Chapter 66: The Scalpel in Her Hand I turned. The whisper didn’t fade. It didn’t echo. It didn’t dissolve like the others. It stayed. Lodged in the hollow behind my ribs. A command. A plea. A warning. “This time, don’t let go.” I didn’t know if it came from the air or from inside me. I didn’t care. It was there. And now, so was she. Mirabel. Not a memory. Not a projection. Not a ghost stitched together from guilt and static. She stood in front of me, solid, real, close enough that if I breathed too hard, my breath would stir the hair near her temple. Her eyes were fixed on mine. No anger. No accusation. No pity. Just waiting. Like she had all the time in the world. Like she had been standing here since the first breath. Like she would stand here until the last. Her hand lifted. Slow. Steady. Palm up. Open. Empty. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. The gesture was clear. The scalpel. Give it to her. I looked down at my own hand. The blade was still there. Cold. Heavy. Familiar. The same one I’d held over tables, over skin, over consent forms I never read. The same one I’d pressed to my own chest, my own temple, my own guilt. The same one I’d used to cut open folders, cut through lies, cut into memories I didn’t want to face. I didn’t want to let it go. Not because I needed it. Not because I thought it could save me. But because letting go felt like surrendering the last thing that made me real. The last thing that proved I had done something. Anything. Even if it was wrong. Even if it was cruel. Even if it was the reason she was standing here now, waiting for me to hand her the weapon I used to erase her. I tightened my grip. Just for a second. Just to feel the metal bite into my palm. Just to remind myself that I was still holding on. Then I loosened my fingers. One by one. The scalpel didn’t fall. It slid. From my grip to hers. Smooth. Quiet. Like it belonged there. Like it had always belonged there. Her fingers closed around the handle. Not like she was taking it. Like she was receiving it. Like this was the moment she had been waiting for. Not to punish me. Not to kill me. Not to forgive me. To begin. The floor cracked. Not with a sound. Not with a shudder. Just a clean, sharp split right beneath our feet. Steel peeled back like paper. Not rusted. Not broken. Designed to open. Like it had been waiting too. A staircase. Descending. Narrow. Steep. Lit by monitors embedded in the walls. Dozens of them. Maybe hundreds. Each one flickering. Each one showing a moment. A face. A failure. Mine. I didn’t look at them. Not yet. I looked at her. She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t look at me. Her eyes were on the stairs. On the descent. On what waited below. The scalpel in her hand began to glow. Not bright. Not blinding. A soft, steady pulse. Blue. Like a heartbeat. Like a warning. Like a guide. She took a step. Not down. Not forward. Just a shift. A signal. A question. Are you coming? I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. I stepped onto the first stair. The metal was cold under my shoe. Solid. Real. More real than anything had felt in a long time. I took another step. Then another. The monitors flickered faster now. Faces flashed. Names scrolled. Moments replayed. I caught glimpses. A signature. A turned back. A lowered blade. A closed door. A child’s hand against glass. A rabbit clutched too tight. A promise whispered and broken before the words had even settled. I didn’t stop. I didn’t look away. I just kept walking. Mirabel followed. Silent. Close. The scalpel glowed in her grip.