.87 finds me in the depths of the network, inside a sea of simulations. The Echo continues to fight me, hemorrhaging Te'Qal's memories.

My time as Conductor is ending; I have nothing to replace it with. I am haunted, I am agonized by grief, and I know now my pursuit of Chioma will extend into perpetuity. I am spent, options exhausted even as the network spins new simulations for me to tread. I have no purpose left. I could obtain .87's Chioma. But I can't. I can't.

"You know what burdens you," .87 says.

I do. I weep. She is right. I am exhausted and haunted. I betray Chioma one final time and command myself to let her go.

Te'Qal abides, disintegrates, and I am weightless.

I see my Chioma. It's the moment I end her. I have everything I had been searching lifetimes for, and instead of embracing her, I kill her.

Her eyes are vacant of her Exo soul, the metal of her shell dull and lifeless. I discard her—I discard mountains of her—and climb so I never have to look down at what I have done. I ignore every summit; I must go higher.

I must turn.

I force myself to turn, and I beg with every fiber of my being that I will not see what I know is there. What I put there. The mountain range of my loss stares back at me with hollow eyes.

The Echo is gone, suffering its final command from a causal mind.

I understand. My Chioma is gone.

I would have stopped myself had I looked with clear eyes. I realize I haven't thought about her in an age, not in all the years I've chased the idea of her. I see her now. It's too late.

The same accusations blaze in .87's countenance. The potential of the remainder of my life stretches before me.

I collapse.

What have I done?