Chapter 29: Cut the Cord I stood there, staring at Mira’s face on the monitor. Her eyes were open. Not blinking fast, not darting around. Just steady. Watching me. Like she had been waiting for this exact moment. Like she had known I would get here, even if I didn’t. The scalpel was still in my hand. I hadn’t dropped it. I hadn’t let go. It felt heavier now than it did before. Not because it weighed more. Because I knew what it meant. What it had done. What it could still do. I took a step forward. Then another. The corridor didn’t change. The monitors on either side still showed flatlines. All labeled MIRA. All silent. All dead. Except the one at the end. The one that mattered. I stopped right in front of it. Close enough that my reflection blurred into hers on the glass. I could see the faint outline of my own face over hers. Tired. Hollow. Guilty. I didn’t look away. I whispered, “What do you want me to do?” The screen flickered. Not like it was glitching. Not like it was breaking. Like it was responding. Like she was answering. Her lips moved. Slow. Deliberate. No sound came out, but I didn’t need it. I knew what she was saying. I felt it in my chest before I even saw the shape of the words form. Cut the cord. I didn’t move right away. I just stared. Waiting for more. Waiting for her to say something else. Waiting for the room to shift or the lights to change or the air to thin. Nothing happened. Just her, silent again. Just me, standing there with the scalpel. I looked down at the base of the monitor. There was a panel there I hadn’t noticed before. Thin. Seamless. Almost invisible unless you were looking for it. I crouched. Ran my fingers along the edge. It gave slightly under pressure. I pressed. The panel slid open. Inside, a single red wire. Thick. Coiled. Tied in a surgical knot. The kind you learn in med school. The kind you use when you need it to hold. The kind that doesn’t come undone unless you cut it. I reached in. Pulled the wire out. It was warm. Not from heat. From something else. From being alive. From being part of something bigger than just a machine or a monitor or a room. I held it in one hand. The scalpel in the other. I hesitated. Not because I was scared of what would happen if I cut it. I was scared of what would happen if I didn’t. I thought about all the times I had hesitated before. All the times I had stood over a patient and frozen. All the times I had let someone else make the call. All the times I had chosen silence over action. All the times I had let Mira down. This wasn’t surgery. This wasn’t medicine. This wasn’t even real, not in the way the world outside this place was real. But it was real to her. And that made it real to me. I positioned the scalpel against the wire. Just above the knot. I didn’t rush. I didn’t flinch. I just pressed down. The blade sliced through cleanly. The wire snapped. The lights in the corridor died all at once. Not one by one. Not flickering out. Just gone. Like someone had flipped a switch. The monitors went black. The buzzing stopped. The air didn’t change, but the silence did. It got heavier. Thicker. Like the room was holding its breath. Behind me, a sound. Metal sliding against metal. I turned. An elevator door had opened. Just one. Right in the middle of the wall where there hadn’t been anything before. No buttons. No markings. Just an open doorway. Dark inside. No light. No sound. Just waiting. I walked toward it. The scalpel was cold now. Not just cool. Cold. Like it had lost something. Like it had given up. I stepped inside. The door didn’t close right away. It waited. Like it knew I might turn back. Like it was giving me one last chance to change my mind. I didn’t turn back. I gripped the scalpel tighter. The door slid shut.