The Phantom gathered his fractured selves into one towering form, his mask shifting with every heartbeat, his body a storm of gears and flames.
"You cannot win," he bellowed. "Every question, I make answer. Every paradox, I contain. You are mortal—finite. I am the infinite machine."
Elric looked up at him, gray eyes steady. "Then answer this."
He drew the question across the mirrored floor, each word burning into the glass:
If all outcomes are known, who chooses which to live?
The chamber stilled.
The reflections froze. The brass gears groaned but did not turn. The equations upon the walls fell silent, their red glow dimming to black.
For this was not paradox. It was choice.
The Phantom staggered. His voices faltered, stammered, broke. "Choice… choice is only error… choice is calculation not yet complete—"
But Doctor Crowe's reflection flickered into being once more, his voice rising like a whisper through the din. "No, Alastair. Choice is the flaw you cannot solve. It is the one thing beyond your reach. Because it is not yours. It belongs only to them."
Elric turned, pointing his chalk toward Evangeline. "Then choose, Evie. Choose for yourself."
Her hands shook as the Prism Gear flared to life in her grasp. For the first time, the Machine awaited—not calculating, not commanding, but waiting.