Voss’s eyes go wide. His hands twitch—first toward his ears, then toward his own throat. The melody doesn’t kill. It edits . Every memory of love becomes a scream. Every kindness, a scar. By the third bar, he’s on his knees, weeping corrupted tears that sizzle on the concrete.

“Version 1.0.1?” he coughs, black oil dripping from his lip. “You patched the mercy out. That’s cruel, even for you, Bitshift.”

“Why?” he whispers.