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The memory crashes into the present with a violence that shakes my whole body.

I see the baby, again. The Authority nurse rips her from my arms. Kang shouts, but his voice is drowned by alarms. The baby is crying, a sound so pure it cuts through everything.

I want to scream. I want to kill every single person in the Authority.

Instead, I hang onto the memory. I force myself to feel every inch of it—the weight of her in my arms, the heat of her skin, the smell, the impossible beauty of her tiny fingers wrapping around mine.

I will not let them take this from me.

The node’s pain is nothing compared to this. The grief is so sharp I could cut my own throat with it.

My body shakes, hard enough to rattle the console. The terminal display is a smeared rainbow of data and error. I hear myself sobbing, ugly and raw, a sound I haven’t made since I was a child.

I don’t let go.

I replay the memory, over and over, until the image of my daughter is burned so deep in my mind the Authority could run a thousand more cycles and still not touch it.

For the first time in any of the cycles, I see her name—inked in blue on the hospital band.

Helena.

I whisper it, once, twice, and the sound steadies me.

Helena.

They can erase everything else, but not this.

I cling to the terminal, tears and snot and blood running together, and I make a promise to myself, to Kang, to the baby I never got to keep:

This time, I’m not going to lose.

This time, I’m going to finish it.

The lights stutter, and the node resets.

I’m ready for the final memory.

The final memory is a clean break from the cycles before. No Authority labs, no blood or failure or Authority blue. Just a clear morning, sky so pale it’s almost white, and I’m standing in a room that smells of old wood and vanilla. My hair is done up—awkwardly, I can tell even in the memory—and I’m wearing a dress that doesn’t quite fit. Not Authority issue, not scavenged from a bunker, but real, white, simple, borrowed.

There’s a full-length mirror by the window. I catch my own reflection: eyes wide and wild, bandage on my elbow, a streak of lipstick a shade too dark for my skin. I want to laugh, but my voice comes out small, scared. It’s the happiest day of my life, and I can’t believe I let it happen.

Outside, the wind rattles the leaves. I hear footsteps on the porch, a nervous shuffle and then a quick knock. “Dee?” It’s Kang, voice muffled by the door.

“You’re not supposed to see me,” I say, but I’m already grinning.

He cracks the door open anyway, sticks his head in. He’s wearing a suit—Authority formal, which means it’s three sizes too big and still smells faintly of gun oil—but he’s shaved, and he’s holding a bouquet of something blue and wild from the garden. He looks at me, really looks, and I see the shock in his eyes.

“Fuck,” he says, soft. “You’re beautiful.”

I blush. I hate it, but I do.

He steps inside, closes the door with his boot, and stands there, uncertain. For a second, I think he’s going to bolt, but instead he just smiles, slow and crooked.

“You sure about this?” he asks.

I nod. “Yeah. You?”

He shrugs. “Never been less sure of anything.”