She didn’t remember making the promise, but her signature was there all the same. The paper smelled faintly of smoke. Not fresh smoke—old, lingering, like something that had burned long ago and never fully faded. “Think carefully,” the man across from her said. “I don’t remember signing this,” she replied. “You did,” he said calmly. “You just don’t remember the circumstances.” She studied him. Something about him felt… wrong. Not in an obvious way, but in the way a reflection sometimes doesn’t quite match reality. “What did I promise?” He smiled faintly. “Nothing complicated,” he said. “Just that you’d take responsibility.” “For what?” “For what happens next.” A chill ran through her. The room around them felt unstable, like it wasn’t entirely real. Fragments of memory pressed at the edges of her mind—fear, desperation, a moment where she would have agreed to anything. Even this. She looked down at the signature again. At the certainty in it. At the lack of hesitation. Whoever she had been in that moment had known exactly what she was doing. Which meant this wasn’t a trick. It was a choice. Her choice. She exhaled slowly, the weight of it settling into place. Then she looked up at him. “I understand,” she said. His smile widened, just slightly. Whatever happened next, it would no longer be an accident.