Chapter 42: The Architect Is Still Here I held the drive like it was the last piece of me that still worked. It was still plugged into my skin, humming under my ribs, feeding me nothing now. Just heat. Just weight. Just the reminder that I had done this. That I had built the thing that erased her. That I had pressed the button. That I had walked away. Thirty-seven breaths left. I looked at Mira. She hadn’t moved. Still standing there like she was carved from the same stone as the walls. Her arms crossed. Her eyes fixed on me. Not angry. Not sad. Just waiting. Like she had been since the beginning. Like she had been since my first breath in this room. I didn’t ask again. I didn’t plead. I didn’t beg. I just said it. “How do I reverse it?” She didn’t answer. The room answered for her. The walls peeled back. Not like paper. Not like fabric. Like skin. Like something alive deciding to part. A seam split down the center of the far wall, then another, then another, until the whole thing folded open like a mouth unhinging. Behind it, a console. Black. Sleek. Cold. Labeled in clean white letters: ARCHITECT OVERRIDE. I didn’t think. I didn’t hesitate. I just moved. My legs carried me forward before my mind caught up. The drive tugged at my chest with every step, a dull ache spreading from the port under my skin. I didn’t care. I needed to get to that console. I needed to touch it. I needed to make it work. Mira stepped in front of me. Not fast. Not sudden. Just there. Like she had always been standing in that spot. Like the room had placed her there the moment I decided to move. She didn’t block me with her body. She didn’t reach out. She didn’t speak. She just looked at me. And then she whispered. “Only if you accept you’re still him.” I didn’t stop. I didn’t slow down. I shoved her aside. She didn’t fight me. Didn’t stumble. Didn’t gasp. She just let herself be moved, like she expected it. Like she had rehearsed this moment a thousand times in her head and knew exactly how it would play out. I reached the console. It was smooth. Cold. Unmarked except for the label. No buttons. No switches. No screen. Just a flat surface with a single indentation in the center, shaped like a palm. I slammed my hand down on it. The counter on my chest froze. Not paused. Not slowed. Frozen. Solid. Stuck at thirty-seven. A voice came from nowhere and everywhere at once. Calm. Mechanical. Uninterested. “Voiceprint required. Say her real name again.” I hesitated. Not because I didn’t know it. Not because I was afraid. Because saying it felt like signing my own confession. Like admitting I had done this. Like admitting I was still the man who had done it. Like admitting I hadn’t changed. Like admitting I was still the architect. I looked at Mira. She was watching me. Not judging. Not waiting. Just watching. Like she already knew what I would do. Like she had known since the moment I woke up in this room. I turned back to the console. I opened my mouth. I said it. “Mirabel.” The console lit up. A screen flickered to life beneath my palm. Lines of code scrolled past too fast to read. Then a single line remained, centered, bold. RESTORATION SEQUENCE INITIATED. Below it, a timer. 00:05:00. The numbers began to count down.