The room smelled like metal and bleach. Amanda stood by the door, gloves slick with blood she swore wasn’t hers - not really. The machines hummed around her, steady and cold, the sound she’d grown to live inside.

John’s voice carried softly from the other room, patient and calm. “You must remember, Amanda… suffering has purpose.”

But his words didn’t reach her the way they used to.

She stared down at the trap she’d built - perfect, cruel, personal. The reflection in its steel surface caught her eyes - sharp, desperate, trembling.

Was this redemption, or obsession pretending to be it?

Her hands shook as she adjusted the final lever. Somewhere behind her, Lynn coughed weakly, the sound pulling Amanda’s heart into her throat.

She almost said something. Apologized. Lied.

Instead, she whispered, “I’m not like you, John.”

And for a moment, she believed it.

Until the machine clicked - and she didn’t stop it.