Chapter 24: Who Authorized This? I broke the surface with the folder still clutched against my chest. Water slid off my arms, my shoulders, my face. I didn’t cough. I didn’t gasp. My lungs didn’t burn. The counter hadn’t moved while I was under. Still 130. Still frozen. Still waiting for me to do something wrong. I held the folder up. The label stared back at me like a verdict already delivered. SUBJECT ZERO: TERMINATION APPROVED. I didn’t open it. I didn’t need to. I already knew what it said. I already knew who it was about. I already knew who signed it. I shouted into the dark. “Who authorized this?” The water didn’t ripple. The shelves didn’t shake. The dark didn’t answer right away. I stood there, waist-deep, the folder pressed to my ribs like armor. I waited. I didn’t move. I didn’t blink. I just waited for the room to lie to me again. It didn’t. A voice came. Not Lena’s. Not mine. Not even the mechanical one from the operating theater. This was colder. Cleaner. Like a machine that had never heard a human voice and didn’t care to learn. “You did.” I didn’t flinch. I didn’t argue. I didn’t ask how. I already knew. I’d known since I saw my own signature on those records. Since I saw the scalpel in my hand over that child. Since I heard Lena say I always chose silence over surgery. Since I watched the Lenas blink in unison while the tables pulsed under them. Since I stood in front of the glass and asked why I let her die. I did this. I authorized it. I killed her. The shelves began to collapse. Not all at once. Not with noise or drama. One row tilted. Then another. Then the next. They didn’t crash. They folded. Like dominoes made of steel and paper, bending into themselves, forming steps. A staircase. Rising out of the water. Out of the records. Out of the proof. I climbed. The water drained as I moved. Not fast. Not slow. Just enough to keep my feet dry as I stepped onto the first metal shelf-turned-step. The folder stayed pressed to my chest. I didn’t let go. I didn’t look back. I didn’t check if the water was following me. I just climbed. The counter moved. 129. I didn’t stop. I didn’t look down at my chest. I didn’t try to slow my breathing. I just kept climbing. One step. Then another. The staircase spiraled upward, tight and steep. The walls were still lined with shelves, but now they were empty. No files. No binders. No red stamps. Just metal and shadow. 128. I reached a landing. A short flat space. I paused there, not because I needed to, but because the folder felt heavier. Or maybe I did. I looked at the label again. SUBJECT ZERO. I wondered if that was me. Or her. Or both. I wondered if it mattered anymore. I kept climbing. 127. The air didn’t change. It didn’t get thinner. It didn’t get colder. It didn’t smell like anything. It just was. I focused on the steps. On the rhythm of my feet. On the weight of the folder. On the number ticking down inside me. 126. I passed another landing. This one had a single shelf jutting out from the wall. On it sat a pen. Black. Ordinary. The kind you’d find in a hospital drawer or a doctor’s coat pocket. I didn’t touch it. I didn’t even slow down. I knew what it was for. I knew what it would ask me to sign. 125. The staircase narrowed. The steps got steeper. I had to use my free hand to steady myself against the wall. My fingers brushed against something etched into the metal. I didn’t stop to read it. I didn’t need to. I already knew what it said. DO IT AGAIN. I’d seen it before. On my arm. In the ink that bled from the walls. In the silence Lena gave me when she handed me the scalpel. 124. I reached the top. The staircase ended at a door. No handle. No keyhole. Just a flat surface of steel, smooth and unbroken. Above it, a single line of text glowed faintly, like it had been waiting for me to arrive. REBIRTH PROTOCOL — CONFIRM TO PROCEED. I stood in front of it. The folder was still against my chest. The counter dropped to 120.