The locket went dark. And for the first time, when C-eight picked up an old glove, she felt nothing at all—just the cold, quiet freedom of being nobody’s memory but her own.
That night, C-eight stood in front of a mirror. She touched her face. Whose chin was that? Her own? Or Elara’s? c896a92d919f46e2833e9eb159e526af
Her own code.