"Clear the save file."
The phrase hung in the humid air of the conservatory, vibrating with a malice that felt entirely digital. Elara’s finger tightened on the trigger.
I didn't move. I didn't beg. I looked at the gun—a sleek, suppressed Sig Sauer—and then at the woman holding it.
In my first life, Elara had been a nuisance. A petty, spoiled brat who stole my husband because she wanted my toys. But looking at her now, standing in the moonlight in tactical gear, I realized I had underestimated the rot at her core.
"You're shaking, Elara," I observed, my voice calm, almost bored. "For a 'Player Two,' your aim is terrible."
"I don't need to be a sniper to hit you from ten feet," she spat, the smile slipping from her face. "And don't psychoanalyze me, Vespera. I'm not the insecure little
