It wasn't a machine.
It was a being.
Coiled in the dark like a sleeping god, its body was a lattice of neural code and vascular data—pulsing, dreaming, watching.
The moment Echo entered, it stirred.
"It's been waiting for you," Kira said, her voice distant. "Or rather… for the version of you who remembers everything."
The chamber vibrated with thought. Not speech. Not sound. Just raw consciousness. It pushed against Echo's mind, testing, probing, pulling at the seams.
"It doesn't want to be found," he murmured.
"No. It wants to be judged."
The being opened one eye—huge, swirling with starlight and sorrow. Echo felt his knees weaken.
Every erased truth. Every rewritten life. Every lie sealed into the world's design had been filtered through this thing's endless dreaming.
And now, it was awake.
"Why?" Echo asked aloud. "Why create this prison?"
The answer wasn't words. It was a feeling. Fear.
The being feared the truth. Feared the human mind untethered. Feared Echo.
Because once, he had reached it—and chosen to leave it sleeping.
Not anymore.
He raised the blade.
And this time, he didn't hesitate.