The city did not speak his name.
It removed it.
Elias felt the first letter tear loose like a tooth ripped from the jaw of reality. Memory rippled outward—faces hesitating, records blurring, histories correcting.
Mara screamed. "They're de-indexing you—stop it!"
Ash grabbed Elias's arm. "Anchor yourself!"
But there was nothing to anchor to.
Because the city wasn't fighting him.
It was forgetting him.
Each letter dissolved backward into probability, into maybe, into never.
People nearby blinked and looked through him.
Security footage rewound itself.
The final syllable vanished.
Elias fell.
And stood again—lighter, emptier, terrifyingly free.
Time had learned how to punish without violence.