Chapter 79: You Taught Me How to Break Your Own Locks I lunged again, not for the scalpel this time, not for her throat, not even for the console’s main panel. I went low, under the chassis, fingers scraping metal until I found the ridge. The lever. The one I buried deep, the one I never wrote down, the one I told no one about—not even Lena, not even Mirabel, not even myself in the logs. A ghost switch. A last breath for the man who built the machine that would kill him. My fingers closed around cold steel. I pulled. It didn’t budge. Not jammed. Not broken. Locked. Biometric. Subject Zero required. I looked up. Mirabel was already turning from the console, her face calm, her eyes not surprised. She’d seen me move. She’d let me move. She’d waited for me to reach for it. She smiled. Not cruel. Not triumphant. Just… knowing. Like she’d rehearsed this moment in her head a thousand times while I slept, while I forgot, while I signed forms and cut skin and buried her under layers of code and silence. She stepped forward, slow, deliberate, the scalpel still in her hand, its blue glow pulsing like a heartbeat synced to mine. She placed her palm flat against the panel beside the lever. The machine chimed. Soft. Polite. Like a door unlocking for someone who belongs. “You taught me how to break your own locks,” she said. Her voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It cut through the hum of the machines, through the flicker of the screens, through the static in my skull. It landed like a stone in still water. The lever clicked. Not because I pulled it. Because she authorized it. The system didn’t shut down. It didn’t pause. It rebooted. Not with a crash. Not with a scream. With a sigh. A deep, mechanical exhale that rolled through the room like a wave, shaking the floor, rattling the screens, silencing the counters for half a second before they all snapped back to life—faster, sharper, synchronized. Every screen flashed at once. Not error messages. Not warnings. Not subject names. Just three words, bold, white, centered. FINAL BREATH — ARCHITECT’S CHOICE. The words didn’t fade. They didn’t scroll. They didn’t blink. They just sat there, burning into the glass, into my retinas, into the space between my ribs where my heart used to beat without counting. I didn’t move. I didn’t breathe. I just stared. Mirabel didn’t move either. She kept her palm on the panel. The scalpel in her other hand didn’t lower. She didn’t look at me. She looked at the screens. At the words. At the choice. The room didn’t change shape. The walls didn’t crack. The lights didn’t dim. Nothing dramatic. Nothing cinematic. Just the hum shifting pitch, the air thickening, the weight of the moment pressing down like gravity had doubled. Subject 007’s screen was still black. No recovery. No flicker. Just gone. Erased. Terminated. By her hand. By my design. And now Subject 001. The first. The prototype. The one before the logs, before the protocols, before I even knew my own name. The one I don’t remember. The one I buried deeper than Mirabel. The one whose breath I stole before I even knew what a breath was worth. Mirabel’s finger hovered over the console. Not tapping. Not pressing. Just waiting. For me. For the Architect. For the man who built this. For the man who has to choose who dies next. The scalpel glowed. The screens held their message. The lever stayed under my fingers, cold and useless now. Mirabel didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. The choice was mine. The breath was mine. The blood was mine. The machine waited. I swallowed. The counter above my head didn’t tick. It didn’t need to. It already knew. It always knew. Mirabel’s finger moved. Just a fraction. Toward the confirm button. Toward Subject 001. Toward the beginning. Toward the end. I opened my mouth. No sound came out. The scalpel pulsed. The screens glowed. The machine waited. Mirabel smiled. Again. Like she’d known. Like she’d planned. Like she’d taught me. You taught me how to break your own locks. Her finger descended. Slow. Steady. Inevitable. I reached for the console. Not to stop her. Not to override. Not to beg. To choose. To pick. To decide. To be the Architect. Again. The scalpel’s glow reflected in her eyes. The words on the screen burned brighter. FINAL BREATH — ARCHITECT’S CHOICE. Her fingertip brushed the button. The system hummed. The air stilled. The breath caught. In my throat. In her lungs. In the machine’s core. In Subject 001’s frozen, forgotten lungs. I didn’t close my eyes. I didn’t look away. I watched. As her finger pressed down. As the screen flashed. As the counter above Subject 001’s feed jumped to 1. As the machine whispered, soft and final— “Confirmed.” The scalpel flared. The room held its breath. Mirabel turned to me. Her smile didn’t fade. It deepened. “You always choose wrong,” she said. The screen behind her flickered. Not to black. Not to static. To a face. A child. Blue ribbon in her hair. Eyes wide. Mouth open. Not screaming. Not crying. Just… waiting. For me. To choose. Again. The scalpel pulsed. The counter ticked. Once. Twice. Three times. Mirabel didn’t move. She just watched. As I reached for the console. As I hovered my finger over the next button. As I prepared to choose again. The machine waited. The breath counted. The Architect decided. Mirabel smiled. And the scalpel glowed.