She folded the paper, feeling its weightlessness against the gravity of her task. Vault C was where they kept the ones who had been wiped clean—the citrinn s. People who had volunteered to shed their pasts for a second chance at life. Two hundred and twenty-eight of them, filed away like unwritten books.

"Welcome back," Elara whispered.

Elara's hand hovered over the keypad. Disposal was clean. Painless. The woman would never know she existed. But reintegration… reintegration meant feeding the old memories back into her mind. Making her remember why she ran.

A woman. Early forties, maybe, though the suspension kept faces soft and unlined. Her dark hair floated in the nutrient gel like seaweed in a lazy tide. Elara pressed her palm to the glass. The interface lit up with a single file: Origin: unknown. Contract: indefinite. Last request: none.

The pod hissed open. The woman's eyes fluttered, confused, then filled with something older than the vault. Tears.