The Mojave sun didn't rise; it ignited. A fierce, relentless gold bled over the serrated peaks of the Panamint Range, casting shadows so long they looked like roads leading back to the world we had burned.
In the center of the salt flat, the "New" Ethan stood as still as a monolith. He was dressed in the charcoal silk of a predator, his skin flawless, his heart—mechanically perfect—beating with a precision that should have been terrifying. But his eyes were a storm. They were wet, red-rimmed, and heavy with a grief that didn't belong in a factory-new model.
He held the body of the Burnt Ethan in his arms, a cradled ruin of scorched wool and scarred flesh. It was the ultimate paradox: the soul carrying its own corpse.
"He's heavy," the New Ethan whispered. His voice was the same velvet b
