I didn't remember deciding to speak.
One moment, my mouth was closed, my thoughts tangled and frantic. The next, my voice existed in the room, steady, controlled, like it belonged to someone else.
"I'll confirm it," I said.
The words landed softly. No thunder. No dramatic reaction.
Just silence.
The woman studied me the way people study cracked glass, curious to see where it might break next. "Say it clearly," she said.
I swallowed. My throat felt raw. "The information you have is accurate."
The screen beside us froze on the live feed. The person I loved looked up suddenly, as if they'd felt something shift in the air. A chill ran through me.
The woman nodded once and tapped something on her tablet.
And just like that, it was done.
I waited for the regret to hit me all at once, to collapse under the weight of what I'd just confirmed. But regret didn't come.
What came instead was something worse.
Relief.
The realization made my stomach twist violently.
"You're shaking," the woman observed.
I hadn't noticed. My hands were trembling in my lap, fingers curling and uncurling like they were searching for something to hold onto.
"You can stop this," I said quickly, panic surging. "You've got what you need. Let them go."
She looked at me for a long moment. "You still don't understand how this works."
My chest tightened. "Explain it to me."
"You weren't brought in to end this," she said calmly. "You were brought in to continue it."
The room felt colder.
"What does that mean?"
She slid another file across the table.
This one had my name on it.
Not as a suspect.
As an asset.
"You've proven something important today," she continued. "You can detach when necessary. You can prioritize outcomes over emotion."
"That doesn't make me useful," I snapped. "It makes me broken."
She smiled faintly. "Those are not mutually exclusive."
I pushed the file away. "I'm not working for you."
"You already are," she replied.
My phone buzzed.
Unknown: You did what you had to do.
I stared at the message, bile rising in my throat.
Me: You lied.
Several seconds passed before the reply came.
Unknown: I withheld information. There's a difference.
I laughed bitterly. "You put a gun to my life and called it a choice."
Unknown: And you chose.
The truth of that settled heavily in my chest.
I had.
The woman stood and walked toward the door. "You'll be moved to a secure location," she said. "Until then, you won't have contact with anyone outside this room."
"No," I said sharply. "I need to see her. I need to see Tara."
She paused. "Why?"
"Because she deserves to hear it from me," I said. "Not from a consequence."
The woman considered this. "You have five minutes."
The screen lit up again.
Tara's face filled it.
She looked exhausted. Her eyes were red, her posture slumped like she'd been holding herself upright by sheer will.
When she saw me, she froze.
"Lila," she breathed. "What's happening?"
I opened my mouth.
Nothing came out.
How do you explain betrayal when it's wrapped in fear? How do you admit you chose one life over another and called it survival?
"I'm so sorry," I whispered.
Her brows knitted together. "For what?"
My silence answered her.
Her face crumpled.
"Oh my God," she said softly. "What did you do?"
Tears burned behind my eyes. "I thought I was saving you."
She shook her head slowly. "You don't save someone by burning everything else."
The screen flickered.
A warning indicator appeared in the corner.
"Time," the woman said.
"Tara..." I started.
But the feed cut.
The emptiness afterward felt physical. Like a limb had been removed and my body hadn't caught up yet.
"You'll adjust," the woman said.
"I don't want to," I replied.
She studied me closely. "That's good. Not wanting to means you still remember who you were."
"Then let me leave," I said. "Before I forget completely."
She didn't respond.
Instead, she handed me a phone.
Different from mine. Heavier. Stripped down.
"Contacts are limited," she said. "Messages are monitored."
I stared at it. "This is surveillance."
"This is trust," she corrected. "The kind you earn by staying useful."
I looked up at her. "And if I refuse?"
Her gaze hardened. "Then we revisit who pays for that refusal."
I didn't need clarification.
I took the phone.
The moment my fingers wrapped around it, it vibrated.
Unknown: Welcome to the middle.
My pulse spiked.
Me: What does that mean?
Unknown: The beginning is over. The ending hasn't been chosen yet.
I felt sick.
"What happens now?" I asked the woman.
She opened the door. "Now you start seeing things you can't unsee."
The hallway beyond was long and dimly lit. Doors lined the walls, identical and closed.
"How many people are in here?" I asked.
She glanced back at me. "Enough to prove you're not special."
As we walked, my new phone buzzed again.
Unknown: There's something you don't know yet.
Me: About who?
Unknown: About you.
We stopped in front of a door.
The woman opened it and gestured inside.
A small room. A bed. A desk. A single chair facing a mirror.
I stepped in slowly.
The door closed behind me with a soft, final click.
My phone vibrated one last time.
Unknown: You think you crossed the line already.
A pause.
Unknown: You haven't even reached it.
The mirror in front of me flickered.
And my reflection shifted.
Not into someone else...
But into a version of me I didn't recognize.
I staggered back, heart pounding.
Because the woman standing in the glass wasn't afraid.
She was calm.
Prepared.
And smiling.