Chapter 86: The Scalpel Doesn’t Ask Mirabel didn’t blink. She didn’t shift her weight. She didn’t even breathe louder. She just stood there, scalpel in hand, eyes locked on me like I was a variable in an equation she’d already solved. The console behind her hummed, low and steady, its red glow painting her face in streaks of old blood. I didn’t move. I didn’t speak. I just watched her. I knew what she wanted. She didn’t have to say it. She never did. She tilted her head slightly, just enough to make it clear she was waiting. Not impatient. Not angry. Just waiting. Like she’d done this a thousand times before. Like she’d practiced it in her head while I was still forgetting her name. The silence stretched. I could feel the weight of it pressing against my ribs, heavier than the breaths I had left. I didn’t count them anymore. I didn’t need to. They were running out. That was all that mattered. She lifted the scalpel, not threatening, not gesturing, just holding it up between us like it was a question. Her fingers curled around the handle, steady, practiced. She didn’t point it at me. She didn’t point it at the console. She just let it hang there, glinting under the red light, waiting for me to understand what it meant. I understood. It wasn’t a weapon. Not anymore. It was a key. A switch. A choice. She lowered it slowly, deliberately, until the tip hovered just above the surface of the console. Not touching. Not pressing. Just waiting. Her other hand rested on the edge of the machine, fingers spread, like she was bracing herself. Or maybe she was bracing it. I couldn’t tell. I didn’t know her anymore. I never really did. I took a step forward. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull back. Didn’t warn me. She just watched. Her eyes didn’t leave mine. Not for a second. I could see the reflection of the red light in them, tiny flickers dancing in the dark. I could see myself in them too, small and broken and standing too close to the edge. Another step. The air between us felt thick, like walking through water. Or maybe it was just the weight of everything I’d done. Everything I hadn’t done. Everything I’d signed away without reading. Everything I’d cut open without asking. Everything I’d buried under layers of code and silence and scalpel blades. I stopped in front of her. Close enough to touch. Close enough to smell the sterile sharpness of the room, the faint metallic tang of the machine, the quiet hum of the system waiting to be told what to do next. I didn’t reach for her. I didn’t reach for the scalpel. I just stood there, looking at her, trying to find something in her face that I could hold onto. Something that wasn’t judgment. Something that wasn’t calculation. Something that was just… her. There was nothing. She was empty. Not cruel. Not kind. Just empty. Like a machine that had finished its task and was waiting for the next command. Like a room after everyone had left. Like a breath after the last one. I looked past her, at the console. At the screens. At the faces still breathing, still alive, still trapped in the system I built. I didn’t know their names. I didn’t know their stories. I didn’t know why I chose them. Maybe I didn’t choose them at all. Maybe the system did. Maybe it was always going to be them. Maybe it was always going to be me. I looked back at Mirabel. She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. I reached for the scalpel. Not to take it from her. Not to use it on her. Not to use it on myself. I reached past her. My fingers brushed against hers as I moved, just for a second, just enough to feel the warmth of her skin, the steadiness of her grip. She didn’t pull away. She didn’t tighten her hold. She just let me pass. Like she knew what I was going to do. Like she’d already seen it happen. I stepped around her, my shoulder grazing hers, and faced the back of the console. The red light washed over me, painting my hands, my arms, the back of my neck in the same dull crimson as the rest of the room. I could feel the heat of the machine against my skin, the vibration of its inner workings humming through the floor, up my legs, into my chest. I could feel the weight of it. The power of it. The finality of it. I didn’t hesitate. I raised the scalpel. I didn’t think about what would happen next. I didn’t think about whether it would work. I didn’t think about whether it was the right choice. I didn’t think at all. I just cut. The blade sliced through the main power conduit like it was nothing. Like it was paper. Like it was skin. There was no resistance. No spark. No sound. Just a clean, smooth slice, and then— Darkness. Not complete. Not total. Just the red light flickering, stuttering, dying. The hum of the machine cut off mid-breath, leaving a silence so sudden it felt like falling. The screens didn’t go black. They didn’t shut down. They just… changed. Every single one of them. Flickering. Glitching. Resetting. And then, in unison, they all displayed the same phrase, stark white against the dying red glow: “SYSTEM RECOVERY MODE — 90 SECONDS TO RESET.”