Chapter 36: What Deletion Looks Like I picked up the scalpel. It came loose from the floor without resistance. No click, no grind, no warning. Just metal sliding free like it had been waiting for my fingers to close around it. I turned toward Mira. She hadn’t moved. Not an inch. Her hand still hovered where it had been, just above my chest, above the red numbers that kept counting down even when I didn’t want them to. Forty-three. I stepped toward her. Not fast. Not slow. Just forward. The scalpel felt heavier than it should. Not because of its weight, but because of what it meant. Every time I held it, something changed. Something broke. Something remembered. “What does ‘delete’ mean?” I asked. She didn’t answer right away. Just looked at me. Not like she was deciding whether to speak. Not like she was choosing her words. Like she already knew what I would ask, and had been waiting for me to get there. “Not metaphor,” I said. “Not guilt. Not regret. Not memory loss. What does it mean? Technically. Exactly. What did I do to you?” She reached out. Not for the scalpel. Not for me. Just her hand, palm up, fingers open. An invitation. A command. I didn’t know which. I didn’t care. I placed the scalpel in her hand. She didn’t take it from me. She guided my hand instead. Turned my wrist. Lifted my arm. Brought the tip of the blade to my own temple. I didn’t pull away. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t even breathe. Her fingers pressed mine. The scalpel didn’t cut. Not yet. It just rested there. Cold. Still. Waiting. Then it pulsed. Not in my hand. Not against my skin. Inside my head. Like something had plugged itself into the back of my skull and flipped a switch. My vision didn’t blur. It split. One Mira. Then two. Then three. Then ten. Then too many to count. Each one different. Each one dying. One Mira on an operating table, eyes open, mouth moving but no sound coming out. My hand holding the scalpel above her chest. Not cutting. Not yet. Just waiting. Like I was deciding whether she deserved to live. Another Mira in a hospital bed, tubes in her arms, machines beeping around her. My hand holding the scalpel again. This time, I was cutting. Not her. The wires. The monitors. The things keeping her alive. I was disconnecting her. On purpose. Another Mira standing in a white room, just like this one. No table. No machines. Just her and me. I held the scalpel to her throat. She didn’t fight. Didn’t beg. Just looked at me like she already knew how this would end. I pressed. Blood welled. She didn’t make a sound. Another Mira curled up on the floor, hands over her head. I stood over her. Scalpel raised. Not to kill. To erase. To make sure no one would ever find her again. To make sure no one would ever ask what happened. Another Mira screaming. Not in pain. In betrayal. I didn’t care. I cut anyway. Not deep. Just enough. Just enough to make her stop talking. Just enough to make her stop remembering. Just enough to make her stop being Mira. Another Mira smiling. Smiling at me. Like she trusted me. Like she thought I would protect her. I smiled back. Then I cut. Right across her cheek. Just to see if she’d still smile after. Another Mira running. I chased her. Caught her. Pinned her down. Held the scalpel to her eye. Not to blind her. To record. To imprint. To make sure whatever she saw, whatever she knew, would be burned into my own mind when I took it from her. Another Mira already dead. Lying still. Eyes closed. I knelt beside her. Pressed the scalpel into her palm. Closed her fingers around it. Then I stood up. Walked away. Left her there. Like she was nothing. Like she had never been anything. Another Mira alive. Breathing. Watching me. Not afraid. Not angry. Just waiting. Like she had always known this was coming. Like she had let it happen. Like she had wanted it to happen. My hand. In every one. Holding the scalpel. Always holding the scalpel. Forty-two.