I poured a drink. The screen went black. Somewhere, a leecher started downloading.
M called ninety seconds later. Her voice had that rare tectonic rumble—the one before an offshore account gets frozen or a section chief disappears.
Back in London, I watched it alone. The alternate ending: I don't make the jump. M delivers the eulogy. My file is sealed. And somewhere, a torrent named Jenijybonw sleeps in the dark web’s cold storage, waiting for the next time someone needs to prove the legend was always just a copy of a copy.