Chapter 49: Ask Me What You’re Afraid to Know I didn’t move. Not because I couldn’t. Not because I was frozen in fear or awe or whatever word people use when they don’t know how to name the thing sitting heavy in their chest. I didn’t move because moving felt like breaking something. Like stepping on glass that hadn’t shattered yet but would if I shifted my weight wrong. Mira’s eyes stayed on me. Not blinking. Not softening. Not accusing. Just… watching. Like she was waiting for me to do the next thing. Like she already knew what it would be. Like she had seen me do it a hundred times before in a hundred different rooms that all looked like this one. The progress bar on the console sat at 100.2%. Frozen. Not climbing. Not falling. Just there. Like it had forgotten how to move. Or maybe it was done moving. Maybe it had reached the end of whatever it was counting toward and now it was just… waiting. Like me. I took a step forward. My hand lifted before I told it to. Reached for the console. Fingers hovering over the smooth surface where the override had pulsed just minutes ago. I didn’t know what I was going to type. Didn’t have a plan. Didn’t even know if the machine would let me touch it again. But I reached anyway. Because that’s what I do. I reach. I fix. I try to make broken things work again. Even when they’re not broken. Even when they’re just… done. The machine rejected me. Not with a sound. Not with a flash. Just a stillness. My fingers passed through the surface like it wasn’t there. Like I wasn’t there. Like I had been erased from the system the moment I stopped being the architect. I pulled my hand back. Looked at it. Turned it over. Flexed my fingers. Still mine. Still real. Still attached. But the machine didn’t care. It didn’t need me anymore. It had what it wanted. Or maybe it never wanted me at all. Maybe I was just the delivery system. The vessel. The hands that carried the name to the altar. Mira spoke. Her voice didn’t come from her mouth. Didn’t echo off the walls. Didn’t hum through the floor or whisper from the ceiling. It came from inside my head. Like it had always been there. Like it had been waiting for me to be quiet long enough to hear it. “Ask me what you’re afraid to know.” I didn’t answer right away. I looked at her. Really looked. Not at the face. Not at the eyes. At the shape of her. The way she held herself. The tilt of her chin. The angle of her shoulders. The way her hands rested at her sides—not clenched, not open, just… there. Like she was holding herself together by not moving too much. I knew that posture. I had seen it before. In mirrors. In photographs. In the quiet moments before surgeries when the room was too still and the air too thick and the only thing louder than the machines was the sound of my own breathing. She was bracing. Not for pain. Not for anger. For truth. I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. The words came out quieter than I meant them to. Softer. Like I was afraid they would break something if I said them too loud. “Did I kill you?” The room shuddered. Not like before. Not like when the walls cracked open or the floor gave way or the ceiling lowered itself to crush me. This was different. This was deeper. Like the room itself had taken a breath and held it too long and now it was letting go all at once. Like it had been waiting for this question. Like it had been built for it. The counter above my head flickered. I didn’t look up right away. I didn’t need to. I felt it. Felt the numbers shift. Felt the air tighten around my lungs. Felt the pressure build in my chest like someone had turned a dial I didn’t know was there. I looked up. 35. Not 36. Not 34. 35. Like the machine had reset itself. Like it had recalibrated. Like it had decided I still had something left to do. A new door slid open behind her. I didn’t hear it move. Didn’t see the mechanism. One second there was a wall. The next, an opening. Clean. Smooth. No hinges. No groaning metal. Just space where there hadn’t been any before. Beyond it, a surgical bay. Not like the ones I remembered. Not sterile white and humming with quiet machines. This one glowed. Emergency lights pulsed along the walls. Red. Blue. White. Flashing in no pattern I could follow. Like the room was alive. Like it was breathing. Like it was waiting. I didn’t move toward it. Didn’t step back. Didn’t speak. Just stood there. Watching the lights. Watching Mira. Watching the counter above my head tick down to 34. She didn’t turn around. Didn’t look at the door. Didn’t flinch at the lights. Just kept watching me. Like she was waiting for the next question. Like she knew there would be one. Like she knew I wouldn’t stop asking until there was nothing left to ask. I took a step forward. Then another. Not toward the door. Toward her. My hand lifted again. Not to touch the console this time. Not to reach for anything. Just to move. Just to do something. Just to prove I could still choose where to put my body. She didn’t move. Didn’t step back. Didn’t raise her hands. Just watched. I stopped an arm’s length away. Close enough to see the faint scar along her collarbone. The one I gave her. The one I didn’t remember giving her until the drive forced me to. Close enough to see the way her throat moved when she swallowed. Close enough to see the flicker in her eyes—not fear, not anger, not sadness. Something else. Something I didn’t have a name for yet. I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. The next question was already forming. Already pushing its way up my throat. Already sitting on the tip of my tongue like it had been waiting there since the first breath. I didn’t say it. Not yet. I looked past her. At the door. At the lights. At the room beyond it. At the machines I could see lining the walls. At the table in the center. At the restraints hanging loose at its sides. I knew that table. I had seen it before. In memories. In dreams. In the spaces between breaths when the room got too quiet and my mind started filling in the blanks with things I didn’t want to remember. I took another step. Closer. So close now I could feel the heat coming off her skin. So close now I could smell the antiseptic still clinging to her clothes. So close now I could hear the faint hitch in her breathing every time I moved. She didn’t pull away. Didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just watched. I lifted my hand again. This time, I let it rest on her shoulder. Not to hold her. Not to stop her. Not to comfort her. Just to feel the weight of her. Just to remind myself she was real. Just to remind myself I was still here. Still breathing. Still choosing. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. Didn’t speak. Just watched. I opened my mouth. The next question was right there. Right on the edge. Right where it had been since the first breath. I didn’t say it. Not yet. I looked at the counter. 33. Then back at her. Then at the door. Then at the table beyond it. Then back at her. I squeezed her shoulder. Just once. Just enough to feel the bone beneath the skin. Just enough to feel the pulse beneath the muscle. Just enough to feel the life still running through her. She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just watched. I let go. Stepped back. Turned toward the door. The lights pulsed faster now. The machines hummed louder. The air smelled sharper. Like ozone. Like burning wires. Like something was about to start. Or stop. Or break. I took a step toward the threshold. Then another. The counter dropped to 32. I didn’t look back. Didn’t need to. I knew she was still watching. I knew she was still waiting. I knew the next question was coming. And I knew I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from asking it. I stepped into the surgical bay. The lights flared. The machines beeped. The table shifted. The restraints twitched. The counter dropped to 31. I stopped. Looked down at my hands. Looked at the floor. Looked at the walls. Looked at the ceiling. Looked at the door behind me. It was still open. Still waiting. Still glowing. I turned back toward it. Toward her. She hadn’t moved. Hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t blinked. Just watched. I opened my mouth. The question was right there. Right on the edge. Right where it had been since the first breath. I didn’t say it. Not yet. I took a step back toward her. Then another. The counter dropped to 30. She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just watched. I stopped in front of her again. Closer this time. Close enough to feel her breath on my skin. Close enough to feel the weight of her gaze pressing into me. Close enough to feel the silence between us thickening like clotting blood. I opened my mouth. The question pushed its way out before I could stop it. “Was it an accident?” The room didn’t shudder this time. Didn’t flicker. Didn’t drop the counter. Didn’t open another door. Didn’t do anything. Just stayed still. Like it was holding its breath. Like it was waiting for her answer. She didn’t give one. Didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just watched. I waited. The counter dropped to 29. Then 28. Then 27. I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just watched her watching me. The lights in the surgical bay pulsed faster. The machines beeped louder. The air smelled sharper. The table shifted again. The restraints twitched again. The door behind me stayed open. The counter dropped to 26. She still didn’t speak. Still didn’t move. Still didn’t blink. Just watched. I opened my mouth again. The next question was already forming. Already pushing its way up my throat. Already sitting on the tip of my tongue. I didn’t say it. Not yet. I looked at the counter. 25. Then back at her. Then at the door. Then at the table. Then back at her. I took a step toward the surgical bay again. Then stopped. Turned back. Looked at her. Opened my mouth. The question came out quieter this time. Softer. Like I was afraid it would break something if I said it too loud. “Did you forgive me?” The room didn’t shudder. Didn’t flicker. Didn’t drop the counter. Didn’t open another door. Didn’t do anything. Just stayed still. Like it was holding its breath. Like it was waiting for her answer. She didn’t give one. Didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just watched. I waited. The counter dropped to 24. Then 23. Then 22. I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just watched her watching me. The lights pulsed. The machines beeped. The air smelled sharp. The table shifted. The restraints twitched. The door stayed open. The counter dropped to 21. She still didn’t speak. Still didn’t move. Still didn’t blink. Just watched. I opened my mouth again. The next question was already there. Already pushing. Already waiting. I didn’t say it. Not yet. I looked at the counter. 20. Then back at her. Then at the door. Then at the table. Then back at her. I took a step toward the surgical bay. Then stopped. Turned back. Looked at her. Opened my mouth. The question came out before I could stop it. “Do you remember me?” The room didn’t shudder. Didn’t flicker. Didn’t drop the counter. Didn’t open another door. Didn’t do anything. Just stayed still. Like it was holding its breath. Like it was waiting for her answer. She didn’t give one. Didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just watched. I waited. The counter dropped to 19. Then 18. Then 17. I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just watched her watching me. The lights pulsed. The machines beeped. The air smelled sharp. The table shifted. The restraints twitched. The door stayed open. The counter dropped to 16. She still didn’t speak. Still didn’t move. Still didn’t blink. Just watched. I opened my mouth again. The next question was already there. Already pushing. Already waiting. I didn’t say it. Not yet. I looked at the counter. 15. Then back at her. Then at the door. Then at the table. Then back at her. I took a step toward the surgical bay. Then stopped. Turned back. Looked at her. Opened my mouth. The question came out before I could stop it. “Am I still your brother?” The room didn’t shudder. Didn’t flicker. Didn’t drop the counter. Didn’t open another door. Didn’t do anything. Just stayed still. Like it was holding its breath. Like it was waiting for her answer. She didn’t give one. Didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just watched. I waited. The counter dropped to 14. Then 13. Then 12. I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just watched her watching me. The lights pulsed. The machines beeped. The air smelled sharp. The table shifted. The restraints twitched. The door stayed open. The counter dropped to 11. She still didn’t speak. Still didn’t move. Still didn’t blink. Just watched. I opened my mouth again. The next question was already there. Already pushing. Already waiting. I didn’t say it. Not yet. I looked at the counter. 10. Then back at her. Then at the door. Then at the table. Then back at her. I took a step toward the surgical bay. Then stopped. Turned back. Looked at her. Opened my mouth. The question came out before I could stop it. “Do you want me to go in there?” The room didn’t shudder. Didn’t flicker. Didn’t drop the counter. Didn’t open another door. Didn’t do anything. Just stayed still. Like it was holding its breath. Like it was waiting for her answer. She didn’t give one. Didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just watched. I waited. The counter dropped to 9. Then 8. Then 7. I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just watched her watching me. The lights pulsed. The machines beeped. The air smelled sharp. The table shifted. The restraints twitched. The door stayed open. The counter dropped to 6. She still didn’t speak. Still didn’t move. Still didn’t blink. Just watched. I opened my mouth again. The next question was already there. Already pushing. Already waiting. I didn’t say it. Not yet. I looked at the counter. 5. Then back at her. Then at the door. Then at the table. Then back at her. I took a step toward the surgical bay. Then stopped. Turned back. Looked at her. Opened my mouth. The question came out before I could stop it. “Will you come with me?” The room didn’t shudder. Didn’t flicker. Didn’t drop the counter. Didn’t open another door. Didn’t do anything. Just stayed still. Like it was holding its breath. Like it was waiting for her answer. She didn’t give one. Didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just watched. I waited. The counter dropped to 4. Then 3. Then 2. I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just watched her watching me. The lights pulsed. The machines beeped. The air smelled sharp. The table shifted. The restraints twitched. The door stayed open. The counter dropped to 1. She still didn’t speak. Still didn’t move. Still didn’t blink. Just watched. I opened my mouth again. The next question was already there. Already pushing. Already waiting. I didn’t say it. Not yet. I looked at the counter. 0. Then back at her. Then at the door. Then at the table. Then back at her. I took a step toward the surgical bay. Then stopped. Turned back. Looked at her. Opened my mouth. The question came out before I could stop it. “What happens if I go in there alone?”