My body is a shrine of sacrifices I never consented to. Every joint is a hex-hinge. Every tear is a distilled mana potion. When I bleed, the wounds glow—pretty, like neon pink ribbons—and the enemy thinks I'm still fighting. But really? I'm just a puppet with too many strings, and the puppeteer is a committee of dead mages who wired my nerves like a bomb.
I try to access that file. It's corrupted. Overwritten by a combat subroutine for anti-reality anchors. I know the frequency of a dying god's scream. But I cannot remember if I liked the rain.
They ask me: "Lune, do you remember your mother's voice?"
I can see probability now. I can see how many timelines I die in. I can see the faces of the other magical girls—the "pure" ones, the ones who refused the upgrades. They burn bright for three seasons. Then they fade. I've been here for twelve years. I've killed five final bosses. There's always a sixth.
But I think I'm just a very beautiful, very expensive, very lonely thing wearing a dead girl's smile.
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