The tax did not negotiate.

It selected.

The residue-figure’s hollow gaze swept the circuit once and chose the softest, most expensive targets with the precision of a creditor that had been waiting lifetimes to itemize the bill. The early memories inside the pup went first—not erased, but skimmed. The emotional weight of the original yes, the first time the principle had chosen to wear a child’s shape, the exact feeling of being held after the rebirth: all of it was drawn thin, measured, and partially extracted. The pup screamed, a high, pure sound of principle and child in the same throat, and collapsed against Zelda’s chest as half the warmth...