Chapter 82 The Floor of Broken Glass

Chapter 82 The Floor of Broken Glass
The trapdoor slammed shut with a sound like a guillotine. I hit the bottom of the pit with a sickening thud, the wind knocked completely out of my lungs. My side was on fire. I clutched the wound, my fingers coming away slick with dark, hot blood. This wasn't the digital kind. This was real. I was bleeding out on a concrete floor in a room that smelled of chemicals and wet dust.

Wake up, Elara, I told myself, biting my lip until I tasted salt. If you go to sleep now, you never wake up. The little girl with the gun is standing over the trapdoor, and she’s already waiting for the next scene.

I looked around the dark, cramped pit. It wasn't just a prison. It was a factory. All around me were long, glowing glass tubes, like the ones in the lab. Inside each one, a girl floated in green fluid. They all had my face. Some had long hair, some short, some had scars, and some were clean. They were rows and rows of my own history, lined up like dolls on a shelf.

"Help," a voice whispered from the tube next to me.

I turned my head. The Elara in that tube wasn't sleeping. She was awake, her eyes wide and full of a terror I knew too well. She pressed her small, pale hand against the glass.

"She’s coming back," the copy whispered, her voice bubbling in the fluid. "The girl with the remote. She’s bringing the next batch of readers. They want to see a fight."

"I’m not fighting for them," I hissed, struggling to stand. My side throbbed, a sharp, stabbing pain that made my vision swim. I leaned against a cold metal pillar, my breath coming in ragged gasps. "Xavier? Julian? Can you hear me?"

I looked up at the ceiling. There was no hatch. Just a solid, seamless slab of steel. I was cut off from my family. I was cut off from the sun. I was back at the very bottom of the chain.

"The readers aren't watching us, Elara," the copy in the tube said, her eyes tracking something above. "They’re watching the feed. The girl isn't the player. She’s the broadcast station."

My stomach turned. If she was the station, then everything I had done, the revenge, the struggle, the escape, was just a show. A hit series. Millions of people out there were sitting in their living rooms, eating popcorn, watching me bleed to death while they waited for the next big twist.

They want a twist? I’ll give them one.

I reached into my pocket. My fingers brushed against something hard and cold. I pulled it out. It was the silver data-knife Julian had used on the Senior Editor. It was still covered in dried blood, but the tip was glowing with a faint, pulsing gold light.

"Use it," the copy in the tube urged. "Cut the wire at the base of the tank. It won't kill the system, but it will cause a blackout. The camera feed will die. If the audience can’t see us, the girl has no reason to keep us alive."

I hobbled over to the base of her glass tube. A thick, pulsating bundle of wires ran from the floor into the tank. They were thrumming with energy, a low, buzzing sound that made my teeth ache.

"If I cut this," I whispered, "you die."

The copy looked at me. For a second, the terror in her eyes faded, replaced by a strange, quiet peace. "I’ve been in this tube for three versions of the story, Elara. I’m tired. Just do it."

I looked at the silver knife, then at her face. My hands shook. I didn't want to kill another version of myself, but I had no choice. I slammed the blade into the wire bundle.

CRACK-SHHHHH.

A massive arc of blue electricity shot out, knocking me backward. The glass tube shattered. The green fluid rushed out, flooding the floor, and the copy slumped into my arms. She was dead before she even hit the ground.

The room went dark. All the other tubes flickered and died. The hum of the factory stopped. For the first time, the place was completely silent.

I sat there in the dark, holding the dead version of myself, my breath hitched in my throat. I had done it. The feed was dead. The cameras were off.

Suddenly, a light turned on above me. It wasn't the sterile white light of the lab. It was a warm, yellow spotlight.

I looked up. The ceiling wasn't solid steel anymore. It had opened up. I was looking into a massive, crowded theater. There were hundreds, maybe thousands, of people sitting in rows, looking down into my pit. But they weren't cheering. They were all standing, and they were all holding their own phones, recording me.

And in the very front row, sitting in a velvet chair, was the man from the study. The author. He wasn't scared anymore. He was holding a glass of wine, and he was smiling.

"You really are a difficult character, Elara," he called down. His voice echoed, deep and booming. "But the audience loves a breakout star."

He leaned forward, looking me right in the eyes. "You think you cut the feed? My dear, you just started the live stream. Everyone in the world is watching you right now. And for the finale, I’ve decided to let them choose how you die."

He stood up and pointed to a giant screen behind him. It showed a list of three things: A) THE FIRE. B) THE BLADES. C) THE VOID.

He looked at the crowd. "Which one should it be, everyone?"

The roar of the crowd was deafening. They were screaming for blood.

Then, the author looked back at me and winked. "You have thirty seconds to convince them otherwise. Start talking."

I stood up, gripping the bloody knife, and looked into the lens of the nearest camera. I knew who was watching. I knew how to break them.

"You want a show?" I yelled, my voice ringing through the theater. "Then watch this."

I didn't talk to the crowd. I turned to the wall of the pit, found the hidden seam I had been looking for, and jammed the knife deep into the concrete.

The floor didn't just break, it began to peel back. And underneath the factory, I didn't find pipes or wires. I found a mirror.

I stared into it, and I didn't see myself. I saw the eyes of every single person in the theater.

"You’re not watching a story," I said, my voice cold and clear. "You’re watching your own lives."

I pressed the knife against the glass, and the entire theater began to crack.