But some fragments survive. Not as evidence. As wounds that learned to speak algebra.
Pixels crumbled into rust-colored squares. The screen filled with algebraic equations—Win32 machine code translated into human-readable grief:
For Rei. For Jun. For the bird Mina carved into concrete.
She had asked for one more time.
But Kaito whispered to the dark: Not everything.
The timestamp read:
Behind her, two other child soldiers. A boy named Jun, twelve, cleaning a rifle he couldn’t lift properly. A girl called Mina, fifteen, carving a bird into the concrete with a bayonet.
Kaito double-clicked anyway.
The virus had answered: Oxidation takes everything.