The staircase to Twelve ended at an iris door that dilated like an eye. Beyond it, the Confession Engine waited—a cathedral of metal and nerve, chandeliers spun from IV lines, pews built of gurneys. The air tasted like disinfected guilt.
A sign over the altar read: INPUT TRUTH. OUTPUT SENTENCE.
Elara stepped forward. Mark stood by the switch, mop abandoned like a relic. The woman from the sea stood in the front row, hands folded as if for a wedding she doubted.
"You're late," the tower's voice said through the vents, amused and famished. "Begin."
A chair unfolded from the floor and strapped her wrists—not tight, just inevitable. A mouthpiece descended: a microphone shaped like a bite.
"What happens if I refuse?" Elara asked.
"You already consented," the voice said gently. "On Seven, when you stepped inside."
The woman met Elara's eyes. "Remember wrong if you must," she whispered. "But remember loud."
Elara inhaled. The machine hummed, calibrating to the rhythm of a heart that was trying not to be hers. "I erased a name," she said into the bite. "Not to survive the world—but to survive myself. I picked me. Someone else drowned for the version of me that climbed."
The Engine purred. Panels unfolded to reveal a screen of skin that formed words as if bruising: SENTENCE PENDING.
"Your penalty," the tower said, "is choice."
Two doors erupted from the altar like teeth:
— Door A: OPEN THE SPINE. RELEASE THE ECHOES. THE SANCTUARY FALLS. YOU KEEP YOURSELF.
— Door B: SEAL THE SPINE. CAPTURE THE ECHOES. THE SANCTUARY STANDS. YOU BECOME ITS FRAME.
Mark exhaled. "Told you it was never about right. It was about payment."
Elara's fingers itched for a compass that no longer existed. The woman watched her like a lighthouse watches storms it can't stop.
Elara closed her eyes and saw the janitor's mop, the Memory Merchant's unlabeled vial, the donor-Elara's emptied hands, the sea that believed in drowning as a sacrament. She opened her eyes on a world that had been waiting for her to be a disaster.
"I pick—" she began.
The Engine screamed. The lights detonated into dark. Somewhere above, a siren laughed like a diagnosis.
When the emergency lights came up, the woman from the sea was gone. In her place, on the front pew, sat the hospital bracelet with the second line re-inked, fresh as a cut: GUARDIAN: ELARA KANE.
Mark's voice shook. "You weren't supposed to see that yet."
The tower sighed, delighted. "Outcome disturbed. Proceed."
Elara stepped toward Door A.
The Confession Engine changed the rules.