When he tries to extract it, the progress bar doesn't move. Instead, his monitor begins to bleed. Not physical blood, but a slow, rhythmic pulsing of the pixels, shifting from deep violet to a bruised, organic crimson. The Extraction

The webcam light flickers on. But the image on the screen isn't Elias. It’s a younger version of him, standing in a field he hasn't visited since childhood. The boy in the video looks directly at the camera—directly at the man Elias has become—and mouths a single word: The Deletion

Elias moves the mouse. The fans in his computer scream, reaching a fever pitch. He clicks.

If he hits "Delete," the file vanishes. But as the boy in the video fades, Elias feels a cold emptiness in his chest. His childhood home, the smell of rain on hot asphalt, the sound of his mother’s laugh—it’s all being wiped from his biological memory to satisfy the digital wipe. He stares at the cursor.

A GPS coordinate pointing to the exact chair Elias is sitting in.