Chapter 45: The Machine Doesn’t Need Me Anymore I didn’t move. The console stayed frozen. The screen didn’t flicker. The timer didn’t twitch. The words “ARCHITECT STATUS REVOKED” didn’t blink or fade or shift. They just sat there, bold and final, like a tombstone someone had carved while I wasn’t looking. Mira’s voice came again. Not from the walls. Not from behind me. Not even from the air. It came from inside my head, like she had slipped under my skin and was speaking from the hollow behind my ribs. “You triggered the failsafe.” I didn’t answer. I didn’t turn. I didn’t even breathe harder. I just stared at the screen, at those words, at that number—15.5%—like if I stared long enough, it would change. Like if I refused to accept it, the machine would listen. It didn’t. “The system will rebuild itself,” she said. “Without you.” I lunged. Not toward her. Not toward the door. Not even toward the walls. I lunged at the console. My fingers slapped against the surface, searching for buttons, switches, ports, anything that would let me override, restart, re-initiate, force it back under my control. Nothing happened. The screen didn’t react. The progress bar didn’t jump. The timer didn’t reset. My hand might as well have been pressing against stone. I pressed harder. I dug my nails into the edge of the panel. I slammed my palm against the surface. I whispered Mirabel’s name like a password, like a plea, like a command. The console didn’t care. It rejected me. Not with alarms. Not with sparks. Not with error messages. It just… ignored me. Like I wasn’t there. Like I was a ghost standing in front of a machine that only responded to the living. The drive under my skin burned. Not the slow, creeping heat from before. Not the warning sting. This was fire. Real fire. Like someone had shoved a branding iron into my chest and left it there. I gasped. I doubled over. I grabbed at my shirt, at my skin, at the spot where the drive sat embedded, pulsing, alive. And then— Laughter. Not mine. Hers. Mirabel’s. It didn’t come from outside. It didn’t echo off the walls. It came from inside my skull, bubbling up from somewhere deep, somewhere I had buried, somewhere I had erased. It was light. It was bright. It was young. It was the kind of laugh that belonged to someone who still believed in birthdays and bedtime stories and second chances. It didn’t belong here. It didn’t belong in this room. It didn’t belong in me. I tried to push it out. I tried to scream over it. I tried to think of something else—anything else—surgery, scalpels, consent forms, flatlines, blue ribbons, hospital lights, Lena’s face, Mira’s eyes, the child in the crib, the shoe with the blood, the knife in my hand, the syringe in my neck, the locket under the chair, the photograph on the table, the counter above my head, the breaths ticking down, the questions I answered, the lies I told, the truths I buried— None of it worked. Her laugh kept coming. It slipped between my thoughts. It curled around my memories. It wrapped itself around my name, around my guilt, around my hands, around my choices. It didn’t judge me. It didn’t accuse me. It didn’t beg me to stop. It just laughed. Like she was still alive. Like she was still here. Like she was still part of me. I dropped to my knees. Not because the pain was too much. Not because the heat was unbearable. Not because the machine had rejected me. I dropped because her laugh was louder than my thoughts. Because her voice was clearer than my memories. Because she was slipping in, replacing me, rewriting me, using my own mind as fuel to rebuild herself. I pressed my hands to my temples. I squeezed my eyes shut. I bit down on my tongue until I tasted blood. I tried to think of silence. I tried to think of nothing. I tried to think of the void, the white room, the elevator, the corridor, the mirrors, the scalpel, the drive, the console, the timer, the progress bar, the 15.5%, the 03:42, the ARCHITECT STATUS REVOKED— Her laugh drowned it all out. I opened my mouth. I didn’t mean to speak. I didn’t mean to beg. I didn’t mean to plead. I just needed to hear something else. I needed to anchor myself. I needed to remind the machine, the room, the drive, the voice, the laugh, the memory, the ghost, the girl, the patient, the sister, the victim, the architect, the destroyer, the brother, the surgeon, the liar, the coward, the man who signed the forms and held the scalpel and pressed the button and erased her name— I needed to remind them all that I was still here. That I was still me. That I hadn’t disappeared yet. I screamed her name. Not to activate anything. Not to trigger a response. Not to unlock a door or open a panel or reset a counter or gain a breath. I screamed it because it was the only thing left that felt real. “MIRABEL!” The word ripped out of me like a wound opening. It didn’t echo. It didn’t bounce off the walls. It didn’t fade into silence. It just hung there, raw and broken and desperate, hanging in the air like a flag planted in enemy territory. And then— The progress bar jumped. Not because I touched the console. Not because I spoke the override phrase. Not because I begged, or bargained, or confessed, or repented. It jumped on its own. From 15.5%— To 18.3%.