Chapter 61: You Pretended to Ask I stepped into the corridor labeled “YOU ASKED HER” and the air didn’t change. No shift in pressure, no flicker of light, no sound. Just the same sterile white walls, the same faint hum beneath my feet, the same suffocating sense of being watched. I expected something softer here. A memory where I did the right thing. Where I let her speak. Where I listened. Where I asked. Mirabel’s voice came from everywhere and nowhere. “You didn’t ask.” I stopped walking. “You pretended to.” The path behind me sealed shut with a click so quiet I almost missed it. No dramatic slam, no grinding metal, no hiss of hydraulics. Just a soft, final click. Like a lock turning in a quiet house. I turned around. The entrance was gone. Smooth wall. No seam. No handle. No crack. Nothing to grab, nothing to pry, nothing to break. I faced forward again. The corridor stretched ahead, empty except for the glow of the overhead panels. I walked. One step. Two. Three. My breaths counted down inside me. I didn’t need to see the number. I felt it. Each inhale a little shallower. Each exhale a little heavier. Then I saw him. Me. Younger. Cleaner. Smugger. Standing in the middle of the corridor, arms crossed, chin lifted. He wore the same clothes I remembered from that night — the gray sweater, the dark slacks, the shoes I polished before heading to the hospital. He looked like he belonged here. Like he was waiting for me. He opened his mouth. I didn’t let him speak. I lunged. My fist connected with his jaw before he could get a word out. He staggered back, eyes wide, hand flying to his face. He didn’t fight back. He just stared at me like I’d broken some sacred rule. Like I wasn’t supposed to touch him. I didn’t care. I grabbed the front of his sweater and shoved him hard against the wall. His head cracked against it. He winced. I pressed my forearm against his throat. “Shut up,” I said. He tried to speak anyway. Muffled sounds. Guttural. Desperate. I pressed harder. His eyes watered. His lips moved. Still trying. Still pretending he had something worth saying. I let go. He slid down the wall, coughing, rubbing his throat. He looked up at me, confused, betrayed. Like I was the monster here. I walked past him. Ten steps later, another version of me appeared. Older this time. Tired. Hair thinning. Dark circles under his eyes. He stood with his hands clasped in front of him like a priest about to give a sermon. He opened his mouth. I didn’t wait. I kicked him in the knee. He dropped with a grunt. I stepped over him before he could recover. He reached for my ankle. I stomped on his fingers. He yelped. I kept walking. Another one. This one was smiling. Smug. Arms spread like he was welcoming me home. He started talking before I even got close. Something about “doing what was necessary.” Something about “protecting her from herself.” I didn’t hear the rest. I grabbed his collar and slammed his head into the wall beside him. Once. Twice. Three times. He stopped talking. He stopped smiling. He slid to the floor, dazed, blood trickling from his temple. I didn’t look back. More came. One after another. Each one dressed differently. Each one standing in a different pose. Each one opening their mouth to say something — to justify, to explain, to lie. I didn’t let any of them finish. I punched. I kicked. I shoved. I choked. I broke noses. I twisted wrists. I slammed heads. I didn’t care how they looked. I didn’t care what they were about to say. I just wanted them silent. The corridor didn’t change. The walls didn’t bleed. The floor didn’t crack. No alarms. No warnings. Just me and the versions of me I had to shut up to hear her. I lost count of how many I silenced. My knuckles were split. My shoulder ached. My breaths came faster now, shallower. The counter in my chest ticked down with every gasp. I didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. Not until I heard her. Then, finally, there were no more. The corridor stretched empty ahead. No more mes. No more interruptions. Just silence. I slowed my steps. My chest burned. My hands trembled. I wiped blood from my lip with the back of my sleeve. I kept walking. And then I saw her. Mirabel. Not the version from the kitchen. Not the version from the surgical table. Not the version holding the scalpel. This was her as she was that night. The night before the surgery. Hair loose. Wearing that oversized hoodie she always stole from me. Barefoot. Standing in the center of the corridor, arms crossed, staring at me like she’d been waiting for this exact moment. I stopped a few feet away. She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched me. I opened my mouth. She held up a finger. I closed it. She lowered her hand. “You already knew my answer,” she said. Her voice was quiet. Flat. No anger. No sadness. Just fact. “That’s why you never let me say it.” I didn’t argue. I didn’t apologize. I didn’t try to explain. I just stood there, breathing, bleeding, listening. She turned away from me. The corridor behind her began to collapse. Not with noise. Not with violence. Just folding in on itself. The walls peeled back like paper. The floor retracted. The ceiling lowered. Everything shrinking, compressing, condensing into a single point ahead. A door. Plain. White. No handle. No lock. Just a smooth surface with words etched into it in clean, black letters. BREATH #4: FIRST PROMISE BROKEN.