(Sharply) Don’t.

He survived the breach. He went back to his cell. But at 03:14 the next morning, he stood up, walked back to this spot, placed his hand exactly on that print, and stood there until his heart stopped. Cause of death? Spontaneous advanced rigor mortis. He turned to stone from the fingers inward.

You will. You’re not wearing the suppressor to block the sound, Agent. You’re wearing it to block the implication . The echo doesn't scream. It asks a question.

…stay…

It’s both. Listen. (He taps the glass with his knuckle. A dull thud. Then, a faint, distant thump echoes back from inside the wall, as if from miles away.)

You were. You were calculating. You were thinking: "My hand is smaller than Peterson’s. Maybe I’d fit differently. Maybe I’d be the one to answer."

It is. Usually. Until someone new comes along. Someone who doubts. Someone with a quiet mind. The echo doesn’t like quiet. It wants company.

That’s poetry, not physics.

That was the test? Nearly turning myself into a mural?

(Walks toward the exit, not looking back) Every morning, I finish my coffee. I hold the door for strangers. I make tiny, stupid decisions just to prove I still can. The echo hates that. So I do it louder.

It’s him. Peterson. In the echo. In every timeline where he didn't run, he stayed here, leaned against this wall, and died instantly during the breach. But his consciousness… it’s bleeding through. Every time someone looks at that handprint, the wall gets louder.