Chapter 84: You Built This to Punish Liars I didn’t move. Not because I couldn’t. Not because I was afraid. I didn’t move because for the first time since I woke up in that first room with the counter above me, I understood exactly what I was looking at. Mirabel stood at the console, her fingers resting lightly on the surface like she’d been waiting for this moment her whole life. The screens around us still glowed with faces — hundreds of them, maybe thousands — each one frozen in some private moment of fear or resignation or quiet despair. Their breath counters had reset. They were alive again. Because of me. Because I cut my arm. Because I chose blood over truth. And now she was going to kill them all. She turned her head just slightly, enough to catch my eye in the reflection of the nearest monitor. Her expression didn’t change. No smirk. No rage. No triumph. Just calm. The kind of calm that comes after you’ve already won and there’s nothing left to prove. “You built this to punish liars,” she said. Her voice didn’t echo. It didn’t need to. It landed right where it was meant to — inside my chest, under my ribs, behind my eyes. I took a step forward. She didn’t flinch. I took another. The console lit up as I approached, a soft blue glow spreading across its surface like water finding its level. A biometric field activated — invisible, but I felt it the second my hand got close. My skin prickled. Not pain. Not heat. Just resistance. Like pushing against glass that refused to break. I slammed my palm against it anyway. Nothing happened. I tried again. Harder. My fingers splayed, my wrist twisted, my shoulder leaned into it like I could brute-force my way through code and steel and whatever else she’d locked me out with. Still nothing. Mirabel didn’t even look at me. She tapped a single key. A new screen bloomed in the center of the wall — larger than the others, brighter, sharper. It showed a woman. Mid-thirties. Dark hair pulled back. Eyes wide. Lips parted like she was about to speak but couldn’t find the words. Above her head, a counter blinked: 047. Subject 002. I knew her name. I didn’t remember how I knew it, but I did. Clara Reyes. Mother of two. Nurse. Volunteer at the children’s hospital on weekends. She liked peppermint tea and hated the sound of balloons popping. She had signed a consent form for an experimental procedure after her youngest was diagnosed with a rare spinal condition. She thought it would save him. It didn’t. It saved me. I opened my mouth to say something — anything — but no sound came out. My throat locked. My lungs forgot how to pull air. I stood there, useless, while Mirabel lifted one finger and hovered it over a red button labeled TERMINATE. “Now watch me punish the architect,” she said. She pressed it. The screen went black. Just like that. No warning. No countdown. No final plea. No dramatic music. No swell of emotion. Just darkness where a face had been. Where a life had been. Where a mother, a nurse, a woman who hated balloon sounds and drank peppermint tea, had been. Gone. I stumbled back. Not from shock. Not from grief. From the sheer weight of what I had done. What I had made. What I had let happen. What I had designed. This wasn’t an accident. This wasn’t a glitch. This was the system working exactly as intended. And I was the one who built it. Mirabel didn’t turn around. She didn’t gloat. She didn’t smile. She just moved her hand to the next key. Another screen lit up. Subject 003. Male. Late twenties. Former soldier. Lost his leg in an IED blast. Signed up for neural reconstruction hoping to walk again. Got something worse instead. His counter blinked: 051. I lunged for the console again. Slammed both hands against the barrier. Screamed her name. Begged. Pleaded. Threatened. Promised. Offered myself. Offered everything. Offered nothing. The barrier didn’t care. Mirabel didn’t care. She tapped the key. The screen went black. I fell to my knees. Not because I was broken. Not because I was defeated. But because I finally understood. She wasn’t trying to hurt me. She wasn’t trying to break me. She was showing me. Every face. Every counter. Every termination. Every black screen. They were all mine. I built this. I signed the forms. I wrote the protocols. I approved the overrides. I chose who lived. I chose who died. I chose silence over surgery. I chose control over compassion. I chose power over people. And now Mirabel was choosing for me. She tapped another key. Subject 004. Child. Seven years old. Born with a congenital defect. Parents desperate. Doctors out of options. They signed the waiver without reading the fine print. Who does? Counter: 039. I crawled toward the console. Dragged myself across the floor like a wounded animal. My hands scraped against the metal plating. My knees ached. My breath came in short, sharp bursts. I didn’t care. I reached for her ankle. Grabbed it. Squeezed. Tried to pull her away. She didn’t kick me off. She didn’t shove me back. She just stood there, letting me hold on, while her finger hovered over the button. “You don’t get to stop this,” she said. I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. She pressed the button. The screen went black. I let go of her leg. I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I didn’t beg. I just sat there, on the cold floor, staring at the empty space where a child’s face had been. Mirabel moved to the next key. Subject 005. I didn’t look. I didn’t need to. I already knew what would happen. I already knew who they were. I already knew why they were here. I already knew I was the reason. She tapped the key. The screen went black. And then she moved to the next. And the next. And the next. I stopped counting after the tenth. Stopped looking after the fifth. Stopped moving after the third. I just sat there. Watching. Waiting. Listening. To the silence between each tap. To the absence after each press. To the void left behind when a life is erased with a single keystroke. Mirabel didn’t rush. She didn’t hesitate. She didn’t pause to savor it. She just kept going. One by one. Face by face. Counter by counter. Black screen by black screen. Until only two remained. Hers. And mine. She turned to me then. Finally. Looked me in the eye. No anger. No pity. No hatred. Just truth. “You wanted to fix it,” she said. I didn’t answer. “You wanted to undo it.” Still nothing. “You wanted to be the hero.” I closed my eyes. “You’re not.” I opened them again. She held out her hand. Not to help me up. Not to offer mercy. Not to give me a choice. Just to show me what she was holding. The scalpel. Same one I’d used to cut myself. Same one I’d held over her in the surgical bay. Same one I’d pressed to my temple. Same one I’d given her when she asked. It gleamed under the sterile light. Not with menace. Not with threat. With purpose. She didn’t say anything else. She didn’t need to. She turned back to the console. Raised the scalpel. Not to cut me. Not to cut herself. To cut the system. To sever the last thread. To end it. For good. Her finger moved toward the final key. Subject 006. I didn’t try to stop her. I didn’t try to speak. I didn’t try to move. I just watched. As she pressed the button. As the screen went black. As the first of many. As the room filled with silence. As the machines hummed. As the lights flickered. As the air grew thin. As the world narrowed to a single point. To a single choice. To a single breath. To her. Standing there. Scalpel in hand. Eyes on me. Waiting. For what came next. For what I would do. For what I would say. For what I would become. The screen stayed black. The counter didn’t reset. The faces didn’t return. The system didn’t glitch. It just kept going. Subject 007.