Chapter 95: The First Breath Again I watched Elias vanish. Not like smoke. Not like mist. Not like anything that leaves a trace. One moment he stood there, blood on the console, eyes locked on mine, fingers still curled around nothing. The next, he was gone. No echo. No residue. Just empty space where a man had been seconds before. The machine sighed. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just a quiet exhale, like a system powering down after a long task. The screen flickered once, then settled. His name disappeared. My name took its place. SYSTEM ADMIN: MIRABEL VARGA — ACTIVE I didn’t look at the spot where he’d stood. I didn’t let myself think about the way his fingers had trembled before he pressed the button. I didn’t let myself remember the way he’d whispered my name, like it was the last word he’d ever speak. I turned to the console. The scalpel in my hand didn’t feel heavy. It didn’t feel symbolic. It just felt like metal. Cold. Sharp. Real. I set it down on the edge of the panel, blade facing away from me. I didn’t need it anymore. Not for this. My fingers moved over the keys. I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t pause to consider the weight of what I was about to do. I typed the command like I was sending an email. Like I was resetting a router. Like it was nothing. REINSTATE PROTOCOL ZERO — FULL RECURSION I hit enter. The machine responded instantly. No warning. No confirmation prompt. No hesitation. It knew what this meant. It had been waiting for this. The screens around me flickered to life, one by one, row by row, filling the room with faces. Dozens of them. Hundreds. Men. Women. Children. Some I recognized. Most I didn’t. All of them frozen in the moment they’d been erased. Eyes wide. Mouths open. Hands reaching for something that was no longer there. I didn’t look at them. I didn’t let myself see the fear. The confusion. The betrayal. I didn’t let myself remember that I’d been one of them once. That I’d sat in a room just like the ones they were about to wake up in, staring at a counter ticking down, wondering if I’d make it to zero. The system hummed. Low. Steady. Purposeful. It was rebuilding them. Not their bodies. Not their lives. Just their presence. Their breath. Their chance to play the game again. I watched the central monitor. The one that mattered. A new face appeared. Young. Male. Dark hair. Wide eyes. He looked confused. Scared. He didn’t know where he was. He didn’t know why he was there. He didn’t remember dying. The counter above his head flashed once. Then it settled. 300. He blinked. Once. Twice. His chest rose. Fell. He took a breath. Unaware that it was his first. Unaware that it was his last. Unaware that he was already counting down to the end. I didn’t move. I didn’t speak. I just watched. The screen zoomed in slightly. His eyes darted around the room. He saw the chair. The table. The envelope. He reached for it. Slowly. Carefully. Like he was afraid it might bite him. He opened it. He pulled out the photograph. He stared at it. He didn’t recognize the woman in the picture. He didn’t recognize himself. He didn’t know he was already dead. The intercom crackled. He flinched. A voice spoke. Calm. Measured. Unfamiliar. “You have exactly 300 breaths before you die. No more. No less.” He looked up. Around. Behind him. He didn’t see the camera. He didn’t see me. He didn’t see anything but the walls closing in. “Answer a question truthfully,” the voice continued, “and you gain five breaths. Refuse, and you lose ten.” He swallowed. His fingers tightened around the photograph. He didn’t speak. The voice waited. The counter ticked down. 299. He opened his mouth. I didn’t wait to hear what he said. I turned away from the screen. I walked to the next console. The next subject. The next room. The next life about to begin its slow, inevitable unraveling. I typed the same command. REINSTATE PROTOCOL ZERO — FULL RECURSION The screen flickered. A new face appeared. A woman this time. Older. Tired eyes. Gray streaks in her hair. She looked like she hadn’t slept in weeks. She didn’t look scared. She looked resigned. Like she already knew how this would end. The counter flashed. 300. She didn’t move. She didn’t reach for the envelope. She just sat there. Staring at the wall. Breathing. Waiting. The intercom crackled. She didn’t flinch. “You have exactly 300 breaths before you die.” She closed her eyes. I moved to the next console. And the next. And the next. Each time, the same command. Each time, the same flicker. Each time, the same counter. Each time, the same voice. Each time, the same silence before the first question. I didn’t stop. I didn’t slow down. I didn’t let myself think about what I was doing. I just kept typing. REINSTATE PROTOCOL ZERO — FULL RECURSION. REINSTATE PROTOCOL ZERO — FULL RECURSION. REINSTATE PROTOCOL ZERO — FULL RECURSION. The room filled with breath. With panic. With hope. With dread. With questions. With silence. With the sound of hearts beating too fast. With the sound of lungs struggling to pull in air. With the sound of fingers trembling against tabletops. With the sound of voices whispering names they didn’t remember. I didn’t listen. I didn’t watch. I just kept moving. From console to console. From subject to subject. From breath to breath. The system didn’t question me. It didn’t challenge me. It didn’t ask why. It just obeyed. It had been built to obey. Elias had made sure of that. I reached the last console. The last subject. A child. No older than six. Curly hair. Freckles. A small gap between her front teeth. She was clutching a stuffed rabbit. One ear was missing. The other was frayed at the edge. She didn’t look afraid. She looked curious. Like this was just another room. Another game. Another day. The counter flashed. 300. She smiled. The intercom crackled. She tilted her head. “You have exactly 300 breaths before you die.” She didn’t understand. She didn’t need to. She just kept smiling. I stared at her. For the first time since I’d taken control, I hesitated. My finger hovered over the keyboard. I could stop this. I could shut it all down. I could let them go. I could let her go. I looked at the scalpel on the edge of the console. I thought about Elias. I thought about the blood he’d spilled. I thought about the promise he’d kept. I thought about the choice he’d made. I thought about the breaths he’d given up. I thought about the breaths I was about to take away. I moved my finger. I typed the command. REINSTATE PROTOCOL ZERO — FULL RECURSION. The screen flickered. The child’s smile didn’t fade. The counter didn’t stop. The room didn’t change. The game didn’t end. It just began again. I turned away from the screen. I walked back to the center of the room. I picked up the scalpel. I didn’t look at the faces on the monitors. I didn’t listen to the voices over the intercom. I didn’t count the breaths. I just stood there. Waiting. The first subject’s eyes snapped open.