Dahlia Roan stepped into the Confession Chamber as if it were a boardroom.
Her gait was measured. Her back straight. Her expression unreadable. To the others, she might have looked composed. But she had long since mastered the art of stillness. Stillness wins you contracts. Stillness keeps your name out of scandal. Stillness buries guilt under profit margins.
The door closed behind her with a soft click.
No light. No sound.
Then the voice came.
"Dahlia Roan. Age sixty-two. Guilt designation: Corporate manslaughter. Status: Confession required."
She blinked, unbothered. "Manslaughter is a stretch. Death was an unfortunate byproduct of innovation."
A low hum began, vibrating beneath her feet. The room began to shift—ceiling to floor morphing into steel and glass. Office windows. Conference rooms. Elevator doors. All of them faceless, glowing with the muted sheen of bureaucracy.
She was standing in the headquarters of Roan Advanced Systems. Eighth floor. Eastern wing. Her domain.
The walls flickered again.
Now the image of a young man appeared on the glass—a technician, mid-twenties, coffee stain on his ID badge.
"Ethan Clarke," the voice said. "Lead systems auditor. Whistleblower."
Dahlia sighed.
She remembered him. Ambitious. Earnest. The kind who brought you evidence in a trembling hand, expecting thanks.
He'd found the fault in the nanofabrication process. Said it was compromising filtration units. Said exposure could cause permanent damage to lungs. Possibly fatal.
She told him she'd handle it.
The board couldn't afford another delay.
The product launch went ahead.
Three workers died within the year. Two more developed irreversible pulmonary fibrosis. Dahlia read the medical reports in silence. Signed the settlement checks. Moved on.
The voice returned.
"You saw the data."
"I saw incomplete data," she countered. "A potential correlation is not proof of causation. I couldn't justify halting production based on speculation."
"You silenced him."
She pursed her lips. "I reminded him of his nondisclosure agreement. That's standard practice."
The chamber darkened.
And then, she was in a hospital room.
The lights buzzed faintly overhead. Oxygen hissed through a ventilator. Ethan Clarke lay on a cot, skin pale, eyes sunken, tubes running from every part of him.
A nurse was turning away. "He asked for you," she said. "Again."
Dahlia stepped back. "This didn't happen."
"No," said the voice. "But it could have. If you'd gone."
She looked away.
The bed burst into flame—not real fire, but the ghost of it—burning blue and cold. Dahlia's breath caught. She didn't move, but her eyes flicked to the door. No handle. No exit. Just her and the fire and the past clawing back to life.
"You designed the structure," the voice said. "Then claimed you never held the match."
"You want me to cry? Break down? That's not how this works," she snapped. "I don't regret what I did. My job is to create systems. The system worked. The risks were calculated."
"And the lives?"
"Calculated," she said again, softer now.
Silence.
Then the walls changed again. Now she was seated at a long table—boardroom style—across from twelve figures. Their faces obscured. Eyes glowing faintly behind blurred visors. Like ghosts of her colleagues. Or ghosts of the dead.
"You've mastered the art of not feeling," said one.
"Is that a sin?" she asked.
They didn't answer.
One leaned forward. "Say it."
"Say what?"
"The thing you never let yourself admit."
She hesitated.
The room waited.
"I knew it was real," she said finally. "The data. The risks. Ethan was right."
The figures nodded in unison.
"I thought I could outpace the consequences. Make the damage small enough to bury."
"And now?"
"I don't regret building the system," she whispered. "I regret believing I could control it once it started killing."
"Confession complete."
The boardroom dissolved.
Only empty space remained.
---
Dahlia stepped out of the chamber with the same grace she had entered.
But her eyes had changed.
Not shaken, exactly.
Sharper.
Like someone who had finally stopped lying to themselves and found that the truth made them heavier—not freer.
Adrian Glass watched her return. "I assume it went well?"
She sat without answering. Her posture remained perfect.
Elian turned her gaze toward the Confession Chamber.
Three down.
Nine to go.
Each return felt like a slow unraveling of a larger pattern—but the pattern itself was still buried. Names. Icons. Archetypes. All of them mapped to guilt. But not all guilt was equal. Some seemed clearer than others.
Hers… still refused to form.
The voice returned.
"Participant Four. Jonah Keshe. Confession initiated."
A young man with ink-stained fingers and a torn sleeve stood up.
He didn't look afraid.
He looked… ready.