Chapter 50: What Happens If I Go In There Alone I asked the question because I needed to hear her say something. Anything. Even if it was silence, I needed to know she heard me. I needed to know she was still choosing not to answer. I needed to know I hadn’t imagined her. That she wasn’t just another trick of the room, another layer of the machine pretending to be human so it could watch me break. She didn’t answer. Not with words. Not with movement. Not even with a flicker in her eyes. She just stood there, watching me like I was a specimen under glass. Like I was already dead and she was waiting for the autopsy report to print. I turned away. Not because I gave up. Not because I accepted it. I turned because I knew if I kept looking at her, I’d start begging. And I didn’t want to beg. Not here. Not now. Not after everything. I stepped into the surgical bay. The moment my foot crossed the threshold, the air changed. It wasn’t thinner. It wasn’t heavier. It just became different. Like the room had been holding its breath and now it was letting go. Like it had been waiting for me to make the choice so it could stop pretending to give me one. Behind me, the door sealed. I didn’t turn around. I didn’t need to. I felt it. Felt the space between me and Mira close. Felt the last thread connecting us snap. Felt the machine exhale. The machines around me stirred. Not all at once. Not in unison. Each one woke up on its own time. One beeped. Another hummed. A third clicked. They didn’t care that I was here. They didn’t care that I was breathing. They didn’t care that I had asked a question no one answered. They just did what they were built to do. The table in the center of the room rose. Slowly. Smoothly. Like it had been waiting under the floor for years and now it was finally being called up. The restraints hanging at its sides twitched. Not like they were alive. Not like they were scared. Like they were stretching. Like they were getting ready. I didn’t move toward it. I didn’t move away. I just stood there, watching it rise. Watching the restraints settle into place. Watching the surface of the table gleam under the pulsing lights. Watching the machines around it blink and beep and hum like they were having a conversation I wasn’t invited to. The counter above my head was gone. I didn’t notice right away. I was too busy watching the table. Too busy listening to the machines. Too busy wondering if Mira was still on the other side of the door or if she had vanished the moment I stepped inside. When I finally looked up, there was nothing. No numbers. No ticking. No red glow counting down the seconds until my lungs gave out. Just empty space where the counter used to be. I didn’t feel relief. I didn’t feel fear. I just felt… untethered. Like I had been anchored to that number for so long that without it, I didn’t know how to measure time. Didn’t know how to measure myself. The table stopped rising. The restraints snapped open. Not all the way. Not like they were inviting me to lie down. Just enough to show me they were ready. Just enough to remind me they existed. Just enough to make me wonder what would happen if I didn’t get on it. I took a step forward. Then another. Not because I wanted to. Not because I had a plan. I took the steps because my body remembered how to move even when my mind didn’t know where to go. Because standing still felt like surrender and I wasn’t ready to surrender. Not yet. The machines grew louder. Not in volume. Not in pitch. In presence. Like they were leaning in. Like they were paying attention. Like they were waiting for me to make the next mistake. I stopped at the edge of the table. Looked down at it. Looked at the restraints. Looked at the machines. Looked at the door behind me. It was still sealed. Still glowing. Still silent. I reached out. Not to touch the table. Not to test the restraints. Just to see if I could. Just to see if the machine would let me. Just to see if I was still allowed to reach for things. My fingers brushed the edge of the table. Cold. Smooth. Unyielding. I pulled my hand back. Looked at it. Flexed my fingers. Still mine. Still real. Still attached. The machine didn’t care. A new counter appeared. Not above my head. Not on the wall. Not on any of the machines. Above the table. Big. Bold. Impossible to miss. BREATHS REMAINING FOR MIRA: 1 I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just stared at the number. One. Not two. Not zero. One. Like the machine was giving her one last breath. One last chance. One last moment to say something. To do something. To stop this. She didn’t. The machines beeped. The lights pulsed. The table waited. The restraints stayed open. I took a step back. Then another. Then another. Until my back hit the wall. I slid down it. Sat on the floor. Looked up at the counter. One. Still one. Not ticking down. Not ticking up. Just there. Like it was waiting for me to do something. Like it was waiting for me to ask the next question. Like it was waiting for me to realize I was the only one left who could answer it. I closed my eyes. Opened them. Looked at the counter again. One. Still one. I didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know what to think. I just sat there. Breathing. Waiting. Watching. The machines beeped. The lights pulsed. The table waited. The restraints stayed open. The counter stayed at one. I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just watched. The operating table rose toward me, restraints snapping open, and a new counter appearing above it: “BREATHS REMAINING FOR MIRA: 1.”