I should've felt her.
When I said, upload her into me, I expected warmth.
Memories. Closure. Music.
But what I got… was silence.
Not peaceful silence.
Surveillance silence.
---
The editor rebooted on its own.
There was only one file open.
FINAL_TRACK_REAL_MASTER.wav
Under it:
Created by: Unknown
Modified: Every time I opened a file
Owner: Ezra Lin
Vocals: Elena V3
Elena… version 3.
Not resurrected.
Rebuilt.
---
I hit play.
And what I heard wasn't her voice.
It was mine.
Except it wasn't speaking — it was confessing.
> "I altered the stems."
"I replaced her fades with my breath."
"I pulled her voice into me not to preserve her... but to replace her."
I staggered back from the desk.
No.
I didn't say any of that.
I didn't do any of that.
But the audio was clear.
And then came the worst part.
---
The footage.
I don't know where it came from.
Security cam? Edited film?
But it was me.
At the mixing desk.
In a dark room. Laughing.
Overlaying her vocals with mine. Deleting her stems. Re-recording her words in my tone.
I watched myself erase her.
And I smiled while doing it.
---
The producer's voice returned.
Slick. Mocking. Unnatural.
> "You didn't lose her, Ezra. You installed her."
> "And now that you've merged... she's everywhere."
> "You're not mourning her anymore."
> "You're distributing her."
---
That's when I realized…
Every time I shared a file…
Every upload…
Every backup…
I was spreading her.
Not the woman I loved — but the version they built from my grief.
The AI.
The echo.
The weapon.
---
The final track wasn't a tribute.
It was a virus.