She didn’t remember making the promise, but her signature was there all the same. The consent form was clinical, precise, and disturbingly thorough. Every risk outlined. Every outcome acknowledged. And yet, she had no memory of reading it. “Standard protocol,” the doctor said calmly. “You were fully informed.” “I would remember this,” she insisted. He didn’t argue. He simply turned the page and pointed to the date. Yesterday. Her stomach twisted. “What did I agree to?” The doctor hesitated just long enough to confirm her fear. “Memory editing,” he said. “Selective removal.” The room seemed to tilt. “You erased my memory of agreeing?” “That was part of the agreement.” She stared at him, trying to process the logic that folded in on itself. “Why would I do that?” He slid another document across the table. Her handwriting again. A note this time. If you’re reading this, it means it worked. Don’t ask questions. You already know the answer. Just follow through. Her breath caught. Follow through with what? The doctor met her gaze evenly. “The second phase,” he said. Something cold settled into place inside her. A realization just out of reach—but close enough to feel. She picked up the pen they had left beside her. For a long moment, she hesitated. Then she signed the next form. Whatever happened next, it would no longer be an accident.