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But on his bedside table: a handwritten note in familiar cursive.
Dez hesitated. “That’s the problem. The fullrip isn’t just a weapon. It’s a map. If we follow the quantum residue, it leads to… well, to you.” Cross went home. Not his apartment — his memory . Using a neural dampener (illegal, effective), he dove into his own archived consciousness. The memory palace was a library made of rain and glass. Every book was a case. Every window, a wound.
Cross frowned. A “fullrip” wasn’t official terminology. In the streets, it meant a total cascade failure of reality — when the simulation (if you believed in that) tore open and something bled through. Cross didn’t believe in simulations. He believed in bullets, bad coffee, and the weight of a case file.
“Define ‘the sky just turned purple and started screaming.’ Get there. Now.”
