counter on my chest kept ticking. 130. 129. 128. 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 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 whispered. “What do you want me to ask?” The room didn’t answer right away. It just sat there. Silent. Still. Then a low hum started. Not from the walls. Not from the ceiling. Not from the table. From everywhere. The hum grew louder. Not painful. Not threatening. Just… present. Like the room was waking up. Like it was listening. 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 started to glow. Not bright. Not blinding. Just a soft, steady light. The reflection didn’t change. The child didn’t move. I didn’t move. The glow spread. Covering the entire surface. Then the word appeared. Big. Bold. Black. “WHY?” That was it. One word. No explanation. No context. Just “WHY?” I stared at it. I didn’t understand. Why what? Why did I let her die? Why did I sign the forms? Why did I hold the scalpel? Why did I let go? Why did I forget? Why did I wake up here? Why is Lena here? Why is the counter ticking? Why is the room sealed? Why is there no exit? Why is there no mercy? Why? I shouted. “Why did I let her die?” The word on the glass didn’t change. It just stayed there. “WHY?” I shouted again. “Why did I let her die?” Louder. Raw. Desperate. The glass didn’t crack. It didn’t shake. It didn’t even echo. It just absorbed the sound. 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 open. 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. 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. I stared at the glass. My knuckles were split. Blood smeared the surface. The reflection didn’t care. It just stayed there. Me. Younger. In scrubs. 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. The counter on my chest kept ticking. 130. 129. 128. 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 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 whispered. “What do you want me to ask?” The room didn’t answer right away. It just sat there. Silent. Still. Then a low hum started. Not from the walls. Not from the ceiling. Not from the table. From everywhere. The hum grew louder. Not painful. Not threatening. Just… present. Like the room was waking up. Like it was listening. 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 started to glow. Not bright. Not blinding. Just a soft, steady light. The reflection didn’t change. The child didn’t move. I didn’t move. The glow spread. Covering the entire surface. Then the word appeared. Big. Bold. Black. “WHY?” That was it. One word. No explanation. No context. Just “WHY?” I stared at it. I didn’t understand. Why what? Why did I let her die? Why did I sign the forms? Why did I hold the scalpel? Why did I let go? Why did I forget? Why did I wake up here? Why is Lena here? Why is the counter ticking? Why is the room sealed? Why is there no exit? Why is there no mercy? Why? I shouted. “Why did I let her die?” The glass dissolved. Not shattered. Not cracked. Not broken. Just dissolved. Like mist. Like smoke. Like it had never been solid at all. The reflection vanished. The child vanished. The scalpel vanished. The blue ribbon vanished. The surgical theater vanished. Everything behind the glass was gone. Replaced by a new chamber. Dark. Deep. Still. I stepped forward. The floor didn’t resist. The air didn’t push back. The walls didn’t close in. I just walked. Into the mist. Into the dark. Into the new chamber. Behind me, Lena’s eyes finally closed. The counter on my chest stopped moving. It held at 130.