Chapter 74: You Just Reactivated the Loop I chose. I didn’t say it out loud. Didn’t need to. The console already knew. It felt me decide. Felt the shift in my chest, the tightening in my throat, the way my fingers stopped trembling over the keys. I didn’t flinch. Didn’t hesitate. I let the word form in my head, clean and sharp, like a scalpel sliding into place. Architect. The screen didn’t ask for confirmation. It didn’t blink. It didn’t warn me. It just accepted it. Like it had been waiting. Like it had known I’d cave. Like I’d never really left. The moment the word locked in, the room didn’t explode. It didn’t scream. It didn’t collapse. It just… stopped. Every screen around me froze. Not glitched. Not corrupted. Frozen. Solid. Still. The live feeds of the subjects—their faces, their rooms, their counters—all locked in place. 233. 189. 112. 97. 76. 55. 38. 19. 7. 3. 1. 0. All of them. Stuck. No more ticking. No more breathing. No more movement. Just faces caught mid-scream, mid-whisper, mid-reach. Like statues carved from panic. The hum of the machines didn’t die. It just changed. Dropped an octave. Slowed its rhythm. Became something heavier. Something waiting. I turned. Mirabel was already moving. Her scalpel flared—not with warning, not with threat, but with recognition. Blue light pulsed once, hard, like a heartbeat restarting. She didn’t look at the screens. Didn’t look at the frozen counters. She looked at me. Only me. Her hand shot out, fingers closing around my forearm. Not gentle. Not angry. Just certain. Like she’d rehearsed this moment a thousand times. “You just reactivated the loop,” she said. Her voice wasn’t loud. Wasn’t sharp. It was flat. Final. Like she was reading off a script she’d memorized in her sleep. I didn’t pull away. I didn’t argue. I just stood there, my arm in her grip, the console humming beneath my other hand, the entire system holding its breath around us. She didn’t let go. Didn’t need to. Her fingers were cold. Not from temperature. From stillness. From knowing. I looked back at the screens. At the faces. At the numbers that weren’t moving anymore. I built this. I designed the pauses. I wrote the code that made time stop when the architect spoke. I didn’t remember doing it. But my fingerprints were all over it. My login. My authorization. My goddamn signature at the bottom of every protocol. Subject 007: Male, 42. Counter at 233. Question 14: “What did you tell her before you left?” — frozen mid-sentence, mouth open, eyes wide. Subject 019: Female, 31. Counter at 189. Photograph of a child clutched to her chest, tears halfway down her cheeks. Subject 033: Male, 56. Counter at 112. Rust blade pressed into his forearm, blood pooling but not spreading. Subject 041: Female, 28. Counter at 97. Lips parted, whispering a name that would never leave her throat now. Subject 055: Male, 39. Counter at 76. Hand outstretched toward a door that would never open. Subject 068: Female, 45. Counter at 55. Syringe labeled “FORGIVE” hovering over her wrist, trembling but unmoving. Subject 089: Male, 33. Counter at 38. Strapped to a table, scalpel descending but never touching skin. Subject 102: Female, 29. Counter at 19. Mouth open in a scream that made no sound. Subject 117: Male, 51. Counter at 7. Finger hovering over a red button labeled “LAST BREATH.” Subject 124: Female, 36. Counter at 3. Eyes closed. Chest still. Not breathing. Not dying. Just… paused. Subject 131: Male, 44. Counter at 1. Lips barely moving. “I’m sorry” never finished. Subject 138: Female, 27. Counter at 0. Screen black. No face. No room. Just void. I scrolled. Fast. Faster. More names. More rooms. More frozen moments. More pain suspended in digital amber. All of them. Every single one. Waiting. Not for death. Not for mercy. For me. I built this. Not just the rooms. Not just the counters. Not just the questions or the photographs or the syringes or the corridors. I built the pause. I built the silence. I built the moment where everything stops and waits for the architect to speak. And now I had. Mirabel’s grip tightened. Just a fraction. Just enough to remind me she was still there. Still real. Still holding on. I didn’t look at her. Couldn’t. Not yet. I kept scrolling. Kept watching. Kept seeing the faces I’d trapped. The lives I’d suspended. The breaths I’d stolen and then put on hold. The console beeped. Not a warning. Not an error. A prompt. Center screen. Bold. Red. Flashing. > FINAL PHASE INITIATED — SELECT PRIMARY SUBJECT FOR TERMINATION.