Obliterate Everything 4 ^new^ Guide

I pressed Y.

And that was the game. For the first hour, I moved through the shard-windows, obliterating. A police station. A wedding. A coral reef. A rocket on a launchpad. A courtroom. A birthday party (children's silhouettes, smaller). Each time, the gray cube. Each time, the flat voice. obliterate everything 4

I stared at my mother's face. The game's voice said: "You can't save her by keeping her. You know this." I pressed Y

All the gray cubes—thousands of them, the accumulated absence of everything I'd erased—began to drift together. They merged. They formed a single, massive gray planet, featureless, silent. I was standing on it. Not my avatar. Me . I could feel the cold of the gray surface through my socks. A police station

The voice said: "You erased them. Not all at once. One decision at a time. Every time you chose to forget instead of forgive. Every time you chose efficiency over tenderness. Every time you looked at something beautiful and thought, 'I don't have the energy for this.' That was an obliteration. You've been playing this game your whole life. I just gave you the button."

The body said: "You're not too busy. You're scared. That's different. Come home anyway."

I wanted to argue. I wanted to say that I'd kept my mother's garden alive in memory, that I'd adopted a new dog, that I'd apologized to the friend I'd ghosted in 2021. But the gray planet didn't care about intentions. It only cared about what was actually, physically, irreversibly gone.