Chapter 25: Confirm to Proceed I stood in front of the door. The steel was smooth. No handle. No keyhole. Just that line of text glowing above it like it had been waiting for me since before I was born. REBIRTH PROTOCOL — CONFIRM TO PROCEED. The folder was still pressed against my chest. I didn’t open it. I didn’t need to. I already knew what was inside. I already knew who signed it. I already knew why it existed. I took a breath. The counter dropped to 119. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t look down. I didn’t try to slow my breathing. I just stared at the door. At the words. At the choice. I could walk away. I could sit down. I could wait for the counter to hit zero. I could let it end here, in silence, in stillness, in the quiet collapse of my lungs. But I didn’t come this far to quit. I didn’t climb out of the water, past the shelves, past the pen, past the etched words on the wall, just to stop now. I didn’t survive the operating table, the Lenas, the child’s shoe, the flooded chamber, the records, the scalpel, the blood, the lies, the truth — just to freeze at the threshold. I opened my mouth. “I confirm.” The door didn’t open. It dissolved. One second it was there. Solid. Final. Unmoving. The next, it was gone. Not shattered. Not broken. Not even faded. Just gone. Like it had never been real. Like it had been waiting for those two words to vanish. White light poured through the space where the door had been. Not bright. Not blinding. Not harsh. Just white. Pure. Empty. I stepped forward. The light swallowed me. It didn’t burn. It didn’t sting. It didn’t push or pull. It just was. Like walking into a room that had no walls, no floor, no ceiling. Just space. Just air. Just me. The folder was still against my chest. I didn’t let go. I didn’t look at it. I didn’t check if it was real. I just held it. Like it was the only thing keeping me from floating away. The counter dropped to 118. I kept walking. The white didn’t change. It didn’t thin. It didn’t thicken. It didn’t shift or ripple or bend. It just stretched. Endless. Silent. Still. Then I heard it. A voice. Small. Quiet. Young. “You have to choose again.” I stopped. The voice didn’t come from in front of me. Or behind me. Or beside me. It came from inside me. Like it had always been there. Like it had been waiting for me to hear it. “Operate. Or erase.” I didn’t answer. I didn’t ask what it meant. I didn’t ask who it was. I already knew. It was the child. The one with the blue ribbon. The one on the table. The one I held the scalpel over. The one I didn’t save. The one I silenced. The counter dropped to 117. I took another step. The white didn’t react. It didn’t shift. It didn’t respond. It just let me walk. Like it didn’t care what I did. Like it already knew what I would choose. I kept walking. 116. The folder felt heavier. Or maybe I did. I didn’t look down. I didn’t check. I just kept moving. One foot. Then the other. The rhythm of my steps matched the rhythm of the counter. Tick. Step. Tick. Step. 115. I felt it before I saw it. A weight in my palm. I looked down. The scalpel was there. Not cold. Not sharp. Not still. Warm. Pulsing. Alive. It fit perfectly in my hand. Like it had been made for me. Like it had been waiting for me. Like it had never left. I didn’t drop it. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t question it. I just closed my fingers around it. And kept walking.