The room had no corners—only curves that bent sound like glass and stretched time into gossamer ribbons. Every footstep sparked a resonance. Not an echo, but a memory returning, reshaped and sharpened.
Kira stepped ahead of him. "This is the last place they permitted emotion."
Echo didn't respond. The air vibrated up his spine—whispers, laughter, screams. His own voice, twisted into unfamiliar harmonies.
"Echo…"
He turned. The walls shimmered, covered in mirrored surfaces that fractured his reflection into a thousand selves. One version flinched. Another raged. Another grinned too wide to be human.
"They called it therapy," Kira said quietly. "But it was extraction. They let you speak… then mapped the shape of your guilt. Then erased whatever didn't align."
The mirrors rippled.
"You lied to save the world," his reflections chanted in unison.
"You failed," a second chorus replied, colder.
He shut his eyes. "I did what I had to."
A mirror cracked—thin as a hairline, but leaking light.
He stepped forward and whispered, "Not truth. Not lie. Just survival."
The chamber pulsed. The vibrations ceased.
It had accepted his answer.
For now.