Chapter 31: The Twenty-Nine Hands I lowered the scalpel. I didn’t drop it. I didn’t throw it. I just let my arm fall to my side, the blade pointing at the floor like it had lost its purpose. The door didn’t react. It didn’t shake. It didn’t glow brighter or dim. It just stayed there, smooth and white and sealed, like it had been carved from silence itself. I waited. Nothing happened. I thought maybe the room would punish me. Maybe the air would thin faster. Maybe the counter on my chest would jump down ten breaths like it had before. Maybe the lights would flicker. Maybe the floor would open up and swallow me. I braced for it. I didn’t move. I didn’t speak. I just stood there, scalpel in hand, waiting for the consequence of refusing to cut. It didn’t come. Instead, I heard footsteps. Not from the door. Not from the hallway behind me. From the twenty-nine doors that had opened earlier. The ones with the other versions of me inside. I didn’t turn around. I didn’t need to. I knew they were there. I could feel them. Not like a presence. Not like a chill or a pressure. Just a knowing. Like my body remembered them before my mind did. They stepped out. All of them. Twenty-nine versions of me, each wearing the same clothes, each holding the same scalpel, each moving with the same stiff, deliberate steps. They didn’t rush. They didn’t speak. They just walked toward me, slow and steady, like they had all the time in the world. I still didn’t turn. I didn’t want to see their faces again. I didn’t want to see the hollow eyes, the blank expressions, the way they all looked at me like I was the only thing left in the world worth looking at. I kept my eyes on Door 30. I focused on the number. 30. Just a number. Just a door. Just a thing. They stopped behind me. I felt them stop. I didn’t hear them stop. I didn’t see them stop. I just knew. Like my spine could count them. Like my skin could feel the exact distance between each one. They formed a half-circle around me, close but not touching. I could feel the heat coming off them. Or maybe it was just my own body reacting. I didn’t know. I didn’t care. Then they moved. All at once. Twenty-nine hands reached out. Twenty-nine palms pressed against my shoulders. Not hard. Not soft. Just there. Like anchors. Like weights. Like they were holding me in place, not to stop me from running, but to stop me from falling. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t pull away. I just stood there, letting them touch me, letting them hold me, letting them be part of me in a way I didn’t understand and didn’t want to. Then they spoke. Not out loud. Not through the intercom. Not through the air. They spoke inside my head, the same way Mira had spoken to me in the elevator. Their voices overlapped, layered, tangled together until they weren’t twenty-nine voices anymore. They were one voice. My voice. But not mine. Something deeper. Something older. Something that had been waiting inside me since before I woke up in that first room. “Ask her why she let you live.” That was all they said. No explanation. No warning. No plea. Just that sentence. Simple. Direct. Like it was the only thing that mattered. Like it was the only question left in the world. I didn’t answer. I didn’t ask anything. I just stood there, their hands on my shoulders, their words ringing in my skull, my own breath caught somewhere between my lungs and my throat. The door dissolved. Not slowly. Not with a sound. Not with a flash of light or a ripple in the air. It just stopped being there. One second it was a solid white wall, smooth and unbroken, the number 30 stamped in the center like a brand. The next second, it was gone. Not opened. Not broken. Not moved. Gone. Like it had never existed. Like it had been an illusion all along. Behind it was a room. Small. Sterile. Bright. No windows. No doors. Just white walls, white floor, white ceiling. In the center of the room, an operating table. And on that table, Mira. She was sitting upright. Not strapped down. Not restrained. Not unconscious. Her back was straight. Her hands rested on her knees. Her head was tilted slightly, like she was studying me. Her eyes were open. Fully. Not glazed. Not distant. Not empty. Awake. Aware. Alive. She looked at me. Not with anger. Not with sadness. Not with accusation. Just with patience. Like she had been waiting for me to show up. Like she had known exactly when I would arrive. Like she had counted every single breath I had taken to get here. I took a step forward. Just one. The hands on my shoulders didn’t stop me. They didn’t tighten. They didn’t pull me back. They just stayed there, warm and heavy, like they were part of me now. Like they always had been. Mira didn’t move. She didn’t smile. She didn’t frown. She just watched me, her gaze steady, her expression calm, like nothing in the world could surprise her anymore. I opened my mouth. I didn’t know what I was going to say. I didn’t know if I was going to ask the question. I didn’t know if I was going to scream. I didn’t know if I was going to beg. I just opened my mouth, and before any sound could come out, she spoke. “You’re late, Elias.” Her voice was clear. Not loud. Not soft. Just clear. Like she was stating a fact. Like she was reading from a schedule. Like she had been keeping time while I stumbled through rooms and corridors and memories and lies. “I’ve been awake since breath one.”