“Then let it be precedent.”
Venn’s hands were shaking. The DV-s sigils along his forearms glowed faintly—the contract’s mark, binding him to finish or forfeit his remaining years.
“I don’t want to bring anyone back,” Venn said, rising. His voice cracked, but it held. “The Prize is not resurrection. It’s a choice of which loss defines me.”
“Stop,” he whispered.