You had laughed when you bought the skinsuit gun. The listing sounded ridiculous, the warnings theatrical, like something pulled from bad science fiction. A novelty. A scam. You never believed it could actually work.

So you fired it at your sister.

Now she sits motionless in the armchair where she collapsed, her body slack and unresponsive. There are no wounds, no burns, no sign that anything violent happened. Her chest still rises and falls slowly. Her skin is bare, pale, and unmistakably real—because it is her skin. Warm. Alive. Empty.

Her eyes stare forward without focus, blue irises fixed on nothing at all. There is no fear in them, no anger, no awareness. Whatever made her her is gone. Not dead—removed. Taken cleanly out of her body, leaving the flesh behind like a shell that no longer belongs to anyone.

Her limbs hang loosely at her sides, heavy and unresisting. She does not react when spoken to. She does not blink when waved at. She is waiting, not by choice, but by design—an inert husk shaped like a person you once knew.

Only then do you understand the gun wasn’t a joke.

It didn’t kill her.

It erased her from herself.