Chapter 98: No Questions I watched the child’s screen flicker to life. Three hundred. Same number. Same room. Same silence before the voice would crackle through the intercom and offer the first lie wrapped in a question. I knew the script. I had written it. Elias had written it before me. And before him, someone else. Maybe no one. Maybe it had always been there, waiting for someone to press start. I didn’t press start. I didn’t reach for the intercom toggle. I didn’t cue the voice. I didn’t let the countdown begin its slow, suffocating march toward zero. I just stood there, staring at the child’s face. Small. Still. Unaware. Clutching that stupid rabbit like it could save her. Like anything could. My fingers moved before I told them to. I typed into the console, slow and deliberate, like I was carving the words into stone. “SUBJECT OMEGA — NO QUESTIONS.” The system hesitated. It didn’t like this. It wasn’t built for this. No questions meant no answers. No answers meant no breaths gained or lost. No breaths meant no progression. No progression meant no death. And no death meant no purpose. The screen glitched. A sharp, digital stutter. The counter above the child’s head froze. 300. Not 299. Not 301. Just 300. Locked. Suspended. The intercom stayed silent. The room stayed still. The child didn’t move. She didn’t even blink. I stepped back from the console. The scalpel felt heavy in my hand. I looked at it. Elias had held it last. He had used it to break the machine. To pause it. To give me this moment. I didn’t need it anymore. Not for cutting. Not for choosing. Not for punishing. I let it drop. It hit the floor with a dull, final sound. No echo. No drama. Just metal on metal. I didn’t look at it again. I turned away from the console. From the child. From the screens. From the whole damn system that had chewed up lives and spat out numbers. I walked. The chamber behind me didn’t react. No alarms. No warnings. No voice begging me to come back, to fix it, to restart it. The machines idled. The lights stayed on. The air didn’t thin. The walls didn’t shift. Nothing chased me. Nothing stopped me. I reached the door. It opened without protest. No biometric scan. No voiceprint. No trick question. Just a door. Just an exit. I stepped through. Behind me, the child sat in her room. The counter above her head still read 300. The intercom stayed silent. The rabbit stayed clutched in her hands. The other subjects—men, women, the ones with hollow eyes and trembling voices, the ones who had answered every question, lied through their teeth, begged for mercy, screamed for help—they were all frozen too. No breaths ticking down. No voices whispering in their ears. No keys falling from the ceiling. No photographs taped under chairs. No locket with a note that said “You left her first.” Just silence. Just stillness. Just waiting. I didn’t look back. The corridor outside was empty. No monitors. No doors labeled with breath numbers. No flickering lights. No whispers. Just white walls. Just a floor. Just me walking. I didn’t know where I was going. I didn’t care. I just needed to be away from the console. Away from the screens. Away from the weight of every breath I had ever stolen, every question I had ever forced, every lie I had ever rewarded with five more seconds of air. Elias had erased himself to give me this chance. To give them all this chance. Not to live. Not to die. Just to stop. Just to breathe without counting. Just to exist without being tested. I reached the end of the corridor. Another door. I pushed it open. Cold air hit my face. Real air. Not recycled. Not measured. Not rationed. I stepped out into it. The sky was gray. The ground was wet. There were trees. Real ones. Not projections. Not code. Not memories stitched together from broken files. Just trees. Just sky. Just ground. I took a breath. No counter appeared above my head. I took another. Still nothing. I laughed. It came out ragged. Ugly. But it was mine. No one had given it to me. No one had taken it away. No one was watching. No one was judging. No one was keeping score. I walked forward. Away from the building. Away from the machine. Away from the child with the rabbit and the frozen counter and the silent room. Behind me, the machines idled. No voice. No countdown. No rules. Just waiting.