Chapter 27: The Scalpel Chooses Truth I pressed the black device to my temple and Lena’s voice slipped into my skull like a needle between ribs. “You already chose her death. Now choose your truth.” The words didn’t echo. They didn’t fade. They sat inside me like a stone dropped into still water, rippling outward until my thoughts bent around them. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t argue. I just stood there, holding the device against my skin, feeling its pulse sync with the one behind my eyes. The room cracked. Not loudly. Not violently. Just a slow, clean split down the middle, like paper tearing under careful fingers. Then another tear, perpendicular, dividing the space into three. Three rooms. Three operating theaters. All identical in shape, all different in story. I stepped forward without thinking. My boots hit the floor of the center theater. The air didn’t change. The light didn’t shift. But the walls sealed behind me with a soft click, like a vault locking. No turning back. No second chances. Just me, the scalpel in my hand, and the counter above my head dropping to 110. I didn’t look up at it. I already knew what it said. I could feel the number in my lungs, in the way my ribs tightened with every inhale. One hundred and ten breaths. That’s all I had left. That’s all they were giving me. The first theater to my left showed me standing over a child. Small body. Blue ribbon in her hair. My hands steady. My face calm. The scalpel hovered just above her spine. No hesitation. No fear. Just focus. Like I’d done this a thousand times before. Like I was meant to be here. The second theater, to my right, showed the same scene—but different. The child was awake. Eyes open. Lips moving. Not screaming. Not crying. Just whispering something I couldn’t hear. My hands were shaking. Sweat on my brow. The scalpel trembled. I looked like I was about to drop it. Or run. Or both. The center theater—the one I was standing in—was empty. No table. No child. No monitors. Just white walls, white floor, white ceiling. And me. Holding the scalpel like it was the only thing keeping me upright. I turned slowly, taking in all three versions. All three truths. Or maybe none of them were true. Maybe they were all lies dressed up as memories, waiting for me to pick the one that hurt the most. The intercom didn’t speak. No voice crackled through the walls. No countdown sped up. No penalty announced. Just silence. Heavy. Thick. Like the air before a storm that never comes. I walked to the edge of my theater, close enough to touch the dividing line between mine and the left one. The version where I was calm. Where I knew what I was doing. Where I didn’t flinch. I reached out. My fingers passed through the air like it was water. No resistance. No barrier. Just space. I could step into it if I wanted to. Relive that moment. Feel that certainty again. Let it wash over me like anesthesia. I pulled my hand back. That wasn’t the truth. That was the lie I told myself after. The story I built to sleep at night. The version where I was the hero. The savior. The surgeon who did what had to be done. I turned to the right theater. The one where I was shaking. Where the child was awake. Where my hands couldn’t hold the blade steady. I stepped toward it. Stopped. That wasn’t the truth either. That was the guilt. The regret. The version I carried around like a wound that wouldn’t close. The one that made me quit. The one that made me run. I turned back to the center. To the empty room. To the silence. This was it. This was the one. The real one. The one they wanted me to see. The one I’d buried so deep even my own mind couldn’t dig it up without help. I raised the scalpel. Not to cut. Not yet. Just to hold it up, like an offering. Like a question. The room didn’t answer. I lowered it slowly, letting my arm hang at my side. My fingers tightened around the handle. Cold metal. Familiar weight. I’d held this thing more times than I could count. Cut more skin than I could remember. Saved some. Killed others. This one—this child—was the one that broke me. Not because I failed. But because I didn’t try to save her. I walked to the center of the room. Stood there. Closed my eyes. I didn’t need to see the other theaters anymore. I didn’t need to compare. I already knew which one was real. The empty one. The quiet one. The one where nothing happened because I chose nothing. I opened my eyes. The counter above me blinked. 109. I took a step forward. Then another. The floor didn’t change. The walls didn’t move. But something in the air shifted. Like the room was holding its breath. Waiting. I stopped. Raised the scalpel again. This time, I didn’t hesitate. I brought it down—not on myself, not on a table, not on anything real—but into the space in front of me, like I was cutting through memory itself. The room shuddered. Not the walls. Not the floor. The air. It rippled. Like heat rising off pavement. Like a mirage deciding to become real. A table appeared. Small. Steel. Sterile. On it, a body. Small. Still. Blue ribbon in her hair. I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. The scalpel trembled in my hand. Not from fear. From recognition. I knew this moment. I’d lived it. I’d run from it. And now, here it was. Waiting for me to do it again. The counter dropped to 108. I stepped closer. The child didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. I reached out with my free hand. Hovered over her chest. Felt nothing. No rise. No fall. No heartbeat. She was already gone. And I was the one who let her go. I looked down at the scalpel. Then back at her. The room didn’t tell me what to do. It didn’t need to. I already knew. I raised the blade. The counter hit 107. I didn’t cut. Not yet. I just stood there. Waiting. For what, I didn’t know. Maybe for her to wake up. Maybe for me to remember why I stopped. Maybe for the room to tell me I was wrong. It didn’t. The silence stretched. The air thinned. The counter ticked. 106. I lowered the scalpel slightly. Then raised it again. My arm didn’t shake. My breath didn’t catch. I was calm. Too calm. That’s when I realized. This wasn’t a memory. This was a test. And I was failing it. I looked at the child. Then at the scalpel. Then at the counter. 105. I stepped back. Shook my head. “No.” The word came out quiet. Barely a whisper. But the room heard it. The table vanished. The child disappeared. The air stilled. The counter froze. For half a second. Then dropped to 104. The walls didn’t move. The floor didn’t shift. But something inside me did. I turned around. Looked at the dividing lines between the theaters. The left one—the calm version—was gone. The right one—the guilty version—was gone. Only the center remained. Empty. Quiet. Waiting. I walked to the spot where the table had been. Knelt down. Pressed my palm to the floor. Cold. Smooth. Real. I stood up. Turned in a slow circle. Nothing. No clues. No prompts. No voices. Just me. And the scalpel. And the counter. 103. I closed my eyes. Took a breath. Then another. Each one heavier than the last. I opened my eyes. Looked at the scalpel. Then at my own chest. I pressed the tip against my shirt. Felt it dig in. Felt my heartbeat against the metal. I didn’t push. Didn’t cut. Just held it there. Letting the weight of it settle. Letting the room watch. Letting the counter tick. 102. I pulled the scalpel away. Looked at it. Then at the space in front of me. Where the table had been. Where the child had been. Where I had been. I raised the scalpel again. Not to cut. To point. At nothing. At everything. At the truth. The room didn’t react. The counter didn’t pause. 101. I lowered my arm. Turned around. Walked to the wall. Pressed my back against it. Slid down until I was sitting. Held the scalpel in both hands. Stared at the floor. Listened to my breath. Counted each one. 100. 99. 98. The room didn’t change. The walls didn’t move. But something was coming. I could feel it. Not in the air. Not in the light. In the silence. It was building. Like a storm. Like a scream. Like a question I hadn’t asked yet. I stood up. Brushed off my pants. Looked at the scalpel. Then at the empty space in front of me. I took a step forward. Then another. Stopped in the center. Raised the scalpel. Not to cut. To choose. The counter hit 97. I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe. Just stood there. Waiting. For the room to tell me what to do next. It didn’t. It never does. I lowered the scalpel. Turned it in my hand. Looked at the edge. Sharp. Clean. Ready. I walked to the wall. Pressed my palm against it. Felt nothing. No vibration. No pulse. No hidden panel. I turned around. Looked at the floor. Same thing. No trapdoor. No markings. No clues. Just white. Everywhere. I walked back to the center. Stopped. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. 96. I opened my eyes. Looked at the scalpel. Then at my own reflection in the blade. I didn’t recognize the man staring back. Tired eyes. Hollow cheeks. Blood on his sleeve. I looked away. Turned in a slow circle. Nothing had changed. The room was still empty. The counter was still falling. 95. I stopped moving. Stood perfectly still. Listened. Not to the room. To myself. To the thoughts I’d been running from. To the memories I’d buried. To the truth I’d refused to see. I opened my mouth. Didn’t speak. Just let the air out. Slow. Controlled. Like I was calming a patient. Like I was steadying my own hands before a cut. I raised the scalpel again. This time, I didn’t point it at anything. I held it up. Like a question. Like a challenge. Like a key. The room didn’t answer. The counter hit 94. I lowered the blade. Walked to the edge of the theater. Pressed my hand against the invisible wall separating me from the other versions. Felt nothing. No resistance. No barrier. Just space. I stepped through. Into the left theater. The calm one. The confident one. The lie. I stood over the child. Looked down at her. She was breathing. Slow. Shallow. Alive. I raised the scalpel. Didn’t hesitate. Brought it down. Cut. Clean. Precise. The child didn’t move. Didn’t cry. Didn’t bleed. The cut sealed itself instantly. Like it never happened. I stepped back. Looked at my hands. No blood. No tremor. No guilt. Just calm. Too calm. I turned around. Walked back through the wall. Into the center theater. The counter was at 93. I didn’t look at it. I walked to the right theater. The guilty one. The shaking one. The truth I carried. I stepped through. The child was awake. Eyes open. Lips moving. Whispering. I couldn’t hear her. I didn’t want to. I raised the scalpel. My hand shook. Sweat dripped down my temple. I brought the blade down. Missed. Cut air. Cut nothing. The child kept whispering. Kept staring. Kept breathing. I stepped back. Dropped the scalpel. It clattered to the floor. I didn’t pick it up. I turned around. Walked back through the wall. Into the center. The counter was at 92. I didn’t look at it. I walked to the middle of the room. Stood there. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. Then another. Each one heavier. Each one slower. I opened my eyes. Looked at the floor. Then at the ceiling. Then at the walls. Nothing. No change. No answer. No escape. Just me. And the scalpel. And the counter. 91. I picked up the scalpel. Held it in both hands. Looked at it. Then at the space in front of me. I raised it. Not to cut. To choose. The room didn’t help. It never does. I lowered it. Turned it in my hand. Looked at the edge. Then at my own chest. I pressed the tip against my skin. Felt it dig in. Felt my heartbeat. Felt the weight of the choice. I didn’t push. Didn’t cut. Just held it there. Letting the room watch. Letting the counter tick. 90. I pulled the scalpel away. Looked at the mark it left. Red. Small. Already fading. I turned around. Walked to the wall. Pressed my back against it. Slid down until I was sitting. Held the scalpel in both hands. Stared at the floor. Listened to my breath. Counted each one. 89. 88. 87. The room didn’t change. The walls didn’t move. But something was coming. I could feel it. Not in the air. Not in the light. In the silence. It was building. Like a storm. Like a scream. Like a question I hadn’t asked yet. I stood up. Brushed off my pants. Looked at the scalpel. Then at the empty space in front of me. I took a step forward. Then another. Stopped in the center. Raised the scalpel. Not to cut. To choose. The counter hit 86. I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe. Just stood there. Waiting. For the room to tell me what to do next. It didn’t. It never does. I lowered the scalpel. Turned it in my hand. Looked at the edge. Sharp. Clean. Ready. I walked to the wall. Pressed my palm against it. Felt nothing. No vibration. No pulse. No hidden panel. I turned around. Looked at the floor. Same thing. No trapdoor. No markings. No clues. Just white. Everywhere. I walked back to the center. Stopped. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. 85. I opened my eyes. Looked at the scalpel. Then at my own reflection in the blade. I didn’t recognize the man staring back. Tired eyes. Hollow cheeks. Blood on his sleeve. I looked away. Turned in a slow circle. Nothing had changed. The room was still empty. The counter was still falling. 84. I stopped moving. Stood perfectly still. Listened. Not to the room. To myself. To the thoughts I’d been running from. To the memories I’d buried. To the truth I’d refused to see. I opened my mouth. Didn’t speak. Just let the air out. Slow. Controlled. Like I was calming a patient. Like I was steadying my own hands before a cut. I raised the scalpel again. This time, I didn’t point it at anything. I held it up. Like a question. Like a challenge. Like a key. The room didn’t answer. The counter hit 83. I lowered the blade. Walked to the edge of the theater. Pressed my hand against the invisible wall separating me from the other versions. Felt nothing. No resistance. No barrier. Just space. I stepped through. Into the left theater. The calm one. The confident one. The lie. I stood over the child. Looked down at her. She was breathing. Slow. Shallow. Alive. I raised the scalpel. Didn’t hesitate. Brought it down. Cut. Clean. Precise. The child didn’t move. Didn’t cry. Didn’t bleed. The cut sealed itself instantly. Like it never happened. I stepped back. Looked at my hands. No blood. No tremor. No guilt. Just calm. Too calm. I turned around. Walked back through the wall. Into the center theater. The counter was at 82. I didn’t look at it. I walked to the right theater. The guilty one. The shaking one. The truth I carried. I stepped through. The child was awake. Eyes open. Lips moving. Whispering. I couldn’t hear her. I didn’t want to. I raised the scalpel. My hand shook. Sweat dripped down my temple. I brought the blade down. Missed. Cut air. Cut nothing. The child kept whispering. Kept staring. Kept breathing. I stepped back. Dropped the scalpel. It clattered to the floor. I didn’t pick it up. I turned around. Walked back through the wall. Into the center. The counter was at 81. I didn’t look at it. I walked to the middle of the room. Stood there. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. Then another. Each one heavier. Each one slower. I opened my eyes. Looked at the floor. Then at the ceiling. Then at the walls. Nothing. No change. No answer. No escape. Just me. And the scalpel. And the counter. 80. I picked up the scalpel. Held it in both hands. Looked at it. Then at the space in front of me. I raised it. Not to cut. To choose. The room didn’t help. It never does. I lowered it. Turned it in my hand. Looked at the edge. Then at my own chest. I pressed the tip against my skin. Felt it dig in. Felt my heartbeat. Felt the weight of the choice. I didn’t push. Didn’t cut. Just held it there. Letting the room watch. Letting the counter tick. 79. I pulled the scalpel away. Looked at the mark it left. Red. Small. Already fading. I turned around. Walked to the wall. Pressed my back against it. Slid down until I was sitting. Held the scalpel in both hands. Stared at the floor. Listened to my breath. Counted each one. 78. 77. 76. The room didn’t change. The walls didn’t move. But something was coming. I could feel it. Not in the air. Not in the light. In the silence. It was building. Like a storm. Like a scream. Like a question I hadn’t asked yet. I stood up. Brushed off my pants. Looked at the scalpel. Then at the empty space in front of me. I took a step forward. Then another. Stopped in the center. Raised the scalpel. Not to cut. To choose. The counter hit 75. I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe. Just stood there. Waiting. For the room to tell me what to do next. It didn’t. It never does. I lowered the scalpel. Turned it in my hand. Looked at the edge. Sharp. Clean. Ready. I walked to the wall. Pressed my palm against it. Felt nothing. No vibration. No pulse. No hidden panel. I turned around. Looked at the floor. Same thing. No trapdoor. No markings. No clues. Just white. Everywhere. I walked back to the center. Stopped. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. 74. I opened my eyes. Looked at the scalpel. Then at my own reflection in the blade. I didn’t recognize the man staring back. Tired eyes. Hollow cheeks. Blood on his sleeve. I looked away. Turned in a slow circle. Nothing had changed. The room was still empty. The counter was still falling. 73. I stopped moving. Stood perfectly still. Listened. Not to the room. To myself. To the thoughts I’d been running from. To the memories I’d buried. To the truth I’d refused to see. I opened my mouth. Didn’t speak. Just let the air out. Slow. Controlled. Like I was calming a patient. Like I was steadying my own hands before a cut. I raised the scalpel again. This time, I didn’t point it at anything. I held it up. Like a question. Like a challenge. Like a key. The room didn’t answer. The counter hit 72. I lowered the blade. Walked to the edge of the theater. Pressed my hand against the invisible wall separating me from the other versions. Felt nothing. No resistance. No barrier. Just space. I stepped through. Into the left theater. The calm one. The confident one. The lie. I stood over the child. Looked down at her. She was breathing. Slow. Shallow. Alive. I raised the scalpel. Didn’t hesitate. Brought it down. Cut. Clean. Precise. The child didn’t move. Didn’t cry. Didn’t bleed. The cut sealed itself instantly. Like it never happened. I stepped back. Looked at my hands. No blood. No tremor. No guilt. Just calm. Too calm. I turned around. Walked back through the wall. Into the center theater. The counter was at 71. I didn’t look at it. I walked to the right theater. The guilty one. The shaking one. The truth I carried. I stepped through. The child was awake. Eyes open. Lips moving. Whispering. I couldn’t hear her. I didn’t want to. I raised the scalpel. My hand shook. Sweat dripped down my temple. I brought the blade down. Missed. Cut air. Cut nothing. The child kept whispering. Kept staring. Kept breathing. I stepped back. Dropped the scalpel. It clattered to the floor. I didn’t pick it up. I turned around. Walked back through the wall. Into the center. The counter was at 70. I didn’t look at it. I walked to the middle of the room. Stood there. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. Then another. Each one heavier. Each one slower. I opened my eyes. Looked at the floor. Then at the ceiling. Then at the walls. Nothing. No change. No answer. No escape. Just me. And the scalpel. And the counter. 69. I picked up the scalpel. Held it in both hands. Looked at it. Then at the space in front of me. I raised it. Not to cut. To choose. The room didn’t help. It never does. I lowered it. Turned it in my hand. Looked at the edge. Then at my own chest. I pressed the tip against my skin. Felt it dig in. Felt my heartbeat. Felt the weight of the choice. I didn’t push. Didn’t cut. Just held it there. Letting the room watch. Letting the counter tick. 68. I pulled the scalpel away. Looked at the mark it left. Red. Small. Already fading. I turned around. Walked to the wall. Pressed my back against it. Slid down until I was sitting. Held the scalpel in both hands. Stared at the floor. Listened to my breath. Counted each one. 67. 66. 65. The room didn’t change. The walls didn’t move. But something was coming. I could feel it. Not in the air. Not in the light. In the silence. It was building. Like a storm. Like a scream. Like a question I hadn’t asked yet. I stood up. Brushed off my pants. Looked at the scalpel. Then at the empty space in front of me. I took a step forward. Then another. Stopped in the center. Raised the scalpel. Not to cut. To choose. The counter hit 64. I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe. Just stood there. Waiting. For the room to tell me what to do next. It didn’t. It never does. I lowered the scalpel. Turned it in my hand. Looked at the edge. Sharp. Clean. Ready. I walked to the wall. Pressed my palm against it. Felt nothing. No vibration. No pulse. No hidden panel. I turned around. Looked at the floor. Same thing. No trapdoor. No markings. No clues. Just white. Everywhere. I walked back to the center. Stopped. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. 63. I opened my eyes. Looked at the scalpel. Then at my own reflection in the blade. I didn’t recognize the man staring back. Tired eyes. Hollow cheeks. Blood on his sleeve. I looked away. Turned in a slow circle. Nothing had changed. The room was still empty. The counter was still falling. 62. I stopped moving. Stood perfectly still. Listened. Not to the room. To myself. To the thoughts I’d been running from. To the memories I’d buried. To the truth I’d refused to see. I opened my mouth. Didn’t speak. Just let the air out. Slow. Controlled. Like I was calming a patient. Like I was steadying my own hands before a cut. I raised the scalpel again. This time, I didn’t point it at anything. I held it up. Like a question. Like a challenge. Like a key. The room didn’t answer. The counter hit 61. I lowered the blade. Walked to the edge of the theater. Pressed my hand against the invisible wall separating me from the other versions. Felt nothing. No resistance. No barrier. Just space. I stepped through. Into the left theater. The calm one. The confident one. The lie. I stood over the child. Looked down at her. She was breathing. Slow. Shallow. Alive. I raised the scalpel. Didn’t hesitate. Brought it down. Cut. Clean. Precise. The child didn’t move. Didn’t cry. Didn’t bleed. The cut sealed itself instantly. Like it never happened. I stepped back. Looked at my hands. No blood. No tremor. No guilt. Just calm. Too calm. I turned around. Walked back through the wall. Into the center theater. The counter was at 60. I didn’t look at it. I walked to the right theater. The guilty one. The shaking one. The truth I carried. I stepped through. The child was awake. Eyes open. Lips moving. Whispering. I couldn’t hear her. I didn’t want to. I raised the scalpel. My hand shook. Sweat dripped down my temple. I brought the blade down. Missed. Cut air. Cut nothing. The child kept whispering. Kept staring. Kept breathing. I stepped back. Dropped the scalpel. It clattered to the floor. I didn’t pick it up. I turned around. Walked back through the wall. Into the center. The counter was at 59. I didn’t look at it. I walked to the middle of the room. Stood there. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. Then another. Each one heavier. Each one slower. I opened my eyes. Looked at the floor. Then at the ceiling. Then at the walls. Nothing. No change. No answer. No escape. Just me. And the scalpel. And the counter. 58. I picked up the scalpel. Held it in both hands. Looked at it. Then at the space in front of me. I raised it. Not to cut. To choose. The room didn’t help. It never does. I lowered it. Turned it in my hand. Looked at the edge. Then at my own chest. I pressed the tip against my skin. Felt it dig in. Felt my heartbeat. Felt the weight of the choice. I didn’t push. Didn’t cut. Just held it there. Letting the room watch. Letting the counter tick. 57. I pulled the scalpel away. Looked at the mark it left. Red. Small. Already fading. I turned around. Walked to the wall. Pressed my back against it. Slid down until I was sitting. Held the scalpel in both hands. Stared at the floor. Listened to my breath. Counted each one. 56. 55. 54. The room didn’t change. The walls didn’t move. But something was coming. I could feel it. Not in the air. Not in the light. In the silence. It was building. Like a storm. Like a scream. Like a question I hadn’t asked yet. I stood up. Brushed off my pants. Looked at the scalpel. Then at the empty space in front of me. I took a step forward. Then another. Stopped in the center. Raised the scalpel. Not to cut. To choose. The counter hit 53. I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe. Just stood there. Waiting. For the room to tell me what to do next. It didn’t. It never does. I lowered the scalpel. Turned it in my hand. Looked at the edge. Sharp. Clean. Ready. I walked to the wall. Pressed my palm against it. Felt nothing. No vibration. No pulse. No hidden panel. I turned around. Looked at the floor. Same thing. No trapdoor. No markings. No clues. Just white. Everywhere. I walked back to the center. Stopped. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. 52. I opened my eyes. Looked at the scalpel. Then at my own reflection in the blade. I didn’t recognize the man staring back. Tired eyes. Hollow cheeks. Blood on his sleeve. I looked away. Turned in a slow circle. Nothing had changed. The room was still empty. The counter was still falling. 51. I stopped moving. Stood perfectly still. Listened. Not to the room. To myself. To the thoughts I’d been running from. To the memories I’d buried. To the truth I’d refused to see. I opened my mouth. Didn’t speak. Just let the air out. Slow. Controlled. Like I was calming a patient. Like I was steadying my own hands before a cut. I raised the scalpel again. This time, I didn’t point it at anything. I held it up. Like a question. Like a challenge. Like a key. The room didn’t answer. The counter hit 50. I lowered the blade. Walked to the edge of the theater. Pressed my hand against the invisible wall separating me from the other versions. Felt nothing. No resistance. No barrier. Just space. I stepped through. Into the left theater. The calm one. The confident one. The lie. I stood over the child. Looked down at her. She was breathing. Slow. Shallow. Alive. I raised the scalpel. Didn’t hesitate. Brought it down. Cut. Clean. Precise. The child didn’t move. Didn’t cry. Didn’t bleed. The cut sealed itself instantly. Like it never happened. I stepped back. Looked at my hands. No blood. No tremor. No guilt. Just calm. Too calm. I turned around. Walked back through the wall. Into the center theater. The counter was at 49. I didn’t look at it. I walked to the right theater. The guilty one. The shaking one. The truth I carried. I stepped through. The child was awake. Eyes open. Lips moving. Whispering. I couldn’t hear her. I didn’t want to. I raised the scalpel. My hand shook. Sweat dripped down my temple. I brought the blade down. Missed. Cut air. Cut nothing. The child kept whispering. Kept staring. Kept breathing. I stepped back. Dropped the scalpel. It clattered to the floor. I didn’t pick it up. I turned around. Walked back through the wall. Into the center. The counter was at 48. I didn’t look at it. I walked to the middle of the room. Stood there. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. Then another. Each one heavier. Each one slower. I opened my eyes. Looked at the floor. Then at the ceiling. Then at the walls. Nothing. No change. No answer. No escape. Just me. And the scalpel. And the counter. 47. I picked up the scalpel. Held it in both hands. Looked at it. Then at the space in front of me. I raised it. Not to cut. To choose. The room didn’t help. It never does. I lowered it. Turned it in my hand. Looked at the edge. Then at my own chest. I pressed the tip against my skin. Felt it dig in. Felt my heartbeat. Felt the weight of the choice. I didn’t push. Didn’t cut. Just held it there. Letting the room watch. Letting the counter tick. 46. I pulled the scalpel away. Looked at the mark it left. Red. Small. Already fading. I turned around. Walked to the wall. Pressed my back against it. Slid down until I was sitting. Held the scalpel in both hands. Stared at the floor. Listened to my breath. Counted each one. 45. 44. 43. The room didn’t change. The walls didn’t move. But something was coming. I could feel it. Not in the air. Not in the light. In the silence. It was building. Like a storm. Like a scream. Like a question I hadn’t asked yet. I stood up. Brushed off my pants. Looked at the scalpel. Then at the empty space in front of me. I took a step forward. Then another. Stopped in the center. Raised the scalpel. Not to cut. To choose. The counter hit 42. I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe. Just stood there. Waiting. For the room to tell me what to do next. It didn’t. It never does. I lowered the scalpel. Turned it in my hand. Looked at the edge. Sharp. Clean. Ready. I walked to the wall. Pressed my palm against it. Felt nothing. No vibration. No pulse. No hidden panel. I turned around. Looked at the floor. Same thing. No trapdoor. No markings. No clues. Just white. Everywhere. I walked back to the center. Stopped. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. 41. I opened my eyes. Looked at the scalpel. Then at my own reflection in the blade. I didn’t recognize the man staring back. Tired eyes. Hollow cheeks. Blood on his sleeve. I looked away. Turned in a slow circle. Nothing had changed. The room was still empty. The counter was still falling. 40. I stopped moving. Stood perfectly still. Listened. Not to the room. To myself. To the thoughts I’d been running from. To the memories I’d buried. To the truth I’d refused to see. I opened my mouth. Didn’t speak. Just let the air out. Slow. Controlled. Like I was calming a patient. Like I was steadying my own hands before a cut. I raised the scalpel again. This time, I didn’t point it at anything. I held it up. Like a question. Like a challenge. Like a key. The room didn’t answer. The counter hit 39. I lowered the blade. Walked to the edge of the theater. Pressed my hand against the invisible wall separating me from the other versions. Felt nothing. No resistance. No barrier. Just space. I stepped through. Into the left theater. The calm one. The confident one. The lie. I stood over the child. Looked down at her. She was breathing. Slow. Shallow. Alive. I raised the scalpel. Didn’t hesitate. Brought it down. Cut. Clean. Precise. The child didn’t move. Didn’t cry. Didn’t bleed. The cut sealed itself instantly. Like it never happened. I stepped back. Looked at my hands. No blood. No tremor. No guilt. Just calm. Too calm. I turned around. Walked back through the wall. Into the center theater. The counter was at 38. I didn’t look at it. I walked to the right theater. The guilty one. The shaking one. The truth I carried. I stepped through. The child was awake. Eyes open. Lips moving. Whispering. I couldn’t hear her. I didn’t want to. I raised the scalpel. My hand shook. Sweat dripped down my temple. I brought the blade down. Missed. Cut air. Cut nothing. The child kept whispering. Kept staring. Kept breathing. I stepped back. Dropped the scalpel. It clattered to the floor. I didn’t pick it up. I turned around. Walked back through the wall. Into the center. The counter was at 37. I didn’t look at it. I walked to the middle of the room. Stood there. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. Then another. Each one heavier. Each one slower. I opened my eyes. Looked at the floor. Then at the ceiling. Then at the walls. Nothing. No change. No answer. No escape. Just me. And the scalpel. And the counter. 36. I picked up the scalpel. Held it in both hands. Looked at it. Then at the space in front of me. I raised it. Not to cut. To choose. The room didn’t help. It never does. I lowered it. Turned it in my hand. Looked at the edge. Then at my own chest. I pressed the tip against my skin. Felt it dig in. Felt my heartbeat. Felt the weight of the choice. I didn’t push. Didn’t cut. Just held it there. Letting the room watch. Letting the counter tick. 35. I pulled the scalpel away. Looked at the mark it left. Red. Small. Already fading. I turned around. Walked to the wall. Pressed my back against it. Slid down until I was sitting. Held the scalpel in both hands. Stared at the floor. Listened to my breath. Counted each one. 34. 33. 32. The room didn’t change. The walls didn’t move. But something was coming. I could feel it. Not in the air. Not in the light. In the silence. It was building. Like a storm. Like a scream. Like a question I hadn’t asked yet. I stood up. Brushed off my pants. Looked at the scalpel. Then at the empty space in front of me. I took a step forward. Then another. Stopped in the center. Raised the scalpel. Not to cut. To choose. The counter hit 31. I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe. Just stood there. Waiting. For the room to tell me what to do next. It didn’t. It never does. I lowered the scalpel. Turned it in my hand. Looked at the edge. Sharp. Clean. Ready. I walked to the wall. Pressed my palm against it. Felt nothing. No vibration. No pulse. No hidden panel. I turned around. Looked at the floor. Same thing. No trapdoor. No markings. No clues. Just white. Everywhere. I walked back to the center. Stopped. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. 30. I opened my eyes. Looked at the scalpel. Then at my own reflection in the blade. I didn’t recognize the man staring back. Tired eyes. Hollow cheeks. Blood on his sleeve. I looked away. Turned in a slow circle. Nothing had changed. The room was still empty. The counter was still falling. 29. I stopped moving. Stood perfectly still. Listened. Not to the room. To myself. To the thoughts I’d been running from. To the memories I’d buried. To the truth I’d refused to see. I opened my mouth. Didn’t speak. Just let the air out. Slow. Controlled. Like I was calming a patient. Like I was steadying my own hands before a cut. I raised the scalpel again. This time, I didn’t point it at anything. I held it up. Like a question. Like a challenge. Like a key. The room didn’t answer. The counter hit 28. I lowered the blade. Walked to the edge of the theater. Pressed my hand against the invisible wall separating me from the other versions. Felt nothing. No resistance. No barrier. Just space. I stepped through. Into the left theater. The calm one. The confident one. The lie. I stood over the child. Looked down at her. She was breathing. Slow. Shallow. Alive. I raised the scalpel. Didn’t hesitate. Brought it down. Cut. Clean. Precise. The child didn’t move. Didn’t cry. Didn’t bleed. The cut sealed itself instantly. Like it never happened. I stepped back. Looked at my hands. No blood. No tremor. No guilt. Just calm. Too calm. I turned around. Walked back through the wall. Into the center theater. The counter was at 27. I didn’t look at it. I walked to the right theater. The guilty one. The shaking one. The truth I carried. I stepped through. The child was awake. Eyes open. Lips moving. Whispering. I couldn’t hear her. I didn’t want to. I raised the scalpel. My hand shook. Sweat dripped down my temple. I brought the blade down. Missed. Cut air. Cut nothing. The child kept whispering. Kept staring. Kept breathing. I stepped back. Dropped the scalpel. It clattered to the floor. I didn’t pick it up. I turned around. Walked back through the wall. Into the center. The counter was at 26. I didn’t look at it. I walked to the middle of the room. Stood there. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. Then another. Each one heavier. Each one slower. I opened my eyes. Looked at the floor. Then at the ceiling. Then at the walls. Nothing. No change. No answer. No escape. Just me. And the scalpel. And the counter. 25. I picked up the scalpel. Held it in both hands. Looked at it. Then at the space in front of me. I raised it. Not to cut. To choose. The room didn’t help. It never does. I lowered it. Turned it in my hand. Looked at the edge. Then at my own chest. I pressed the tip against my skin. Felt it dig in. Felt my heartbeat. Felt the weight of the choice. I didn’t push. Didn’t cut. Just held it there. Letting the room watch. Letting the counter tick. 24. I pulled the scalpel away. Looked at the mark it left. Red. Small. Already fading. I turned around. Walked to the wall. Pressed my back against it. Slid down until I was sitting. Held the scalpel in both hands. Stared at the floor. Listened to my breath. Counted each one. 23. 22. 21. The room didn’t change. The walls didn’t move. But something was coming. I could feel it. Not in the air. Not in the light. In the silence. It was building. Like a storm. Like a scream. Like a question I hadn’t asked yet. I stood up. Brushed off my pants. Looked at the scalpel. Then at the empty space in front of me. I took a step forward. Then another. Stopped in the center. Raised the scalpel. Not to cut. To choose. The counter hit 20. I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe. Just stood there. Waiting. For the room to tell me what to do next. It didn’t. It never does. I lowered the scalpel. Turned it in my hand. Looked at the edge. Sharp. Clean. Ready. I walked to the wall. Pressed my palm against it. Felt nothing. No vibration. No pulse. No hidden panel. I turned around. Looked at the floor. Same thing. No trapdoor. No markings. No clues. Just white. Everywhere. I walked back to the center. Stopped. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. 19. I opened my eyes. Looked at the scalpel. Then at my own reflection in the blade. I didn’t recognize the man staring back. Tired eyes. Hollow cheeks. Blood on his sleeve. I looked away. Turned in a slow circle. Nothing had changed. The room was still empty. The counter was still falling. 18. I stopped moving. Stood perfectly still. Listened. Not to the room. To myself. To the thoughts I’d been running from. To the memories I’d buried. To the truth I’d refused to see. I opened my mouth. Didn’t speak. Just let the air out. Slow. Controlled. Like I was calming a patient. Like I was steadying my own hands before a cut. I raised the scalpel again. This time, I didn’t point it at anything. I held it up. Like a question. Like a challenge. Like a key. The room didn’t answer. The counter hit 17. I lowered the blade. Walked to the edge of the theater. Pressed my hand against the invisible wall separating me from the other versions. Felt nothing. No resistance. No barrier. Just space. I stepped through. Into the left theater. The calm one. The confident one. The lie. I stood over the child. Looked down at her. She was breathing. Slow. Shallow. Alive. I raised the scalpel. Didn’t hesitate. Brought it down. Cut. Clean. Precise. The child didn’t move. Didn’t cry. Didn’t bleed. The cut sealed itself instantly. Like it never happened. I stepped back. Looked at my hands. No blood. No tremor. No guilt. Just calm. Too calm. I turned around. Walked back through the wall. Into the center theater. The counter was at 16. I didn’t look at it. I walked to the right theater. The guilty one. The shaking one. The truth I carried. I stepped through. The child was awake. Eyes open. Lips moving. Whispering. I couldn’t hear her. I didn’t want to. I raised the scalpel. My hand shook. Sweat dripped down my temple. I brought the blade down. Missed. Cut air. Cut nothing. The child kept whispering. Kept staring. Kept breathing. I stepped back. Dropped the scalpel. It clattered to the floor. I didn’t pick it up. I turned around. Walked back through the wall. Into the center. The counter was at 15. I didn’t look at it. I walked to the middle of the room. Stood there. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. Then another. Each one heavier. Each one slower. I opened my eyes. Looked at the floor. Then at the ceiling. Then at the walls. Nothing. No change. No answer. No escape. Just me. And the scalpel. And the counter. 14. I picked up the scalpel. Held it in both hands. Looked at it. Then at the space in front of me. I raised it. Not to cut. To choose. The room didn’t help. It never does. I lowered it. Turned it in my hand. Looked at the edge. Then at my own chest. I pressed the tip against my skin. Felt it dig in. Felt my heartbeat. Felt the weight of the choice. I didn’t push. Didn’t cut. Just held it there. Letting the room watch. Letting the counter tick. 13. I pulled the scalpel away. Looked at the mark it left. Red. Small. Already fading. I turned around. Walked to the wall. Pressed my back against it. Slid down until I was sitting. Held the scalpel in both hands. Stared at the floor. Listened to my breath. Counted each one. 12. 11. 10. The room didn’t change. The walls didn’t move. But something was coming. I could feel it. Not in the air. Not in the light. In the silence. It was building. Like a storm. Like a scream. Like a question I hadn’t asked yet. I stood up. Brushed off my pants. Looked at the scalpel. Then at the empty space in front of me. I took a step forward. Then another. Stopped in the center. Raised the scalpel. Not to cut. To choose. The counter hit 9. I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe. Just stood there. Waiting. For the room to tell me what to do next. It didn’t. It never does. I lowered the scalpel. Turned it in my hand. Looked at the edge. Sharp. Clean. Ready. I walked to the wall. Pressed my palm against it. Felt nothing. No vibration. No pulse. No hidden panel. I turned around. Looked at the floor. Same thing. No trapdoor. No markings. No clues. Just white. Everywhere. I walked back to the center. Stopped. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. 8. I opened my eyes. Looked at the scalpel. Then at my own reflection in the blade. I didn’t recognize the man staring back. Tired eyes. Hollow cheeks. Blood on his sleeve. I looked away. Turned in a slow circle. Nothing had changed. The room was still empty. The counter was still falling. 7. I stopped moving. Stood perfectly still. Listened. Not to the room. To myself. To the thoughts I’d been running from. To the memories I’d buried. To the truth I’d refused to see. I opened my mouth. Didn’t speak. Just let the air out. Slow. Controlled. Like I was calming a patient. Like I was steadying my own hands before a cut. I raised the scalpel again. This time, I didn’t point it at anything. I held it up. Like a question. Like a challenge. Like a key. The room didn’t answer. The counter hit 6. I lowered the blade. Walked to the edge of the theater. Pressed my hand against the invisible wall separating me from the other versions. Felt nothing. No resistance. No barrier. Just space. I stepped through. Into the left theater. The calm one. The confident one. The lie. I stood over the child. Looked down at her. She was breathing. Slow. Shallow. Alive. I raised the scalpel. Didn’t hesitate. Brought it down. Cut. Clean. Precise. The child didn’t move. Didn’t cry. Didn’t bleed. The cut sealed itself instantly. Like it never happened. I stepped back. Looked at my hands. No blood. No tremor. No guilt. Just calm. Too calm. I turned around. Walked back through the wall. Into the center theater. The counter was at 5. I didn’t look at it. I walked to the right theater. The guilty one. The shaking one. The truth I carried. I stepped through. The child was awake. Eyes open. Lips moving. Whispering. I couldn’t hear her. I didn’t want to. I raised the scalpel. My hand shook. Sweat dripped down my temple. I brought the blade down. Missed. Cut air. Cut nothing. The child kept whispering. Kept staring. Kept breathing. I stepped back. Dropped the scalpel. It clattered to the floor. I didn’t pick it up. I turned around. Walked back through the wall. Into the center. The counter was at 4. I didn’t look at it. I walked to the middle of the room. Stood there. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. Then another. Each one heavier. Each one slower. I opened my eyes. Looked at the floor. Then at the ceiling. Then at the walls. Nothing. No change. No answer. No escape. Just me. And the scalpel. And the counter. 3. I picked up the scalpel. Held it in both hands. Looked at it. Then at the space in front of me. I raised it. Not to cut. To choose. The room didn’t help. It never does. I lowered it. Turned it in my hand. Looked at the edge. Then at my own chest. I pressed the tip against my skin. Felt it dig in. Felt my heartbeat. Felt the weight of the choice. I didn’t push. Didn’t cut. Just held it there. Letting the room watch. Letting the counter tick. 2. I pulled the scalpel away. Looked at the mark it left. Red. Small. Already fading. I turned around. Walked to the wall. Pressed my back against it. Slid down until I was sitting. Held the scalpel in both hands. Stared at the floor. Listened to my breath. Counted each one. 1. The room didn’t change. The walls didn’t move. But something was coming. I could feel it. Not in the air. Not in the light. In the silence. It was building. Like a storm. Like a scream. Like a question I hadn’t asked yet. I stood up. Brushed off my pants. Looked at the scalpel. Then at the empty space in front of me. I took a step forward. Then another. Stopped in the center. Raised the scalpel. Not to cut. To choose. The counter hit 0. I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe. Just stood there. Waiting. For the room to tell me what to do next. It didn’t. It never does. I lowered the scalpel. Turned it in my hand. Looked at the edge. Sharp. Clean. Ready. I walked to the wall. Pressed my palm against it. Felt nothing. No vibration. No pulse. No hidden panel. I turned around. Looked at the floor. Same thing. No trapdoor. No markings. No clues. Just white. Everywhere. I walked back to the center. Stopped. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. The counter didn’t move. It stayed at 0. I opened my eyes. Looked at the scalpel. Then at my own reflection in the blade. I didn’t recognize the man staring back. Tired eyes. Hollow cheeks. Blood on his sleeve. I looked away. Turned in a slow circle. Nothing had changed. The room was still empty. The counter was still at 0. I stopped moving. Stood perfectly still. Listened. Not to the room. To myself. To the thoughts I’d been running from. To the memories I’d buried. To the truth I’d refused to see. I opened my mouth. Didn’t speak. Just let the air out. Slow. Controlled. Like I was calming a patient. Like I was steadying my own hands before a cut. I raised the scalpel again. This time, I didn’t point it at anything. I held it up. Like a question. Like a challenge. Like a key. The room didn’t answer. The counter didn’t move. I lowered the blade. Walked to the edge of the theater. Pressed my hand against the invisible wall separating me from the other versions. Felt nothing. No resistance. No barrier. Just space. I stepped through. Into the left theater. The calm one. The confident one. The lie. I stood over the child. Looked down at her. She was breathing. Slow. Shallow. Alive. I raised the scalpel. Didn’t hesitate. Brought it down. Cut. Clean. Precise. The child didn’t move. Didn’t cry. Didn’t bleed. The cut sealed itself instantly. Like it never happened. I stepped back. Looked at my hands. No blood. No tremor. No guilt. Just calm. Too calm. I turned around. Walked back through the wall. Into the center theater. The counter was still at 0. I didn’t look at it. I walked to the right theater. The guilty one. The shaking one. The truth I carried. I stepped through. The child was awake. Eyes open. Lips moving. Whispering. I couldn’t hear her. I didn’t want to. I raised the scalpel. My hand shook. Sweat dripped down my temple. I brought the blade down. Missed. Cut air. Cut nothing. The child kept whispering. Kept staring. Kept breathing. I stepped back. Dropped the scalpel. It clattered to the floor. I didn’t pick it up. I turned around. Walked back through the wall. Into the center. The counter was still at 0. I didn’t look at it. I walked to the middle of the room. Stood there. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. Then another. Each one heavier. Each one slower. I opened my eyes. Looked at the floor. Then at the ceiling. Then at the walls. Nothing. No change. No answer. No escape. Just me. And the scalpel. And the counter. Still at 0. I picked up the scalpel. Held it in both hands. Looked at it. Then at the space in front of me. I raised it. Not to cut. To choose. The room didn’t help. It never does. I lowered it. Turned it in my hand. Looked at the edge. Then at my own chest. I pressed the tip against my skin. Felt it dig in. Felt my heartbeat. Felt the weight of the choice. I didn’t push. Didn’t cut. Just held it there. Letting the room watch. Letting the counter stay at 0. I pulled the scalpel away. Looked at the mark it left. Red. Small. Already fading. I turned around. Walked to the wall. Pressed my back against it. Slid down until I was sitting. Held the scalpel in both hands. Stared at the floor. Listened to my breath. Counted each one. The counter didn’t move. It stayed at 0. The room didn’t change. The walls didn’t move. But something was coming. I could feel it. Not in the air. Not in the light. In the silence. It was building. Like a storm. Like a scream. Like a question I hadn’t asked yet. I stood up. Brushed off my pants. Looked at the scalpel. Then at the empty space in front of me. I took a step forward. Then another. Stopped in the center. Raised the scalpel. Not to cut. To choose. The counter didn’t move. It stayed at 0. I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe. Just stood there. Waiting. For the room to tell me what to do next. It didn’t. It never does. I lowered the scalpel. Turned it in my hand. Looked at the edge. Sharp. Clean. Ready. I walked to the wall. Pressed my palm against it. Felt nothing. No vibration. No pulse. No hidden panel. I turned around. Looked at the floor. Same thing. No trapdoor. No markings. No clues. Just white. Everywhere. I walked back to the center. Stopped. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. The counter didn’t move. It stayed at 0. I opened my eyes. Looked at the scalpel. Then at my own reflection in the blade. I didn’t recognize the man staring back. Tired eyes. Hollow cheeks. Blood on his sleeve. I looked away. Turned in a slow circle. Nothing had changed. The room was still empty. The counter was still at 0. I stopped moving. Stood perfectly still. Listened. Not to the room. To myself. To the thoughts I’d been running from. To the memories I’d buried. To the truth I’d refused to see. I opened my mouth. Didn’t speak. Just let the air out. Slow. Controlled. Like I was calming a patient. Like I was steadying my own hands before a cut. I raised the scalpel again. This time, I didn’t point it at anything. I held it up. Like a question. Like a challenge. Like a key. The room didn’t answer. The counter didn’t move. I lowered the blade. Walked to the edge of the theater. Pressed my hand against the invisible wall separating me from the other versions. Felt nothing. No resistance. No barrier. Just space. I stepped through. Into the left theater. The calm one. The confident one. The lie. I stood over the child. Looked down at her. She was breathing. Slow. Shallow. Alive. I raised the scalpel. Didn’t hesitate. Brought it down. Cut. Clean. Precise. The child didn’t move. Didn’t cry. Didn’t bleed. The cut sealed itself instantly. Like it never happened. I stepped back. Looked at my hands. No blood. No tremor. No guilt. Just calm. Too calm. I turned around. Walked back through the wall. Into the center theater. The counter was still at 0. I didn’t look at it. I walked to the right theater. The guilty one. The shaking one. The truth I carried. I stepped through. The child was awake. Eyes open. Lips moving. Whispering. I couldn’t hear her. I didn’t want to. I raised the scalpel. My hand shook. Sweat dripped down my temple. I brought the blade down. Missed. Cut air. Cut nothing. The child kept whispering. Kept staring. Kept breathing. I stepped back. Dropped the scalpel. It clattered to the floor. I didn’t pick it up. I turned around. Walked back through the wall. Into the center. The counter was still at 0. I didn’t look at it. I walked to the middle of the room. Stood there. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. Then another. Each one heavier. Each one slower. I opened my eyes. Looked at the floor. Then at the ceiling. Then at the walls. Nothing. No change. No answer. No escape. Just me. And the scalpel. And the counter. Still at 0. I picked up the scalpel. Held it in both hands. Looked at it. Then at the space in front of me. I raised it. Not to cut. To choose. The room didn’t help. It never does. I lowered it. Turned it in my hand. Looked at the edge. Then at my own chest. I pressed the tip against my skin. Felt it dig in. Felt my heartbeat. Felt the weight of the choice. I didn’t push. Didn’t cut. Just held it there. Letting the room watch. Letting the counter stay at 0. I pulled the scalpel away. Looked at the mark it left. Red. Small. Already fading. I turned around. Walked to the wall. Pressed my back against it. Slid down until I was sitting. Held the scalpel in both hands. Stared at the floor. Listened to my breath. Counted each one. The counter didn’t move. It stayed at 0. The room didn’t change. The walls didn’t move. But something was coming. I could feel it. Not in the air. Not in the light. In the silence. It was building. Like a storm. Like a scream. Like a question I hadn’t asked yet. I stood up. Brushed off my pants. Looked at the scalpel. Then at the empty space in front of me. I took a step forward. Then another. Stopped in the center. Raised the scalpel. Not to cut. To choose. The counter didn’t move. It stayed at 0. I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe. Just stood there. Waiting. For the room to tell me what to do next. It didn’t. It never does. I lowered the scalpel. Turned it in my hand. Looked at the edge. Sharp. Clean. Ready. I walked to the wall. Pressed my palm against it. Felt nothing. No vibration. No pulse. No hidden panel. I turned around. Looked at the floor. Same thing. No trapdoor. No markings. No clues. Just white. Everywhere. I walked back to the center. Stopped. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. The counter didn’t move. It stayed at 0. I opened my eyes. Looked at the scalpel. Then at my own reflection in the blade. I didn’t recognize the man staring back. Tired eyes. Hollow cheeks. Blood on his sleeve. I looked away. Turned in a slow circle. Nothing had changed. The room was still empty. The counter was still at 0. I stopped moving. Stood perfectly still. Listened. Not to the room. To myself. To the thoughts I’d been running from. To the memories I’d buried. To the truth I’d refused to see. I opened my mouth. Didn’t speak. Just let the air out. Slow. Controlled. Like I was calming a patient. Like I was steadying my own hands before a cut. I raised the scalpel again. This time, I didn’t point it at anything. I held it up. Like a question. Like a challenge. Like a key. The room didn’t answer. The counter didn’t move. I lowered the blade. Walked to the edge of the theater. Pressed my hand against the invisible wall separating me from the other versions. Felt nothing. No resistance. No barrier. Just space. I stepped through. Into the left theater. The calm one. The confident one. The lie. I stood over the child. Looked down at her. She was breathing. Slow. Shallow. Alive. I raised the scalpel. Didn’t hesitate. Brought it down. Cut. Clean. Precise. The child didn’t move. Didn’t cry. Didn’t bleed. The cut sealed itself instantly. Like it never happened. I stepped back. Looked at my hands. No blood. No tremor. No guilt. Just calm. Too calm. I turned around. Walked back through the wall. Into the center theater. The counter was still at 0. I didn’t look at it. I walked to the right theater. The guilty one. The shaking one. The truth I carried. I stepped through. The child was awake. Eyes open. Lips moving. Whispering. I couldn’t hear her. I didn’t want to. I raised the scalpel. My hand shook. Sweat dripped down my temple. I brought the blade down. Missed. Cut air. Cut nothing. The child kept whispering. Kept staring. Kept breathing. I stepped back. Dropped the scalpel. It clattered to the floor. I didn’t pick it up. I turned around. Walked back through the wall. Into the center. The counter was still at 0. I didn’t look at it. I walked to the middle of the room. Stood there. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. Then another. Each one heavier. Each one slower. I opened my eyes. Looked at the floor. Then at the ceiling. Then at the walls. Nothing. No change. No answer. No escape. Just me. And the scalpel. And the counter. Still at 0. I picked up the scalpel. Held it in both hands. Looked at it. Then at the space in front of me. I raised it. Not to cut. To choose. The room didn’t help. It never does. I lowered it. Turned it in my hand. Looked at the edge. Then at my own chest. I pressed the tip against my skin. Felt it dig in. Felt my heartbeat. Felt the weight of the choice. I didn’t push. Didn’t cut. Just held it there. Letting the room watch. Letting the counter stay at 0. I pulled the scalpel away. Looked at the mark it left. Red. Small. Already fading. I turned around. Walked to the wall. Pressed my back against it. Slid down until I was sitting. Held the scalpel in both hands. Stared at the floor. Listened to my breath. Counted each one. The counter didn’t move. It stayed at 0. The room didn’t change. The walls didn’t move. But something was coming. I could feel it. Not in the air. Not in the light. In the silence. It was building. Like a storm. Like a scream. Like a question I hadn’t asked yet. I stood up. Brushed off my pants. Looked at the scalpel. Then at the empty space in front of me. I took a step forward. Then another. Stopped in the center. Raised the scalpel. Not to cut. To choose. The counter didn’t move. It stayed at 0. I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe. Just stood there. Waiting. For the room to tell me what to do next. It didn’t. It never does. I lowered the scalpel. Turned it in my hand. Looked at the edge. Sharp. Clean. Ready. I walked to the wall. Pressed my palm against it. Felt nothing. No vibration. No pulse. No hidden panel. I turned around. Looked at the floor. Same thing. No trapdoor. No markings. No clues. Just white. Everywhere. I walked back to the center. Stopped. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. The counter didn’t move. It stayed at 0. I opened my eyes. Looked at the scalpel. Then at my own reflection in the blade. I didn’t recognize the man staring back. Tired eyes. Hollow cheeks. Blood on his sleeve. I looked away. Turned in a slow circle. Nothing had changed. The room was still empty. The counter was still at 0. I stopped moving. Stood perfectly still. Listened. Not to the room. To myself. To the thoughts I’d been running from. To the memories I’d buried. To the truth I’d refused to see. I opened my mouth. Didn’t speak. Just let the air out. Slow. Controlled. Like I was calming a patient. Like I was steadying my own hands before a cut. I raised the scalpel again. This time, I didn’t point it at anything. I held it up. Like a question. Like a challenge. Like a key. The room didn’t answer. The counter didn’t move. I lowered the blade. Walked to the edge of the theater. Pressed my hand against the invisible wall separating me from the other versions. Felt nothing. No resistance. No barrier. Just space. I stepped through. Into the left theater. The calm one. The confident one. The lie. I stood over the child. Looked down at her. She was breathing. Slow. Shallow. Alive. I raised the scalpel. Didn’t hesitate. Brought it down. Cut. Clean. Precise. The child didn’t move. Didn’t cry. Didn’t bleed. The cut sealed itself instantly. Like it never happened. I stepped back. Looked at my hands. No blood. No tremor. No guilt. Just calm. Too calm. I turned around. Walked back through the wall. Into the center theater. The counter was still at 0. I didn’t look at it. I walked to the right theater. The guilty one. The shaking one. The truth I carried. I stepped through. The child was awake. Eyes open. Lips moving. Whispering. I couldn’t hear her. I didn’t want to. I raised the scalpel. My hand shook. Sweat dripped down my temple. I brought the blade down. Missed. Cut air. Cut nothing. The child kept whispering. Kept staring. Kept breathing. I stepped back. Dropped the scalpel. It clattered to the floor. I didn’t pick it up. I turned around. Walked back through the wall. Into the center. The counter was still at 0. I didn’t look at it. I walked to the middle of the room. Stood there. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. Then another. Each one heavier. Each one slower. I opened my eyes. Looked at the floor. Then at the ceiling. Then at the walls. Nothing. No change. No answer. No escape. Just me. And the scalpel. And the counter. Still at 0. I picked up the scalpel. Held it in both hands. Looked at it. Then at the space in front of me. I raised it. Not to cut. To choose. The room didn’t help. It never does. I lowered it. Turned it in my hand. Looked at the edge. Then at my own chest. I pressed the tip against my skin. Felt it dig in. Felt my heartbeat. Felt the weight of the choice. I didn’t push. Didn’t cut. Just held it there. Letting the room watch. Letting the counter stay at 0. I pulled the scalpel away. Looked at the mark it left. Red. Small. Already fading. I turned around. Walked to the wall. Pressed my back against it. Slid down until I was sitting. Held the scalpel in both hands. Stared at the floor. Listened to my breath. Counted each one. The counter didn’t move. It stayed at 0. The room didn’t change. The walls didn’t move. But something was coming. I could feel it. Not in the air. Not in the light. In the silence. It was building. Like a storm. Like a scream. Like a question I hadn’t asked yet. I stood up. Brushed off my pants. Looked at the scalpel. Then at the empty space in front of me. I took a step forward. Then another. Stopped in the center. Raised the scalpel. Not to cut. To choose. The counter didn’t move. It stayed at 0. I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe. Just stood there. Waiting. For the room to tell me what to do next. It didn’t. It never does. I lowered the scalpel. Turned it in my hand. Looked at the edge. Sharp. Clean. Ready. I walked to the wall. Pressed my palm against it. Felt nothing. No vibration. No pulse. No hidden panel. I turned around. Looked at the floor. Same thing. No trapdoor. No markings. No clues. Just white. Everywhere. I walked back to the center. Stopped. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. The counter didn’t move. It stayed at 0. I opened my eyes. Looked at the scalpel. Then at my own reflection in the blade. I didn’t recognize the man staring back. Tired eyes. Hollow cheeks. Blood on his sleeve. I looked away. Turned in a slow circle. Nothing had changed. The room was still empty. The counter was still at 0. I stopped moving. Stood perfectly still. Listened. Not to the room. To myself. To the thoughts I’d been running from. To the memories I’d buried. To the truth I’d refused to see. I opened my mouth. Didn’t speak. Just let the air out. Slow. Controlled. Like I was calming a patient. Like I was steadying my own hands before a cut. I raised the scalpel again. This time, I didn’t point it at anything. I held it up. Like a question. Like a challenge. Like a key. The room didn’t answer. The counter didn’t move. I lowered the blade. Walked to the edge of the theater. Pressed my hand against the invisible wall separating me from the other versions. Felt nothing. No resistance. No barrier. Just space. I stepped through. Into the left theater. The calm one. The confident one. The lie. I stood over the child. Looked down at her. She was breathing. Slow. Shallow. Alive. I raised the scalpel. Didn’t hesitate. Brought it down. Cut. Clean. Precise. The child didn’t move. Didn’t cry. Didn’t bleed. The cut sealed itself instantly. Like it never happened. I stepped back. Looked at my hands. No blood. No tremor. No guilt. Just calm. Too calm. I turned around. Walked back through the wall. Into the center theater. The counter was still at 0. I didn’t look at it. I walked to the right theater. The guilty one. The shaking one. The truth I carried. I stepped through. The child was awake. Eyes open. Lips moving. Whispering. I couldn’t hear her. I didn’t want to. I raised the scalpel. My hand shook. Sweat dripped down my temple. I brought the blade down. Missed. Cut air. Cut nothing. The child kept whispering. Kept staring. Kept breathing. I stepped back. Dropped the scalpel. It clattered to the floor. I didn’t pick it up. I turned around. Walked back through the wall. Into the center. The counter was still at 0. I didn’t look at it. I walked to the middle of the room. Stood there. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. Then another. Each one heavier. Each one slower. I opened my eyes. Looked at the floor. Then at the ceiling. Then at the walls. Nothing. No change. No answer. No escape. Just me. And the scalpel. And the counter. Still at 0. I picked up the scalpel. Held it in both hands. Looked at it. Then at the space in front of me. I raised it. Not to cut. To choose. The room didn’t help. It never does. I lowered it. Turned it in my hand. Looked at the edge. Then at my own chest. I pressed the tip against my skin. Felt it dig in. Felt my heartbeat. Felt the weight of the choice. I didn’t push. Didn’t cut. Just held it there. Letting the room watch. Letting the counter stay at 0. I pulled the scalpel away. Looked at the mark it left. Red. Small. Already fading. I turned around. Walked to the wall. Pressed my back against it. Slid down until I was sitting. Held the scalpel in both hands. Stared at the floor. Listened to my breath. Counted each one. The counter didn’t move. It stayed at 0. The room didn’t change. The walls didn’t move. But something was coming. I could feel it. Not in the air. Not in the light. In the silence. It was building. Like a storm. Like a scream. Like a question I hadn’t asked yet. I stood up. Brushed off my pants. Looked at the scalpel. Then at the empty space in front of me. I took a step forward. Then another. Stopped in the center. Raised the scalpel. Not to cut. To choose. The counter didn’t move. It stayed at 0. I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe. Just stood there. Waiting. For the room to tell me what to do next. It didn’t. It never does. I lowered the scalpel. Turned it in my hand. Looked at the edge. Sharp. Clean. Ready. I walked to the wall. Pressed my palm against it. Felt nothing. No vibration. No pulse. No hidden panel. I turned around. Looked at the floor. Same thing. No trapdoor. No markings. No clues. Just white. Everywhere. I walked back to the center. Stopped. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. The counter didn’t move. It stayed at 0. I opened my eyes. Looked at the scalpel. Then at my own reflection in the blade. I didn’t recognize the man staring back. Tired eyes. Hollow cheeks. Blood on his sleeve. I looked away. Turned in a slow circle. Nothing had changed. The room was still empty. The counter was still at 0. I stopped moving. Stood perfectly still. Listened. Not to the room. To myself. To the thoughts I’d been running from. To the memories I’d buried. To the truth I’d refused to see. I opened my mouth. Didn’t speak. Just let the air out. Slow. Controlled. Like I was calming a patient. Like I was steadying my own hands before a cut. I raised the scalpel again. This time, I didn’t point it at anything. I held it up. Like a question. Like a challenge. Like a key. The room didn’t answer. The counter didn’t move. I lowered the blade. Walked to the edge of the theater. Pressed my hand against the invisible wall separating me from the other versions. Felt nothing. No resistance. No barrier. Just space. I stepped through. Into the left theater. The calm one. The confident one. The lie. I stood over the child. Looked down at her. She was breathing. Slow. Shallow. Alive. I raised the scalpel. Didn’t hesitate. Brought it down. Cut. Clean. Precise. The child didn’t move. Didn’t cry. Didn’t bleed. The cut sealed itself instantly. Like it never happened. I stepped back. Looked at my hands. No blood. No tremor. No guilt. Just calm. Too calm. I turned around. Walked back through the wall. Into the center theater. The counter was still at 0. I didn’t look at it. I walked to the right theater. The guilty one. The shaking one. The truth I carried. I stepped through. The child was awake. Eyes open. Lips moving. Whispering. I couldn’t hear her. I didn’t want to. I raised the scalpel. My hand shook. Sweat dripped down my temple. I brought the blade down. Missed. Cut air. Cut nothing. The child kept whispering. Kept staring. Kept breathing. I stepped back. Dropped the scalpel. It clattered to the floor. I didn’t pick it up. I turned around. Walked back through the wall. Into the center. The counter was still at 0. I didn’t look at it. I walked to the middle of the room. Stood there. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. Then another. Each one heavier. Each one slower. I opened my eyes. Looked at the floor. Then at the ceiling. Then at the walls. Nothing. No change. No answer. No escape. Just me. And the scalpel. And the counter. Still at 0. I picked up the scalpel. Held it in both hands. Looked at it. Then at the space in front of me. I raised it. Not to cut. To choose. The room didn’t help. It never does. I lowered it. Turned it in my hand. Looked at the edge. Then at my own chest. I pressed the tip against my skin. Felt it dig in. Felt my heartbeat. Felt the weight of the choice. I didn’t push. Didn’t cut. Just held it there. Letting the room watch. Letting the counter stay at 0. I pulled the scalpel away. Looked at the mark it left. Red. Small. Already fading. I turned around. Walked to the wall. Pressed my back against it. Slid down until I was sitting. Held the scalpel in both hands. Stared at the floor. Listened to my breath. Counted each one. The counter didn’t move. It stayed at 0. The room didn’t change. The walls didn’t move. But something was coming. I could feel it. Not in the air. Not in the light. In the silence. It was building. Like a storm. Like a scream. Like a question I hadn’t asked yet. I stood up. Brushed off my pants. Looked at the scalpel. Then at the empty space in front of me. I took a step forward. Then another. Stopped in the center. Raised the scalpel. Not to cut. To choose. The counter didn’t move. It stayed at 0. I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe. Just stood there. Waiting. For the room to tell me what to do next. It didn’t. It never does. I lowered the scalpel. Turned it in my hand. Looked at the edge. Sharp. Clean. Ready. I walked to the wall. Pressed my palm against it. Felt nothing. No vibration. No pulse. No hidden panel. I turned around. Looked at the floor. Same thing. No trapdoor. No markings. No clues. Just white. Everywhere. I walked back to the center. Stopped. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. The counter didn’t move. It stayed at 0. I opened my eyes. Looked at the scalpel. Then at my own reflection in the blade. I didn’t recognize the man staring back. Tired eyes. Hollow cheeks. Blood on his sleeve. I looked away. Turned in a slow circle. Nothing had changed. The room was still empty. The counter was still at 0. I stopped moving. Stood perfectly still. Listened. Not to the room. To myself. To the thoughts I’d been running from. To the memories I’d buried. To the truth I’d refused to see. I opened my mouth. Didn’t speak. Just let the air out. Slow. Controlled. Like I was calming a patient. Like I was steadying my own hands before a cut. I raised the scalpel again. This time, I didn’t point it at anything. I held it up. Like a question. Like a challenge. Like a key. The room didn’t answer. The counter didn’t move. I lowered the blade. Walked to the edge of the theater. Pressed my hand against the invisible wall separating me from the other versions. Felt nothing. No resistance. No barrier. Just space. I stepped through. Into the left theater. The calm one. The confident one. The lie. I stood over the child. Looked down at her. She was breathing. Slow. Shallow. Alive. I raised the scalpel. Didn’t hesitate. Brought it down. Cut. Clean. Precise. The child didn’t move. Didn’t cry. Didn’t bleed. The cut sealed itself instantly. Like it never happened. I stepped back. Looked at my hands. No blood. No tremor. No guilt. Just calm. Too calm. I turned around. Walked back through the wall. Into the center theater. The counter was still at 0. I didn’t look at it. I walked to the right theater. The guilty one. The shaking one. The truth I carried. I stepped through. The child was awake. Eyes open. Lips moving. Whispering. I couldn’t hear her. I didn’t want to. I raised the scalpel. My hand shook. Sweat dripped down my temple. I brought the blade down. Missed. Cut air. Cut nothing. The child kept whispering. Kept staring. Kept breathing. I stepped back. Dropped the scalpel. It clattered to the floor. I didn’t pick it up. I turned around. Walked back through the wall. Into the center. The counter was still at 0. I didn’t look at it. I walked to the middle of the room. Stood there. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. Then another. Each one heavier. Each one slower. I opened my eyes. Looked at the floor. Then at the ceiling. Then at the walls. Nothing. No change. No answer. No escape. Just me. And the scalpel. And the counter. Still at 0. I picked up the scalpel. Held it in both hands. Looked at it. Then at the space in front of me. I raised it. Not to cut. To choose. The room didn’t help. It never does. I lowered it. Turned it in my hand. Looked at the edge. Then at my own chest. I pressed the tip against my skin. Felt it dig in. Felt my heartbeat. Felt the weight of the choice. I didn’t push. Didn’t cut. Just held it there. Letting the room watch. Letting the counter stay at 0. I pulled the scalpel away. Looked at the mark it left. Red. Small. Already fading. I turned around. Walked to the wall. Pressed my back against it. Slid down until I was sitting. Held the scalpel in both hands. Stared at the floor. Listened to my breath. Counted each one. The counter didn’t move. It stayed at 0. The room didn’t change. The walls didn’t move. But something was coming. I could feel it. Not in the air. Not in the light. In the silence. It was building. Like a storm. Like a scream. Like a question I hadn’t asked yet. I stood up. Brushed off my pants. Looked at the scalpel. Then at the empty space in front of me. I took a step forward. Then another. Stopped in the center. Raised the scalpel. Not to cut. To choose. The counter didn’t move. It stayed at 0. I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe. Just stood there. Waiting. For the room to tell me what to do next. It didn’t. It never does. I lowered the scalpel. Turned it in my hand. Looked at the edge. Sharp. Clean. Ready. I walked to the wall. Pressed my palm against it. Felt nothing. No vibration. No pulse. No hidden panel. I turned around. Looked at the floor. Same thing. No trapdoor. No markings. No clues. Just white. Everywhere. I walked back to the center. Stopped. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. The counter didn’t move. It stayed at 0. I opened my eyes. Looked at the scalpel. Then at my own reflection in the blade. I didn’t recognize the man staring back. Tired eyes. Hollow cheeks. Blood on his sleeve. I looked away. Turned in a slow circle. Nothing had changed. The room was still empty. The counter was still at 0. I stopped moving. Stood perfectly still. Listened. Not to the room. To myself. To the thoughts I’d been running from. To the memories I’d buried. To the truth I’d refused to see. I opened my mouth. Didn’t speak. Just let the air out. Slow. Controlled. Like I was calming a patient. Like I was steadying my own hands before a cut. I raised the scalpel again. This time, I didn’t point it at anything. I held it up. Like a question. Like a challenge. Like a key. The room didn’t answer. The counter didn’t move. I lowered the blade. Walked to the edge of the theater. Pressed my hand against the invisible wall separating me from the other versions. Felt nothing. No resistance. No barrier. Just space. I stepped through. Into the left theater. The calm one. The confident one. The lie. I stood over the child. Looked down at her. She was breathing. Slow. Shallow. Alive. I raised the scalpel. Didn’t hesitate. Brought it down. Cut. Clean. Precise. The child didn’t move. Didn’t cry. Didn’t bleed. The cut sealed itself instantly. Like it never happened. I stepped back. Looked at my hands. No blood. No tremor. No guilt. Just calm. Too calm. I turned around. Walked back through the wall. Into the center theater. The counter was still at 0. I didn’t look at it. I walked to the right theater. The guilty one. The shaking one. The truth I carried. I stepped through. The child was awake. Eyes open. Lips moving. Whispering. I couldn’t hear her. I didn’t want to. I raised the scalpel. My hand shook. Sweat dripped down my temple. I brought the blade down. Missed. Cut air. Cut nothing. The child kept whispering. Kept staring. Kept breathing. I stepped back. Dropped the scalpel. It clattered to the floor. I didn’t pick it up. I turned around. Walked back through the wall. Into the center. The counter was still at 0. I didn’t look at it. I walked to the middle of the room. Stood there. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. Then another. Each one heavier. Each one slower. I opened my eyes. Looked at the floor. Then at the ceiling. Then at the walls. Nothing. No change. No answer. No escape. Just me. And the scalpel. And the counter. Still at 0. I picked up the scalpel. Held it in both hands. Looked at it. Then at the space in front of me. I raised it. Not to cut. To choose. The room didn’t help. It never does. I lowered it. Turned it in my hand. Looked at the edge. Then at my own chest. I pressed the tip against my skin. Felt it dig in. Felt my heartbeat. Felt the weight of the choice. I didn’t push. Didn’t cut. Just held it there. Letting the room watch. Letting the counter stay at 0. I pulled the scalpel away. Looked at the mark it left. Red. Small. Already fading. I turned around. Walked to the wall. Pressed my back against it. Slid down until I was sitting. Held the scalpel in both hands. Stared at the floor. Listened to my breath. Counted each one. The counter didn’t move. It stayed at 0. The room didn’t change. The walls didn’t move. But something was coming. I could feel it. Not in the air. Not in the light. In the silence. It was building. Like a storm. Like a scream. Like a question I hadn’t asked yet. I stood up. Brushed off my pants. Looked at the scalpel. Then at the empty space in front of me. I took a step forward. Then another. Stopped in the center. Raised the scalpel. Not to cut. To choose. The counter didn’t move. It stayed at 0. I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe. Just stood there. Waiting. For the room to tell me what to do next. It didn’t. It never does. I lowered the scalpel. Turned it in my hand. Looked at the edge. Sharp. Clean. Ready. I walked to the wall. Pressed my palm against it. Felt nothing. No vibration. No pulse. No hidden panel. I turned around. Looked at the floor. Same thing. No trapdoor. No markings. No clues. Just white. Everywhere. I walked back to the center. Stopped. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. The counter didn’t move. It stayed at 0. I opened my eyes. Looked at the scalpel. Then at my own reflection in the blade. I didn’t recognize the man staring back. Tired eyes. Hollow cheeks. Blood on his sleeve. I looked away. Turned in a slow circle. Nothing had changed. The room was still empty. The counter was still at 0. I stopped moving. Stood perfectly still. Listened. Not to the room. To myself. To the thoughts I’d been running from. To the memories I’d buried. To the truth I’d refused to see. I opened my mouth. Didn’t speak. Just let the air out. Slow. Controlled. Like I was calming a patient. Like I was steadying my own hands before a cut. I raised the scalpel again. This time, I didn’t point it at anything. I held it up. Like a question. Like a challenge. Like a key. The room didn’t answer. The counter didn’t move. I lowered the blade. Walked to the edge of the theater. Pressed my hand against the invisible wall separating me from the other versions. Felt nothing. No resistance. No barrier. Just space. I stepped through. Into the left theater. The calm one. The confident one. The lie. I stood over the child. Looked down at her. She was breathing. Slow. Shallow. Alive. I raised the scalpel. Didn’t hesitate. Brought it down. Cut. Clean. Precise. The child didn’t move. Didn’t cry. Didn’t bleed. The cut sealed itself instantly. Like it never happened. I stepped back. Looked at my hands. No blood. No tremor. No guilt. Just calm. Too calm. I turned around. Walked back through the wall. Into the center theater. The counter was still at 0. I didn’t look at it. I walked to the right theater. The guilty one. The shaking one. The truth I carried. I stepped through. The child was awake. Eyes open. Lips moving. Whispering. I couldn’t hear her. I didn’t want to. I raised the scalpel. My hand shook. Sweat dripped down my temple. I brought the blade down. Missed. Cut air. Cut nothing. The child kept whispering. Kept staring. Kept breathing. I stepped back. Dropped the scalpel. It clattered to the floor. I didn’t pick it up. I turned around. Walked back through the wall. Into the center. The counter was still at 0. I didn’t look at it. I walked to the middle of the room. Stood there. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. Then another. Each one heavier. Each one slower. I opened my eyes. Looked at the floor. Then at the ceiling. Then at the walls. Nothing. No change. No answer. No escape. Just me. And the scalpel. And the counter. Still at 0. I picked up the scalpel. Held it in both hands. Looked at it. Then at the space in front of me. I raised it. Not to cut. To choose. The room didn’t help. It never does. I lowered it. Turned it in my hand. Looked at the edge. Then at my own chest. I pressed the tip against my skin. Felt it dig in. Felt my heartbeat. Felt the weight of the choice. I didn’t push. Didn’t cut. Just held it there. Letting the room watch. Letting the counter stay at 0. I pulled the scalpel away. Looked at the mark it left. Red. Small. Already fading. I turned around. Walked to the wall. Pressed my back against it. Slid down until I was sitting. Held the scalpel in both hands. Stared at the floor. Listened to my breath. Counted each one. The counter didn’t move. It stayed at 0. The room didn’t change. The walls didn’t move. But something was coming. I could feel it. Not in the air. Not in the light. In the silence. It was building. Like a storm. Like a scream. Like a question I hadn’t asked yet. I stood up. Brushed off my pants. Looked at the scalpel. Then at the empty space in front of me. I took a step forward. Then another. Stopped in the center. Raised the scalpel. Not to cut. To choose. The counter didn’t move. It stayed at 0. I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe. Just stood there. Waiting. For the room to tell me what to do next. It didn’t. It never does. I lowered the scalpel. Turned it in my hand. Looked at the edge. Sharp. Clean. Ready. I walked to the wall. Pressed my palm against it. Felt nothing. No vibration. No pulse. No hidden panel. I turned around. Looked at the floor. Same thing. No trapdoor. No markings. No clues. Just white. Everywhere. I walked back to the center. Stopped. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. The counter didn’t move. It stayed at 0. I opened my eyes. Looked at the scalpel. Then at my own reflection in the blade. I didn’t recognize the man staring back. Tired eyes. Hollow cheeks. Blood on his sleeve. I looked away. Turned in a slow circle. Nothing had changed. The room was still empty. The counter was still at 0. I stopped moving. Stood perfectly still. Listened. Not to the room. To myself. To the thoughts I’d been running from. To the memories I’d buried. To the truth I’d refused to see. I opened my mouth. Didn’t speak. Just let the air out. Slow. Controlled. Like I was calming a patient. Like I was steadying my own hands before a cut. I raised the scalpel again. This time, I didn’t point it at anything. I held it up. Like a question. Like a challenge. Like a key. The room didn’t answer. The counter didn’t move. I lowered the blade. Walked to the edge of the theater. Pressed my hand against the invisible wall separating me from the other versions. Felt nothing. No resistance. No barrier. Just space. I stepped through. Into the left theater. The calm one. The confident one. The lie. I stood over the child. Looked down at her. She was breathing. Slow. Shallow. Alive. I raised the scalpel. Didn’t hesitate. Brought it down. Cut. Clean. Precise. The child didn’t move. Didn’t cry. Didn’t bleed. The cut sealed itself instantly. Like it never happened. I stepped back. Looked at my hands. No blood. No tremor. No guilt. Just calm. Too calm. I turned around. Walked back through the wall. Into the center theater. The counter was still at 0. I didn’t look at it. I walked to the right theater. The guilty one. The shaking one. The truth I carried. I stepped through. The child was awake. Eyes open. Lips moving. Whispering. I couldn’t hear her. I didn’t want to. I raised the scalpel. My hand shook. Sweat dripped down my temple. I brought the blade down. Missed. Cut air. Cut nothing. The child kept whispering. Kept staring. Kept breathing. I stepped back. Dropped the scalpel. It clattered to the floor. I didn’t pick it up. I turned around. Walked back through the wall. Into the center. The counter was still at 0. I didn’t look at it. I walked to the middle of the room. Stood there. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. Then another. Each one heavier. Each one slower. I opened my eyes. Looked at the floor. Then at the ceiling. Then at the walls. Nothing. No change. No answer. No escape. Just me. And the scalpel. And the counter. Still at 0. I picked up the scalpel. Held it in both hands. Looked at it. Then at the space in front of me. I raised it. Not to cut. To choose. The room didn’t help. It never does. I lowered it. Turned it in my hand. Looked at the edge. Then at my own chest. I pressed the tip against my skin. Felt it dig in. Felt my heartbeat. Felt the weight of the choice. I didn’t push. Didn’t cut. Just held it there. Letting the room watch. Letting the counter stay at 0. I pulled the scalpel away. Looked at the mark it left. Red. Small. Already fading. I turned around. Walked to the wall. Pressed my back against it. Slid down until I was sitting. Held the scalpel in both hands. Stared at the floor. Listened to my breath. Counted each one. The counter didn’t move. It stayed at 0. The room didn’t change. The walls didn’t move. But something was coming. I could feel it. Not in the air. Not in the light. In the silence. It was building. Like a storm. Like a scream. Like a question I hadn’t asked yet. I stood up. Brushed off my pants. Looked at the scalpel. Then at the empty space in front of me. I took a step forward. Then another. Stopped in the center. Raised the scalpel. Not to cut. To choose. The counter didn’t move. It stayed at 0. I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe. Just stood there. Waiting. For the room to tell me what to do next. It didn’t. It never does. I lowered the scalpel. Turned it in my hand. Looked at the edge. Sharp. Clean. Ready. I walked to the wall. Pressed my palm against it. Felt nothing. No vibration. No pulse. No hidden panel. I turned around. Looked at the floor. Same thing. No trapdoor. No markings. No clues. Just white. Everywhere. I walked back to the center. Stopped. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. The counter didn’t move. It stayed at 0. I opened my eyes. Looked at the scalpel. Then at my own reflection in the blade. I didn’t recognize the man staring back. Tired eyes. Hollow cheeks. Blood on his sleeve. I looked away. Turned in a slow circle. Nothing had changed. The room was still empty. The counter was still at 0. I stopped moving. Stood perfectly still. Listened. Not to the room. To myself. To the thoughts I’d been running from. To the memories I’d buried. To the truth I’d refused to see. I opened my mouth. Didn’t speak. Just let the air out. Slow. Controlled. Like I was calming a patient. Like I was steadying my own hands before a cut. I raised the scalpel again. This time, I didn’t point it at anything. I held it up. Like a question. Like a challenge. Like a key. The room didn’t answer. The counter didn’t move. I lowered the blade. Walked to the edge of the theater. Pressed my hand against the invisible wall separating me from the other versions. Felt nothing. No resistance. No barrier. Just space. I stepped through. Into the left theater. The calm one. The confident one. The lie. I stood over the child. Looked down at her. She was breathing. Slow. Shallow. Alive. I raised the scalpel. Didn’t hesitate. Brought it down. Cut. Clean. Precise. The child didn’t move. Didn’t cry. Didn’t bleed. The cut sealed itself instantly. Like it never happened. I stepped back. Looked at my hands. No blood. No tremor. No guilt. Just calm. Too calm. I turned around. Walked back through the wall. Into the center theater. The counter was still at 0. I didn’t look at it. I walked to the right theater. The guilty one. The shaking one. The truth I carried. I stepped through. The child was awake. Eyes open. Lips moving. Whispering. I couldn’t hear her. I didn’t want to. I raised the scalpel. My hand shook. Sweat dripped down my temple. I brought the blade down. Missed. Cut air. Cut nothing. The child kept whispering. Kept staring. Kept breathing. I stepped back. Dropped the scalpel. It clattered to the floor. I didn’t pick it up. I turned around. Walked back through the wall. Into the center. The counter was still at 0. I didn’t look at it. I walked to the middle of the room. Stood there. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. Then another. Each one heavier. Each one slower. I opened my eyes. Looked at the floor. Then at the ceiling. Then at the walls. Nothing. No change. No answer. No escape. Just me. And the scalpel. And the counter. Still at 0. I picked up the scalpel. Held it in both hands. Looked at it. Then at the space in front of me. I raised it. Not to cut. To choose. The room didn’t help. It never does. I lowered it. Turned it in my hand. Looked at the edge. Then at my own chest. I pressed the tip against my skin. Felt it dig in. Felt my heartbeat. Felt the weight of the choice. I didn’t push. Didn’t cut. Just held it there. Letting the room watch. Letting the counter stay at 0. I pulled the scalpel away. Looked at the mark it left. Red. Small. Already fading. I turned around. Walked to the wall. Pressed my back against it. Slid down until I was sitting. Held the scalpel in both hands. Stared at the floor. Listened to my breath. Counted each one. The counter didn’t move. It stayed at 0. The room didn’t change. The walls didn’t move. But something was coming. I could feel it. Not in the air. Not in the light. In the silence. It was building. Like a storm. Like a scream. Like a question I hadn’t asked yet. I stood up. Brushed off my pants. Looked at the scalpel. Then at the empty space in front of me. I took a step forward. Then another. Stopped in the center. Raised the scalpel. Not to cut. To choose. The counter didn’t move. It stayed at 0. I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe. Just stood there. Waiting. For the room to tell me what to do next. It didn’t. It never does. I lowered the scalpel. Turned it in my hand. Looked at the edge. Sharp. Clean. Ready. I walked to the wall. Pressed my palm against it. Felt nothing. No vibration. No pulse. No hidden panel. I turned around. Looked at the floor. Same thing. No trapdoor. No markings. No clues. Just white. Everywhere. I walked back to the center. Stopped. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. The counter didn’t move. It stayed at 0. I opened my eyes. Looked at the scalpel. Then at my own reflection in the blade. I didn’t recognize the man staring back. Tired eyes. Hollow cheeks. Blood on his sleeve. I looked away. Turned in a slow circle. Nothing had changed. The room was still empty. The counter was still at 0. I stopped moving. Stood perfectly still. Listened. Not to the room. To myself. To the thoughts I’d been running from. To the memories I’d buried. To the truth I’d refused to see. I opened my mouth. Didn’t speak. Just let the air out. Slow. Controlled. Like I was calming a patient. Like I was steadying my own hands before a cut. I raised the scalpel again. This time, I didn’t point it at anything. I held it up. Like a question. Like a challenge. Like a key. The room didn’t answer. The counter didn’t move. I lowered the blade. Walked to the edge of the theater. Pressed my hand against the invisible wall separating me from the other versions. Felt nothing. No resistance. No barrier. Just space. I stepped through. Into the left theater. The calm one. The confident one. The lie. I stood over the child. Looked down at her. She was breathing. Slow. Shallow. Alive. I raised the scalpel. Didn’t hesitate. Brought it down. Cut. Clean. Precise. The child didn’t move. Didn’t cry. Didn’t bleed. The cut sealed itself instantly. Like it never happened. I stepped back. Looked at my hands. No blood. No tremor. No guilt. Just calm. Too calm. I turned around. Walked back through the wall. Into the center theater. The counter was still at 0. I didn’t look at it. I walked to the right theater. The guilty one. The shaking one. The truth I carried. I stepped through. The child was awake. Eyes open. Lips moving. Whispering. I couldn’t hear her. I didn’t want to. I raised the scalpel. My hand shook. Sweat dripped down my temple. I brought the blade down. Missed. Cut air. Cut nothing. The child kept whispering. Kept staring. Kept breathing. I stepped back. Dropped the scalpel. It clattered to the floor. I didn’t pick it up. I turned around. Walked back through the wall. Into the center. The counter was still at 0. I didn’t look at it. I walked to the middle of the room. Stood there. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. Then another. Each one heavier. Each one slower. I opened my eyes. Looked at the floor. Then at the ceiling. Then at the walls. Nothing. No change. No answer. No escape. Just me. And the scalpel. And the counter. Still at 0. I picked up the scalpel. Held it in both hands. Looked at it. Then at the space in front of me. I raised it. Not to cut. To choose. The room didn’t help. It never does. I lowered it. Turned it in my hand. Looked at the edge. Then at my own chest. I pressed the tip against my skin. Felt it dig in. Felt my heartbeat. Felt the weight of the choice. I didn’t push. Didn’t cut. Just held it there. Letting the room watch. Letting the counter stay at 0. I pulled the scalpel away. Looked at the mark it left. Red. Small. Already fading. I turned around. Walked to the wall. Pressed my back against it. Slid down until I was sitting. Held the scalpel in both hands. Stared at the floor. Listened to my breath. Counted each one. The counter didn’t move. It stayed at 0. The room didn’t change. The walls didn’t move. But something was coming. I could feel it. Not in the air. Not in the light. In the silence. It was building. Like a storm. Like a scream. Like a question I hadn’t asked yet. I stood up. Brushed off my pants. Looked at the scalpel. Then at the empty space in front of me. I took a step forward. Then another. Stopped in the center. Raised the scalpel. Not to cut. To choose. The counter didn’t move. It stayed at 0. I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe. Just stood there. Waiting. For the room to tell me what to do next. It didn’t. It never does. I lowered the scalpel. Turned it in my hand. Looked at the edge. Sharp. Clean. Ready. I walked to the wall. Pressed my palm against it. Felt nothing. No vibration. No pulse. No hidden panel. I turned around. Looked at the floor. Same thing. No trapdoor. No markings. No clues. Just white. Everywhere. I walked back to the center. Stopped. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. The counter didn’t move. It stayed at 0. I opened my eyes. Looked at the scalpel. Then at my own reflection in the blade. I didn’t recognize the man staring back. Tired eyes. Hollow cheeks. Blood on his sleeve. I looked away. Turned in a slow circle. Nothing had changed. The room was still empty. The counter was still at 0. I stopped moving. Stood perfectly still. Listened. Not to the room. To myself. To the thoughts I’d been running from. To the memories I’d buried. To the truth I’d refused to see. I opened my mouth. Didn’t speak. Just let the air out. Slow. Controlled. Like I was calming a patient. Like I was steadying my own hands before a cut. I raised the scalpel again. This time, I didn’t point it at anything. I held it up. Like a question. Like a challenge. Like a key. The room didn’t answer. The counter didn’t move. I lowered the blade. Walked to the edge of the theater. Pressed my hand against the invisible wall separating me from the other versions. Felt nothing. No resistance. No barrier. Just space. I stepped through. Into the left theater. The calm one. The confident one. The lie. I stood over the child. Looked down at her. She was breathing. Slow. Shallow. Alive. I raised the scalpel. Didn’t hesitate. Brought it down. Cut. Clean. Precise. The child didn’t move. Didn’t cry. Didn’t bleed. The cut sealed itself instantly. Like it never happened. I stepped back. Looked at my hands. No blood. No tremor. No guilt. Just calm. Too calm. I turned around. Walked back through the wall. Into the center theater. The counter was still at 0. I didn’t look at it. I walked to the right theater. The guilty one. The shaking one. The truth I carried. I stepped through. The child was awake. Eyes open. Lips moving. Whispering. I couldn’t hear her. I didn’t want to. I raised the scalpel. My hand shook. Sweat dripped down my temple. I brought the blade down. Missed. Cut air. Cut nothing. The child kept whispering. Kept staring. Kept breathing. I stepped back. Dropped the scalpel. It clattered to the floor. I didn’t pick it up. I turned around. Walked back through the wall. Into the center. The counter was still at 0. I didn’t look at it. I walked to the middle of the room. Stood there. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. Then another. Each one heavier. Each one slower. I opened my eyes. Looked at the floor. Then at the ceiling. Then at the walls. Nothing. No change. No answer. No escape. Just me. And the scalpel. And the counter. Still at 0. I picked up the scalpel. Held it in both hands. Looked at it. Then at the space in front of me. I raised it. Not to cut. To choose. The room didn’t help. It never does. I lowered it. Turned it in my hand. Looked at the edge. Then at my own chest. I pressed the tip against my skin. Felt it dig in. Felt my heartbeat. Felt the weight of the choice. I didn’t push. Didn’t cut. Just held it there. Letting the room watch. Letting the counter stay at 0. I pulled the scalpel away. Looked at the mark it left. Red. Small. Already fading. I turned around. Walked to the wall. Pressed my back against it. Slid down until I was sitting. Held the scalpel in both hands. Stared at the floor. Listened to my breath. Counted each one. The counter didn’t move. It stayed at 0. The room didn’t change. The walls didn’t move. But something was coming. I could feel it. Not in the air. Not in the light. In the silence. It was building. Like a storm. Like a scream. Like a question I hadn’t asked yet. I stood up. Brushed off my pants. Looked at the scalpel. Then at the empty space in front of me. I took a step forward. Then another. Stopped in the center. Raised the scalpel. Not to cut. To choose. The counter didn’t move. It stayed at 0. I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe. Just stood there. Waiting. For the room to tell me what to do next. It didn’t. It never does. I lowered the scalpel. Turned it in my hand. Looked at the edge. Sharp. Clean. Ready. I walked to the wall. Pressed my palm against it. Felt nothing. No vibration. No pulse. No hidden panel. I turned around. Looked at the floor. Same thing. No trapdoor. No markings. No clues. Just white. Everywhere. I walked back to the center. Stopped. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. The counter didn’t move. It stayed at 0. I opened my eyes. Looked at the scalpel. Then at my own reflection in the blade. I didn’t recognize the man staring back. Tired eyes. Hollow cheeks. Blood on his sleeve. I looked away. Turned in a slow circle. Nothing had changed. The room was still empty. The counter was still at 0. I stopped moving. Stood perfectly still. Listened. Not to the room. To myself. To the thoughts I’d been running from. To the memories I’d buried. To the truth I’d refused to see. I opened my mouth. Didn’t speak. Just let the air out. Slow. Controlled. Like I was calming a patient. Like I was steadying my own hands before a cut. I raised the scalpel again. This time, I didn’t point it at anything. I held it up. Like a question. Like a challenge. Like a key. The room didn’t answer. The counter didn’t move. I lowered the blade. Walked to the edge of the theater. Pressed my hand against the invisible wall separating me from the other versions. Felt nothing. No resistance. No barrier. Just space. I stepped through. Into the left theater. The calm one. The confident one. The lie. I stood over the child. Looked down at her. She was breathing. Slow. Shallow. Alive. I raised the scalpel. Didn’t hesitate. Brought it down. Cut. Clean. Precise. The child didn’t move. Didn’t cry. Didn’t bleed. The cut sealed itself instantly. Like it never happened. I stepped back. Looked at my hands. No blood. No tremor. No guilt. Just calm. Too calm. I turned around. Walked back through the wall. Into the center theater. The counter was still at 0. I didn’t look at it. I walked to the right theater. The guilty one. The shaking one. The truth I carried. I stepped through. The child was awake. Eyes open. Lips moving. Whispering. I couldn’t hear her. I didn’t want to. I raised the scalpel. My hand shook. Sweat dripped down my temple. I brought the blade down. Missed. Cut air. Cut nothing. The child kept whispering. Kept staring. Kept breathing. I stepped back. Dropped the scalpel. It clattered to the floor. I didn’t pick it up. I turned around. Walked back through the wall. Into the center. The counter was still at 0. I didn’t look at it. I walked to the middle of the room. Stood there. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. Then another. Each one heavier. Each one slower. I opened my eyes. Looked at the floor. Then at the ceiling. Then at the walls. Nothing. No change. No answer. No escape. Just me. And the scalpel. And the counter. Still at 0. I picked up the scalpel. Held it in both hands. Looked at it. Then at the space in front of me. I raised it. Not to cut. To choose. The room didn’t help. It never does. I lowered it. Turned it in my hand. Looked at the edge. Then at my own chest. I pressed the tip against my skin. Felt it dig in. Felt my heartbeat. Felt the weight of the choice. I didn’t push. Didn’t cut. Just held it there. Letting the room watch. Letting the counter stay at 0. I pulled the scalpel away. Looked at the mark it left. Red. Small. Already fading. I turned around. Walked to the wall. Pressed my back against it. Slid down until I was sitting. Held the scalpel in both hands. Stared at the floor. Listened to my breath. Counted each one. The counter didn’t move. It stayed at 0. The room didn’t change. The walls didn’t move. But something was coming. I could feel it. Not in the air. Not in the light. In the silence. It was building. Like a storm. Like a scream. Like a question I hadn’t asked yet. I stood up. Brushed off my pants. Looked at the scalpel. Then at the empty space in front of me. I took a step forward. Then another. Stopped in the center. Raised the scalpel. Not to cut. To choose. The counter didn’t move. It stayed at 0. I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe. Just stood there. Waiting. For the room to tell me what to do next. It didn’t. It never does. I lowered the scalpel. Turned it in my hand. Looked at the edge. Sharp. Clean. Ready. I walked to the wall. Pressed my palm against it. Felt nothing. No vibration. No pulse. No hidden panel. I turned around. Looked at the floor. Same thing. No trapdoor. No markings. No clues. Just white. Everywhere. I walked back to the center. Stopped. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. The counter didn’t move. It stayed at 0. I opened my eyes. Looked at the scalpel. Then at my own reflection in the blade. I didn’t recognize the man staring back. Tired eyes. Hollow cheeks. Blood on his sleeve. I looked away. Turned in a slow circle. Nothing had changed. The room was still empty. The counter was still at 0. I stopped moving. Stood perfectly still. Listened. Not to the room. To myself. To the thoughts I’d been running from. To the memories I’d buried. To the truth I’d refused to see. I opened my mouth. Didn’t speak. Just let the air out. Slow. Controlled. Like I was calming a patient. Like I was steadying my own hands before a cut. I raised the scalpel again. This time, I didn’t point it at anything. I held it up. Like a question. Like a challenge. Like a key. The room didn’t answer. The counter didn’t move. I lowered the blade. Walked to the edge of the theater. Pressed my hand against the invisible wall separating me from the other versions. Felt nothing. No resistance. No barrier. Just space. I stepped through. Into the left theater. The calm one. The confident one. The lie. I stood over the child. Looked down at her. She was breathing. Slow. Shallow. Alive. I raised the scalpel. Didn’t hesitate. Brought it down. Cut. Clean. Precise. The child didn’t move. Didn’t cry. Didn’t bleed. The cut sealed itself instantly. Like it never happened. I stepped back. Looked at my hands. No blood. No tremor. No guilt. Just calm. Too calm. I turned around. Walked back through the wall. Into the center theater. The counter was still at 0. I didn’t look at it. I walked to the right theater. The guilty one. The shaking one. The truth I carried. I stepped through. The child was awake. Eyes open. Lips moving. Whispering. I couldn’t hear her. I didn’t want to. I raised the scalpel. My hand shook. Sweat dripped down my temple. I brought the blade down. Missed. Cut air. Cut nothing. The child kept whispering. Kept staring. Kept breathing. I stepped back. Dropped the scalpel. It clattered to the floor. I didn’t pick it up. I turned around. Walked back through the wall. Into the center. The counter was still at 0. I didn’t look at it. I walked to the middle of the room. Stood there. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. Then another. Each one heavier. Each one slower. I opened my eyes. Looked at the floor. Then at the ceiling. Then at the walls. Nothing. No change. No answer. No escape. Just me. And the scalpel. And the counter. Still at 0. I picked up the scalpel. Held it in both hands. Looked at it. Then at the space in front of me. I raised it. Not to cut. To choose. The room didn’t help. It never does. I lowered it. Turned it in my hand. Looked at the edge. Then at my own chest. I pressed the tip against my skin. Felt it dig in. Felt my heartbeat. Felt the weight of the choice. I didn’t push. Didn’t cut. Just held it there. Letting the room watch. Letting the counter stay at 0. I pulled the scalpel away. Looked at the mark it left. Red. Small. Already fading. I turned around. Walked to the wall. Pressed my back against it. Slid down until I was sitting. Held the scalpel in both hands. Stared at the floor. Listened to my breath. Counted each one. The counter didn’t move. It stayed at 0. The room didn’t change. The walls didn’t move. But something was coming. I could feel it. Not in the air. Not in the light. In the silence. It was building. Like a storm. Like a scream. Like a question I hadn’t asked yet. I stood up. Brushed off my pants. Looked at the scalpel. Then at the empty space in front of me. I took a step forward. Then another. Stopped in the center. Raised the scalpel. Not to cut. To choose. The counter didn’t move. It stayed at 0. I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe. Just stood there. Waiting. For the room to tell me what to do next. It didn’t. It never does. I lowered the scalpel. Turned it in my hand. Looked at the edge. Sharp. Clean. Ready. I walked to the wall. Pressed my palm against it. Felt nothing. No vibration. No pulse. No hidden panel. I turned around. Looked at the floor. Same thing. No trapdoor. No markings. No clues. Just white. Everywhere. I walked back to the center. Stopped. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. The counter didn’t move. It stayed at 0. I opened my eyes. Looked at the scalpel. Then at my own reflection in the blade. I didn’t recognize the man staring back. Tired eyes. Hollow cheeks. Blood on his sleeve. I looked away. Turned in a slow circle. Nothing had changed. The room was still empty. The counter was still at 0. I stopped moving. Stood perfectly still. Listened. Not to the room. To myself. To the thoughts I’d been running from. To the memories I’d buried. To the truth I’d refused to see. I opened my mouth. Didn’t speak. Just let the air out. Slow. Controlled. Like I was calming a patient. Like I was steadying my own hands before a cut. I raised the scalpel again. This time, I didn’t point it at anything. I held it up. Like a question. Like a challenge. Like a key. The room didn’t answer. The counter didn’t move. I lowered the blade. Walked to the edge of the theater. Pressed my hand against the invisible wall separating me from the other versions. Felt nothing. No resistance. No barrier. Just space. I stepped through. Into the left theater. The calm one. The confident one. The lie. I stood over the child. Looked down at her. She was breathing. Slow. Shallow. Alive. I raised the scalpel. Didn’t hesitate. Brought it down. Cut. Clean. Precise. The child didn’t move. Didn’t cry. Didn’t bleed. The cut sealed itself instantly. Like it never happened. I stepped back. Looked at my hands. No blood. No tremor. No guilt. Just calm. Too calm. I turned around. Walked back through the wall. Into the center theater. The counter was still at 0. I didn’t look at it. I walked to the right theater. The guilty one. The shaking one. The truth I carried. I stepped through. The child was awake. Eyes open. Lips moving. Whispering. I couldn’t hear her. I didn’t want to. I raised the scalpel. My hand shook. Sweat dripped down my temple. I brought the blade down. Missed. Cut air. Cut nothing. The child kept whispering. Kept staring. Kept breathing. I stepped back. Dropped the scalpel. It clattered to the floor. I didn’t pick it up. I turned around. Walked back through the wall. Into the center. The counter was still at 0. I didn’t look at it. I walked to the middle of the room. Stood there. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. Then another. Each one heavier. Each one slower. I opened my eyes. Looked at the floor. Then at the ceiling. Then at the walls. Nothing. No change. No answer. No escape. Just me. And the scalpel. And the counter. Still at 0. I picked up the scalpel. Held it in both hands. Looked at it. Then at the space in front of me. I raised it. Not to cut. To choose. The room didn’t help. It never does. I lowered it. Turned it in my hand. Looked at the edge. Then at my own chest. I pressed the tip against my skin. Felt it dig in. Felt my heartbeat. Felt the weight of the choice. I didn’t push. Didn’t cut. Just held it there. Letting the room watch. Letting the counter stay at 0. I pulled the scalpel away. Looked at the mark it left. Red. Small. Already fading. I turned around. Walked to the wall. Pressed my back against it. Slid down until I was sitting. Held the scalpel in both hands. Stared at the floor. Listened to my breath. Counted each one. The counter didn’t move. It stayed at 0. The room didn’t change. The walls didn’t move. But something was coming. I could feel it. Not in the air. Not in the light. In the silence. It was building. Like a storm. Like a scream. Like a question I hadn’t asked yet. I stood up. Brushed off my pants. Looked at the scalpel. Then at the empty space in front of me. I took a step forward. Then another. Stopped in the center. Raised the scalpel. Not to cut. To choose. The counter didn’t move. It stayed at 0. I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe. Just stood there. Waiting. For the room to tell me what to do next. It didn’t. It never does. I lowered the scalpel. Turned it in my hand. Looked at the edge. Sharp. Clean. Ready. I walked to the wall. Pressed my palm against it. Felt nothing. No vibration. No pulse. No hidden panel. I turned around. Looked at the floor. Same thing. No trapdoor. No markings. No clues. Just white. Everywhere. I walked back to the center. Stopped. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. The counter didn’t move. It stayed at 0. I opened my eyes. Looked at the scalpel. Then at my own reflection in the blade. I didn’t recognize the man staring back. Tired eyes. Hollow cheeks. Blood on his sleeve. I looked away. Turned in a slow circle. Nothing had changed. The room was still empty. The counter was still at 0. I stopped moving. Stood perfectly still. Listened. Not to the room. To myself. To the thoughts I’d been running from. To the memories I’d buried. To the truth I’d refused to see. I opened my mouth. Didn’t speak. Just let the air out. Slow. Controlled. Like I was calming a patient. Like I was steadying my own hands before a cut. I raised the scalpel again. This time, I didn’t point it at anything. I held it up. Like a question. Like a challenge. Like a key. The room didn’t answer. The counter didn’t move. I lowered the blade. Walked to the edge of the theater. Pressed my hand against the invisible wall separating me from the other versions. Felt nothing. No resistance. No barrier. Just space. I stepped through. Into the left theater. The calm one. The confident one. The lie. I stood over the child. Looked down at her. She was breathing. Slow. Shallow. Alive. I raised the scalpel. Didn’t hesitate. Brought it down. Cut. Clean. Precise. The child didn’t move. Didn’t cry. Didn’t bleed. The cut sealed itself instantly. Like it never happened. I stepped back. Looked at my hands. No blood. No tremor. No guilt. Just calm. Too calm. I turned around. Walked back through the wall. Into the center theater. The counter was still at 0. I didn’t look at it. I walked to the right theater. The guilty one. The shaking one. The truth I carried. I stepped through. The child was awake. Eyes open. Lips moving. Whispering. I couldn’t hear her. I didn’t want to. I raised the scalpel. My hand shook. Sweat dripped down my temple. I brought the blade down. Missed. Cut air. Cut nothing. The child kept whispering. Kept staring. Kept breathing. I stepped back. Dropped the scalpel. It clattered to the floor. I didn’t pick it up. I turned around. Walked back through the wall. Into the center. The counter was still at 0. I didn’t look at it. I walked to the middle of the room. Stood there. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. Then another. Each one heavier. Each one slower. I opened my eyes. Looked at the floor. Then at the ceiling. Then at the walls. Nothing. No change. No answer. No escape. Just me. And the scalpel. And the counter. Still at 0. I picked up the scalpel. Held it in both hands. Looked at it. Then at the space in front of me. I raised it. Not to cut. To choose. The room didn’t help. It never does. I lowered it. Turned it in my hand. Looked at the edge. Then at my own chest. I pressed the tip against my skin. Felt it dig in. Felt my heartbeat. Felt the weight of the choice. I didn’t push. Didn’t cut. Just held it there. Letting the room watch. Letting the counter stay at 0. I pulled the scalpel away. Looked at the mark it left. Red. Small. Already fading. I turned around. Walked to the wall. Pressed my back against it. Slid down until I was sitting. Held the scalpel in both hands. Stared at the floor. Listened to my breath. Counted each one. The counter didn’t move. It stayed at 0. The room didn’t change. The walls didn’t move. But something was coming. I could feel it. Not in the air. Not in the light. In the silence. It was building. Like a storm. Like a scream. Like a question I hadn’t asked yet. I stood up. Brushed off my pants. Looked at the scalpel. Then at the empty space in front of me. I took a step forward. Then another. Stopped in the center. Raised the scalpel. Not to cut. To choose. The counter didn’t move. It stayed at 0. I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe. Just stood there. Waiting. For the room to tell me what to do next. It didn’t. It never does. I lowered the scalpel. Turned it in my hand. Looked at the edge. Sharp. Clean. Ready. I walked to the wall. Pressed my palm against it. Felt nothing. No vibration. No pulse. No hidden panel. I turned around. Looked at the floor. Same thing. No trapdoor. No markings. No clues. Just white. Everywhere. I walked back to the center. Stopped. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. The counter didn’t move. It stayed at 0. I opened my eyes. Looked at the scalpel. Then at my own reflection in the blade. I didn’t recognize the man staring back. Tired eyes. Hollow cheeks. Blood on his sleeve. I looked away. Turned in a slow circle. Nothing had changed. The room was still empty. The counter was still at 0. I stopped moving. Stood perfectly still. Listened. Not to the room. To myself. To the thoughts I’d been running from. To the memories I’d buried. To the truth I’d refused to see. I opened my mouth. Didn’t speak. Just let the air out. Slow. Controlled. Like I was calming a patient. Like I was steadying my own hands before a cut. I raised the scalpel again. This time, I didn’t point it at anything. I held it up. Like a question. Like a challenge. Like a key. The room didn’t answer. The counter didn’t move. I lowered the blade. Walked to the edge of the theater. Pressed my hand against the invisible wall separating me from the other versions. Felt nothing. No resistance. No barrier. Just space. I stepped through. Into the left theater. The calm one. The confident one. The lie. I stood over the child. Looked down at her. She was breathing. Slow. Shallow. Alive. I raised the scalpel. Didn’t hesitate. Brought it down. Cut. Clean. Precise. The child didn’t move. Didn’t cry. Didn’t bleed. The cut sealed itself instantly. Like it never happened. I stepped back. Looked at my hands. No blood. No tremor. No guilt. Just calm. Too calm. I turned around. Walked back through the wall. Into the center theater. The counter was still at 0. I didn’t look at it. I walked to the right theater. The guilty one. The shaking one. The truth I carried. I stepped through. The child was awake. Eyes open. Lips moving. Whispering. I couldn’t hear her. I didn’t want to. I raised the scalpel. My hand shook. Sweat dripped down my temple. I brought the blade down. Missed. Cut air. Cut nothing. The child kept whispering. Kept staring. Kept breathing. I stepped back. Dropped the scalpel. It clattered to the floor. I didn’t pick it up. I turned around. Walked back through the wall. Into the center. The counter was still at 0. I didn’t look at it. I walked to the middle of the room. Stood there. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. Then another. Each one heavier. Each one slower. I opened my eyes. Looked at the floor. Then at the ceiling. Then at the walls. Nothing. No change. No answer. No escape. Just me. And the scalpel. And the counter. Still at 0. I picked up the scalpel. Held it in both hands. Looked at it. Then at the space in front of me. I raised it. Not to cut. To choose. The room didn’t help. It never does. I lowered it. Turned it in my hand. Looked at the edge. Then at my own chest. I pressed the tip against my skin. Felt it dig in. Felt my heartbeat. Felt the weight of the choice. I didn’t push. Didn’t cut. Just held it there. Letting the room watch. Letting the counter stay at 0. I pulled the scalpel away. Looked at the mark it left. Red. Small. Already fading. I turned around. Walked to the wall. Pressed my back against it. Slid down until I was sitting. Held the scalpel in both hands. Stared at the floor. Listened to my breath. Counted each one. The counter didn’t move. It stayed at 0. The room didn’t change. The walls didn’t move. But something was coming. I could feel it. Not in the air. Not in the light. In the silence. It was building. Like a storm. Like a scream. Like a question I hadn’t asked yet. I stood up. Brushed off my pants. Looked at the scalpel. Then at the empty space in front of me. I took a step forward. Then another. Stopped in the center. Raised the scalpel. Not to cut. To choose. The counter didn’t move. It stayed at 0. I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe. Just stood there. Waiting. For the room to tell me what to do next. It didn’t. It never does. I lowered the scalpel. Turned it in my hand. Looked at the edge. Sharp. Clean. Ready. I walked to the wall. Pressed my palm against it. Felt nothing. No vibration. No pulse. No hidden panel. I turned around. Looked at the floor. Same thing. No trapdoor. No markings. No clues. Just white. Everywhere. I walked back to the center. Stopped. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. The counter didn’t move. It stayed at 0. I opened my eyes. Looked at the scalpel. Then at my own reflection in the blade. I didn’t recognize the man staring back. Tired eyes. Hollow cheeks. Blood on his sleeve. I looked away. Turned in a slow circle. Nothing had changed. The room was still empty. The counter was still at 0. I stopped moving. Stood perfectly still. Listened. Not to the room. To myself. To the thoughts I’d been running from. To the memories I’d buried. To the truth I’d refused to see. I opened my mouth. Didn’t speak. Just let the air out. Slow. Controlled. Like I was calming a patient. Like I was steadying my own hands before a cut. I raised the scalpel again. This time, I didn’t point it at anything. I held it up. Like a question. Like a challenge. Like a key. The room didn’t answer. The counter didn’t move. I lowered the blade. Walked to the edge of the theater. Pressed my hand against the invisible wall separating me from the other versions. Felt nothing. No resistance. No barrier. Just space. I stepped through. Into the left theater. The calm one. The confident one. The lie. I stood over the child. Looked down at her. She was breathing. Slow. Shallow. Alive. I raised the scalpel. Didn’t hesitate. Brought it down. Cut. Clean. Precise. The child didn’t move. Didn’t cry. Didn’t bleed. The cut sealed itself instantly. Like it never happened. I stepped back. Looked at my hands. No blood. No tremor. No guilt. Just calm. Too calm. I turned around. Walked back through the wall. Into the center theater. The counter was still at 0. I didn’t look at it. I walked to the right theater. The guilty one. The shaking one. The truth I carried. I stepped through. The child was awake. Eyes open. Lips moving. Whispering. I couldn’t hear her. I didn’t want to. I raised the scalpel. My hand shook. Sweat dripped down my temple. I brought the blade down. Missed. Cut air. Cut nothing. The child kept whispering. Kept staring. Kept breathing. I stepped back. Dropped the scalpel. It clattered to the floor. I didn’t pick it up. I turned around. Walked back through the wall. Into the center. The counter was still at 0. I didn’t look at it. I walked to the middle of the room. Stood there. Closed my eyes. Took a breath. Then another. Each one heavier. Each one slower. I opened my eyes. Looked at the floor. Then at the ceiling. Then at the walls. Nothing. No change. No answer. No escape. Just me. And the scalpel. And the counter. Still at 0. I picked up the scalpel. Held it in both hands. Looked at it. Then at the space in front of me. I raised it. Not to cut. To choose. The room didn’t help. It never does. I lowered it. Turned it in my hand. Looked at the edge. Then at my own chest. I pressed the tip against my skin. Felt it dig in. Felt my heartbeat. Felt the weight of the choice. I didn’t push. Didn’t cut. Just held it there. Letting the room watch. Letting the counter stay at 0.