Edmund tasted his mother's blood type in the seventh layer of cake frosting—Type O Negative, starkly contradicting the AB Type logged in the system. The strawberry on his fork suddenly sprouted compound eyes, humming in Margaret's voice: "Good children obey when mothers teach them to lace desserts with deicide code…" Cecilia's bridal veil burst into flames, its charred lace ashes coalescing into genomic charts above them—revealing 42% mitochondrial DNA overlap, precisely matching the number of gears in Joachim's mechanical heart.
"Wedding photos are crime scenes." Cecilia ripped off her bloodstained crinoline, exposing the barcode on her spine—Edmund's laser-etched divorce agreement from Cycle Ten. Their "virtual honeymoon suite" revealed itself as Margaret's womb-chamber simulator, its bedside gestational diary auto-updating: "...Embryonic emotional backlash detected at Day 42. Recommend memory wipe escalation..."
Joachim's viral avatar materialized as a honeymoon concierge, his coattails swarming with biomechanical maggots. "Surprise!" He snapped his fingers, unleashing 3,000 syringes from the mattress. "Your Cycle Three wedding gift—bilateral emotion suppressants." Edmund's alloy fingers gouged the concierge's left eye, yanking out optic nerves strung with a doctored family portrait—Margaret's abdomen photoshopped into a transparent incubation pod.
The system activated forced procreation protocols, shattering and recombining their genetic chains. Cecilia's uterus morphed into a quantum supercomputer while Edmund's ribs unraveled into data cabling. As they thrashed in binary amniotic fluid, seven hundred clones shattered the windows, chanting corrupted wedding vows: "Eternal unity is mutual parasitism—'til death do us reboot…"
"Override Z." Edmund crushed Cecilia's molar, releasing cryo-preserved初恋 memories—fifteen-year-olds rendezvousing in an armory, igniting birthday candles with missile propellant. The flames triggered Joachim's dormant Strawberry Virus, collapsing the honeymoon suite into a singularity where Margaret's residual consciousness flickered: "Mommy loved you too much—so she hid the apocalypse in nursery rhymes…"
During the final 0.42 seconds before rebirth, they discovered the true wedding cake beneath the floorboards—a tiered monstrosity of forty-two miniature selves, crowned by a strawberry skewered with the plastic shovel. Instructions scrawled in umbilical blood read: "Consume twice daily—eliminate one parallel self per dose." Cecilia's mechanized stomach regurgitated love letter fragments, reassembling into Joachim's suicide note: "Dearest niece—why do godslayers wear wedding bands on their left hand? Because it's closest to the mechanical heart…"
As the shockwave tore through virtual space, Edmund saw Cecilia's ring finger scar—a perfect match for the missing gear in his ventricular chamber. The system spat a final prompt: