Michael drifted through the galaxy like a correction that hadn't finished settling.
No sound.
No resistance.
Only motion between dying stars.
Inside his golden presence, something was wrong.
Not broken.
Not unstable.
But crowded.
Souls.
Thousands upon thousands of them.
People Victoria had erased.
Lives she had treated as collateral.
Entire histories compressed into fragments of grief that refused to dissolve.
They weren't screaming.
Not anymore.
They had already passed that stage.
Now they were simply… present.
Watching through him.
Remembering through him.
Michael stopped near a dead star.
It flickered weakly, like it was trying to decide whether it still existed.
For the first time, his expression changed.
Not into emotion.
But into burden.
The souls inside him began to move.
Not violently.
But collectively.
Like a single thought forming from too many voices.
Why are we still here?
Michael closed his eyes.
The galaxy around him bent slightly, as if reality itself was trying to distance itself from what he carried.
In his hand, light gathered.
A blade formed—not to attack.
But to decide.
Somewhere far away, the Absolute Being observed the anomaly.
A failed cleansing.
A servant returning with unintended consequence.
Michael spoke at last.
Not loudly.
Not to the universe.
But to the weight inside him.
"…I did not save them."
The souls did not answer.
They did not forgive.
They did not condemn.
They simply remained.
And in that silence, Michael finally understood something the system had never accounted for:
Not all erased things stay erased.
Some of them… travel.
And now, they were learning where to go next.