They entered a space outside logic—a sanctum stitched into a fracture of time.
And there he saw them: the selves that never were.
Not simulations. Not dreams. Possibilities, cocooned in translucent pods, drifting like jellyfish through darkness.
"They kept every failed version of you," Kira said, voice hollow. "Not to study. But to punish. Each one a reminder of what happens when you choose differently."
Echo approached a pod. Inside: a man older than himself, clasping a necklace, eyes closed in peace.
"This one tried to forgive."
"And?"
"They deleted him within days."
He turned slowly. Rows. Hundreds. Thousands. Screaming, silent, waiting.
"These aren't errors," he whispered. "They're executions."
He pressed his hand to the glass. The pod shimmered. For a moment, he felt its occupant—grief, clarity, serenity. Then the link broke.
"I owe them more than remembrance."
He drew the blade.
"I'll be the one who survives them all."
And with a single cut, he began to set them free.