They all smiled at once.
Not different smiles.
Not similar ones.
The same smile—placed on different faces like the house had copied the expression and stamped it across every version of him.
Ethan couldn't move.
Not because something held him.
Because something inside him had started agreeing with the stillness.
The room felt… correct.
Like motion had been a mistake.
The first alternate Ethan stepped forward.
Slow.
Deliberate.
"You feel it now," it said gently.
Ethan's throat tightened. "Feel what?"
The answer didn't come as words.
It came as a shift in perception.
The room softened at the edges.
The walls stopped looking like walls.
They started looking like options.
Ethan stumbled back a step—and immediately regretted it.
Because all the versions of him mirrored the movement.
Perfectly.
Synchronised.
Not imitation.
Prediction.
Behind him, something dragged across the floor.
Slow.
Wet.
Like the house was learning how to imitate hesitation.
Ethan turned his head slightly.
The younger Ethan—no, what remained of him—was no longer fully inside the wall.
He was halfway out again.
But wrong.
His face was calmer now.
Too calm.
Like something had finished adjusting him.
"You're resisting the wrong thing," he said.
Ethan's voice broke. "What does that even mean?!"
The younger Ethan tilted his head.
"It means you think you're being attacked."
A pause.
Then, softly:
"You're being optimized."
The word landed wrong.
The room reacted to it.
Doors along the walls straightened.
The floor smoothed itself slightly.
Even the air felt more organized.
Ethan shook his head hard. "No. No, that's not—"
A whisper cut through him.
Lina's voice.
But thin.
Like it was being filtered through too many layers.
"…Ethan… don't listen when it sounds reasonable…"
Ethan froze.
"Lina?"
The walls answered instead.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just… collectively.
SHE IS STILL PART OF THE UNSTABLE LAYER
Ethan's chest tightened. "Where is she?!"
The first alternate Ethan stepped closer again.
"She's inside the part of you that refuses structure," it said calmly.
Ethan's eyes widened. "That's not an answer."
"It is," it replied.
"And it's already changing."
The room darkened slightly.
Not threateningly.
Like it was dimming unnecessary information.
Ethan felt it again—that pressure behind his thoughts.
Not pushing.
Sorting.
A quiet, patient rearrangement of everything he believed was himself.
The younger Ethan spoke again.
"This is why the first ones broke," he said.
Ethan snapped his head toward him. "First ones?"
The younger Ethan looked at him properly now.
And for the first time—
there was something almost human in his expression.
"They tried to save her as she was," he said.
A pause.
"They didn't realize the house doesn't preserve states."
The room shifted.
And Ethan saw it.
Not a vision.
A leak.
A memory bleeding through the walls.
Lina—earlier versions of Lina—standing in corridors that kept reshaping her outline.
Sometimes human.
Sometimes doorframe.
Sometimes nothing but voice.
Always trying to remain consistent.
Always failing.
Ethan staggered back. "Stop—"
But the memory continued anyway.
Because the house had decided it was relevant.
The first alternate Ethan stopped in front of him.
"You're close," it said softly.
Ethan's breath hitched. "To what?"
The smile widened slightly.
"To being understandable."
Silence.
Then—
a sound from inside the walls.
Not knocking.
Not screaming.
A key turning.
Every door in the room locked at the same time.
Ethan froze.
The younger Ethan stepped fully out of the wall now.
No longer damaged.
No longer partial.
Complete.
And he looked at Ethan with quiet certainty.
"The selection is over," he said.
Ethan shook his head. "No—no, it just started—"
But the room disagreed.
All versions of Ethan took one step forward.
In perfect synchronization.
And the first alternate Ethan whispered:
"Final version accepted."
The lights went out.
Not darkness.
Conclusion.
And somewhere far beneath the house—
something inside Lina stopped screaming…
and started listening.