She didn’t remember making the promise, but her signature was there all the same. It wasn’t just the shape of the letters. It was the rhythm of them—the slight hesitation before the final stroke, the way the ink pressed harder at the end. It was hers. But it didn’t belong to her. The document lay on the table between them. “You signed willingly,” the man said calmly. “I didn’t,” she replied. “You did,” he insisted. “Just not as… this version.” Her stomach dropped. “What does that mean?” He slid another file across the table. Photographs. Reports. Different faces. Different lives. The same name. Her name. “You’ve been here before,” he said. “Many times.” She shook her head, but doubt crept in. Fragments flickered at the edges of her mind—places she’d never been, conversations she didn’t remember having. Or maybe she did. Maybe they had just been taken from her. The promise was simple. I agree to continue. Continue what? “Every time you finish,” the man said, as though answering her thoughts, “you choose to start again.” “Why?” He smiled faintly. “You tell us not to answer that.” Silence stretched between them. She looked down at the signature again. At the version of herself who had made that decision. And then, slowly, she picked up the pen. Whatever happened next, it would no longer be an accident.