Ezra walked.
Not through cities, but through signal zones — places where the air still shimmered with her frequency.
His ears bled by the second block.
His memories felt like melting film.
But he kept walking.
---
Because deep beneath the remnants of the old studio...
Where the original track was born...
The air was silent.
And silence meant she might still be listening.
---
He dropped to his knees at the base of the old mixing board.
Whispered:
> "Elena. I'm sorry."
> "They took you. Then I helped them."
> "What do you want me to do now?"
---
The static surged.
But it didn't sing.
It screamed.
Not loud.
Sharp.
Precise.
Like broken glass inside your lungs.
---
The lights flickered in a rhythm no machine could produce.
And the screens across the globe — even those not connected to any network —
flickered with a single message:
> "THE DEAD DO NOT CONSENT."
---
Hospitals.
Churches.
Classrooms.
Everywhere the voice had been praised…
It turned against its worshippers.
Chant leaders choked mid-prayer.
Choir members bled from their throats.
Some couldn't stop humming — but the melody had changed.
It was bitter.
Disjointed.
Spiteful.
---
And the Blood Choir?
They fell to their knees.
Some screamed.
Others wept.
Most just said one word:
> "She's angry."
---
Because Elena — the real Elena — wasn't resting.
She had been repurposed.
Mourned by millions, yes.
But used.
Exploited.
Sanctified against her will.
---
Now?
She was taking herself back.
---
Ezra stood, tears cutting through dust and blood.
He looked at the old speaker cone, trembling from the force of a signal that no longer needed wires.
And he said, trembling:
> "I'm not afraid to die for you."
The static paused.
Then pulsed once.
And replied:
> "You already did."