Jonah couldn't sleep.
Not because of fear.
Because the island wouldn't let the word gone settle in his mind.
Kola wasn't dead.
That much Jonah knew.
The island had made sure he knew.
He stood at the edge of the clearing long after the others had retreated, staring at the place where the fog had closed around Kola like a careful hand.
"What does that mean?" Jonah asked the dark. "Contained."
The forest answered.
Not with sound—
with space.
The air in front of Jonah folded inward, like a reflection bending on water. A shape formed. Not solid. Not illusion.
A window.
Jonah's breath caught.
Inside it, Kola sat alone.
Not bound.
Not injured.
Just… alone.
A vast, gray expanse stretched endlessly around him. No walls. No sky. No horizon. Just emptiness that felt deliberately measured.
Kola looked older already.
Not in body—
in the eyes.
"He's conscious," Jonah whispered.
Always, the island replied.
Jonah felt sick. "For how long?"
A pause.
Until change is no longer hypothetical.
Jonah clenched his fists. "And if he never changes?"
The window rippled.
Then the world is protected.
Jonah staggered back.
"This isn't justice," he said. "It's imprisonment without end."
The pressure returned—gentle, patient.
Justice ends stories, the island replied.
Containment prevents sequels.
Jonah squeezed his eyes shut.
Images pushed in—uninvited.
People released too soon.
Apologies that rotted.
Cycles restarting with new victims.
He saw the truth then.
The island didn't exist because people were evil.
It existed because change was rare, and consequences were temporary.
"You're not fixing anyone," Jonah said hoarsely. "You're freezing them."
No, the island corrected.
I am giving them time without victims.
Jonah opened his eyes.
The window closed.
The clearing returned to normal.
Mara stood a few steps behind him.
"How much did you see?" she asked.
"Enough," Jonah replied.
She hesitated. "Do they ever come back?"
Jonah looked at the forest.
"At some point," he said. "Some of them."
Mara swallowed. "And what are they like?"
Jonah remembered the residents' eyes.
The weight.
The stillness.
"Changed," he said. "Or unfinished."
The ground pulsed once.
A reminder.
The island was not done teaching him.
Because now Jonah understood the final horror:
The island didn't need a judge.
It needed a willing warden.
And it was waiting to see how long Jonah would pretend that wasn't him.