Chapter 73: Architect I stood there with my hand still on the pad, the red glow gone, the screen waiting. Mirabel didn’t move. She didn’t speak. She just watched me, scalpel in hand, its blue light steady like a held breath. The machine waited too. The room waited. The air didn’t move. The hum didn’t change. Everything was still except for the pulse in my throat and the slow, heavy beat behind my ribs. I didn’t say it out loud. I didn’t need to. I thought it. Clear. Final. Architect. The screen flickered once, then cleared. The words vanished. A new line appeared. > IDENTITY CONFIRMED: ARCHITECT. The console lit up beneath my palm. Not red. Not warning. Not denial. Acceptance. Full. Immediate. Final. Mirabel’s scalpel dimmed. Not off. Not dead. Just quieter. Like it had been waiting for this. Like it had known I would say it. Like it had been holding its breath until I did. The room shifted. Not violently. Not with noise or collapse. It just… changed. The walls pulled back, not physically, but visually, like a curtain lifting on a stage I didn’t know I was standing on. The sterile white dissolved into panels of steel and glass, embedded with blinking lights and scrolling text. The ceiling lifted, revealing conduits and wires, pulsing with data instead of blood. The floor beneath my feet became transparent, showing layers of circuitry beneath, glowing faintly, moving with purpose. This wasn’t a room anymore. It was a hub. A control center. And I was standing at its heart. The console beneath my hands expanded. New screens rose from its surface. Graphs. Logs. Timelines. Authorization codes. Design schematics. All labeled with my name. All signed by me. All dated before I woke up in that first room with the counter at 300. Protocol Zero. I built it. Not just the room. Not just the counter. Not just the questions or the photographs or the syringes or the corridors. All of it. Every loop. Every breath. Every punishment. Every memory trigger. Every scalpel. Every door. Every lie. Every silence. Every scream that never left the walls. I designed it. I authorized it. I initiated it. And not just for Mirabel. The main screen split into a grid. Dozens of feeds. Maybe hundreds. Each one showed a different room. Each one showed a different person. Each one had a counter above their head. 300. 297. 285. 271. 250. All ticking down. All breathing. All trapped. All being punished. All by me. I stepped closer to the console. My reflection stared back from the black glass, but I didn’t see myself. I saw the man who signed the forms. The man who pressed the buttons. The man who chose silence over surgery. The man who deleted her. The man who built the machine that made her beg. The man who made her watch herself die over and over. The man who made her wait for me to remember. The man who made her wait for me to choose. Mirabel didn’t move. She didn’t look at the screens. She didn’t look at me. She just stood there, scalpel lowered now, its glow reduced to a soft pulse. She knew. She always knew. She was waiting for me to know too. I scrolled through the logs. My fingerprints were on every line. My voiceprint authorized every override. My biometric signature initiated every phase. My login credentials opened every door. My design specs dictated every breath. I didn’t just erase Mirabel. I built the system that erased her. And I built it for others too. Subject 007: Male, 42. Counter at 233. Currently answering Question 14: “What did you tell her before you left?” Subject 019: Female, 31. Counter at 189. Currently holding a photograph of a child. Room temperature dropping. Subject 033: Male, 56. Counter at 112. Currently cutting his own arm with a rusted blade. Blood pooling on the floor. Subject 041: Female, 28. Counter at 97. Currently whispering a name. Walls responding with vibrations. Subject 055: Male, 39. Counter at 76. Currently staring at a door that won’t open. Intercom silent. Subject 068: Female, 45. Counter at 55. Currently holding a syringe labeled “FORGIVE.” Hesitating. Subject 089: Male, 33. Counter at 38. Currently lying on a table. Restraints engaged. Scalpel descending. Subject 102: Female, 29. Counter at 19. Currently screaming. No sound coming out. Subject 117: Male, 51. Counter at 7. Currently reaching for a button labeled “LAST BREATH.” Subject 124: Female, 36. Counter at 3. Currently closing her eyes. Not moving. Subject 131: Male, 44. Counter at 1. Currently whispering, “I’m sorry.” Subject 138: Female, 27. Counter at 0. Currently gone. Screen black. I scrolled faster. More names. More faces. More breaths. More rooms. More pain. More silence. More begging. More cutting. More syringes. More photographs. More questions. More lies. More guilt. More punishment. All designed by me. All authorized by me. All initiated by me. Mirabel still didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. The screens spoke for her. The logs spoke for her. The counters spoke for her. The blood on the floors, the tears on the cheeks, the shaking hands, the closed eyes, the whispered apologies, the final breaths—they all spoke for her. I built this. For her. And for them. The console beeped. A new prompt appeared. Center screen. Bold. Red. Flashing. > TERMINATE ALL SUBJECTS? Y/N