They separate us after that.
Not immediately. Not dramatically. That would make it feel like mercy.
Instead, they let the silence rot.
The sharp-smiled man leaves first, brushing past me with a whisper meant only for me."You just made things interesting."
The woman in black doesn't follow. She never does anything so obvious.
The dark-suited man stays.
That alone tells me everything.
The cameras are still on. I can feel them like a pressure behind my eyes. I sit on the bed again, hands folded tight in my lap, the band on my wrist still warm—as if it remembers the pain it's allowed to give me.
"You didn't think that through," he says finally.
"I did," I reply. "I just didn't like the answer."
He exhales slowly, rubbing a hand over his jaw. For the first time since I met him, he looks tired.
"You challenged the structure," he says. "That's dangerous."
"So is letting them decide who gets hurt," I say.
"That's the game."
I look up at him. "No. That's the excuse."
Something flickers in his expression—something like agreement. Or regret.
He steps closer, lowering his voice.
"You want to know why you were chosen?" he asks.
My chest tightens. "Yes."
"Then listen carefully," he says. "And don't interrupt."
He sits across from me—not beside me. Across. Distance as discipline.
"This house is a filter," he begins. "It identifies pressure points. Influence vectors. People who can shift outcomes without ever holding formal power."
"Social manipulators," I say.
"Survivors," he corrects. "Observers. People who change rooms just by standing in them."
I don't like how much that sounds like me.
"You didn't get invited because you're special," he continues. "You got invited because you're unresolved."
I flinch.
"Your father," he says gently. "Wasn't an accident."
My heart stutters.
"You don't know that," I say.
"I do," he replies. "Because he played."
The room feels suddenly too small.
"He didn't lose," he says. "He walked away."
"That's impossible," I whisper.
"No," he says. "It's unforgivable."
The words sink in slowly, like poison diluted just enough to take time.
"They don't forgive people who leave," he continues. "They forgive people who lose."
I shake my head. "You're lying."
"I'm warning you."
My phone vibrates.
UNKNOWN NUMBER:Rule Eight: Bloodlines matter.
I swallow hard.
"They want you," he says, "because they want leverage on him. Or the proof that he's dead."
"And if he is?" I ask.
He holds my gaze. "Then you're the echo."
The door opens.
The woman in black steps inside, composed as ever, carrying a tablet. Her eyes flick between us, calculating.
"It's time," she says.
"For what?" I ask.
"For your decision."
She sets the tablet on the table and turns the screen toward me.
Two live feeds.
On the left: the woman who warned me. Bound to a chair in a bright room, hands shaking but chin lifted. Alive. Watching the camera with defiance.
On the right: a man I recognize instantly.
My father's old colleague. The one who came by the house once after the disappearance. Who told me gently to stop asking questions.
He's alone in a dark room. Blood at his temple. Breathing hard.
My stomach drops.
"You're lying," I whisper.
The woman in black folds her hands.
"Both broke rules," she says calmly. "One warned you. One concealed information."
"They're both connected to my father," I realize.
"Yes," she agrees. "Which makes this efficient."
The dark-suited man stiffens. "This wasn't agreed upon."
She looks at him coolly. "You don't vote."
My phone buzzes.
UNKNOWN NUMBER:Rule Nine: You may save one.
I stand so fast the chair skids backward.
"No," I say. "I won't choose."
She tilts her head. "You already did, once. You chose defiance. This is the cost."
The tablet timer appears. Two minutes. Counting down.
The dark-suited man steps closer to me, voice urgent and low.
"If you don't choose," he says, "they'll decide for you."
"Help me," I whisper.
He looks torn—anger, frustration, something deeper.
"I can't," he says. "Not without breaking the structure completely."
"Then break it," I say.
His jaw tightens. "That would kill more than one person."
The woman in black watches us like this is a performance.
"Tick," she says.
I stare at the screens.
The woman who warned me—who tried to help—meets the camera's gaze without fear.
The man on the right looks terrified. He's trying to speak. To explain.
"They're both innocent," I say.
"No," the woman replies. "They're inconvenient."
My mind races. Leverage. Bloodlines. Echo.
I think of my father walking away.
Of what that must have cost.
I reach for the tablet.
"Stop," the dark-suited man says softly.
"I'm sorry," I whisper.
I tap the screen.
The feed on the right freezes.
The left continues.
The woman in black smiles faintly.
"Choice accepted."
The screen goes black.
I drop the tablet like it's burned me.
"What did you do?" I ask, my voice shaking.
She meets my eyes.
"You saved the one who acts," she says. "And ruined the one who knows."
I realize then what I've done.
I didn't save innocence.
I saved resistance.
The dark-suited man looks at me with something raw and unreadable.
"They'll never let you leave now," he says.
I wipe my face, hands trembling.
"Good," I say hoarsely. "I wasn't planning to."
My phone buzzes one final time.
UNKNOWN NUMBER:Rule Ten: You are no longer expendable.
The woman in black turns to leave.
"Welcome," she says over her shoulder, "to the inner game."
The door shuts.
The cameras hum.
And I sit there, shaking, knowing one terrible truth with absolute certainty—
I didn't just survive the choice.
I proved I could make one.