A pause. “That’s suicide of the self, Mira. You’d retain motor function and language, but your memories—your identity—would be factory reset. You’d be a biological drone. No past, no attachments.”

At 3:58 AM, Mira stood in the damp, echoing mill. The woman—thin, gray-haired, with surgeon’s hands—held a vial of milky fluid. “Last chance. You’ll lose every mission, every face, every scar’s story. You’ll forget why this mattered.”

“What’s a Sigma Client?”