April 19, 2021. 13:12. Vancouver. 11 days left till Italy.
Red mesmerizing eyes, ones that show unwavering conviction.
Pale skin made sleek with enhancements. Angular cybernetics framing his face like polished armour.
Short white hair is slicked back with perfect precision, not a strand out of place.
Mayor Gestalt's voice is like warm velvet through the television speakers.
"There's no need to panic," he says, smiling gently into the camera. "Last night's incident has been resolved, and the safety of our citizens remains the top priority. I've been in direct contact with Police Chief Woods and the district heads. Reinforcements are already being deployed across key areas of the city. You are not alone in this."
He looks every bit the icon he's made out to be.
"I understand the fear and concern after last night's tragic event. A violent cyberpsycho attack occurred in a heavily populated sector—yes. And of course, the response time wasn't immediate. But I assure you, this is not being taken lightly. We're reallocating resources citywide, including the aid of both local security contractors and international partners. I've brought the corporations to the table—Arasaka, Militech, and several others are contributing infrastructure, specialists, and funding to bolster our frontline capabilities."
His glowing mechanical eyes—augmented for clarity, or so they say—don't carry the cold menace one expects for a violent colour. Instead, they gleam with the calm of a man who knows how to command trust.
"I've also authorized an immediate audit of our response grid, and more command nodes are being activated across the city to reduce dispatch lag. Cybernetic experts, psychologists, and data scientists are being embedded within emergency units. This isn't just a police problem anymore—it's a citywide initiative, and everyone is involved."
His voice is steady, and his militaristic coat, threaded with subtle red neon lines, gives him the presence of someone who could lead armies... but chooses instead to protect civilians.
He is, without question, the face of the city.
Behind him, the city flag waves in the soft morning wind atop City Hall. A few camera flashes go off as reporters shout questions. One voice cuts through.
"Mayor Gestalt—witnesses are saying that the police arrived too late, after the firefight had already ended. That it was civilians who dealt with the situation first. What do you say to those who feel abandoned?"
There's a pause. A single heartbeat.
Then Gestalt nods, slowly, like he's genuinely considering it.
"That's a valid concern," he says, nodding slowly, with just the right weight behind his words. "And one I share. As you all know, last night's tragedy wasn't just an isolated event—it's part of a troubling rise in cyberpsychosis incidents that we're still working to fully understand. Our emergency response wasn't fast enough, and yes, citizens were caught in the crossfire. That's unacceptable. But I assure you, we are responding—swiftly and thoroughly."
Another reporter starts to speak, but Gestalt's next words slice clean through the murmurs.
"And to those who doubt whether private entities should step in: consider the alternative. Chaos. Disunity. I believe—no, I know—Vancouver can lead the world in public-private collaboration, where the people benefit from corporate expansion, not suffer because of it. And while I can't promise there won't be more incidents, I can promise you this: Vancouver will not look away. And you will never face this alone. We are fighting for you… with everything we have."
The reporters go quiet. There's nothing else for them to say.
The camera lingers on him a moment longer, his expression resolute and kind, before the broadcast cuts to a logo and upbeat music.
Wow, he handled that better than I thought.
I don't even realise I've been staring at the screen this entire time until someone taps the side of my paper cup.
"Gina," a voice calls, light and teasing. "You good?"
I blink. The café snaps back into focus.
My iced Americano's gone watery. The condensation beads across the table in messy little trails. Soft noise around me.
A few laughs here and there, chairs dragging against tiles, the hiss of the espresso machine.
But my head's still somewhere else.
Somewhere darker.
The reporter's question from earlier echoes in my thoughts: "Witnesses are saying that the police arrived too late, after the firefight had already ended. That it was civilians who dealt with the situation first."
Well, I guess it's not wrong to call us civilians.
That image flashes through my mind—twisted metal, scattered bodies, smoke curling up into the night. A man ripped apart by the very implants that were supposed to make him a better mercenary. We were the first ones on the scene. Not the cops. Us.
And now Arasaka is working with us, of all people.
They don't move unless they smell blood in the water. The moment they stepped in, everything shifted. And now, we've got Michelangelo—some half-cybernetic freak of a man—being dropped into our lap as "support." A walking weapon with a name that sounds more painter than soldier, but nobody's laughing.
Wissen vouched for him, said he was a top-of-the-line asset.
But even then, I saw it. The way Mister tensed. The way Azure's eyes narrowed. None of us trust it. How could we?
If Arasaka's interested, it means this is deeper than we thought. Messier. Maybe unfixable.
Even if Gestalt has them on a leash here, there are plenty of stories throughout the internet that Arasaka has enough military power to start a world war. A company that manufactures literally everything anyone can think of, whether it's the electronics in a living room or the implants bolted into a soldier. Arasaka is a titan of a mega conglomerate, controlling almost all of Asia and rapidly expanding into other continents, rivalled only by Militech.
And that doesn't even cover the shadier deals that Arasaka was involved with. Linked disappearances in Manila, a factory riot cover-up in Seoul, rumours of ghost units operating in war-torn Middle Eastern countries, and practically running the entirety of Japan now. Hot topics that never make it past page three on corporate news feeds.
While many of us believe in Gestalt—he's never failed us—we don't trust the corporations at all. Who could? Vancouver was the rare spot of white on an otherwise black canvas of North American anarchic cities. And rarer still, seeing a city actually functioning because of direct corporate funding.
All of these factors combined just made Vancouver seem like the next Night City without as many of the problems.
After it all calmed down—if you could even call it that—we each drifted off.
Mister lingered longest, doing one final sweep of the site. His movements were slower than usual. Measured yet almost… distracted. I caught him glancing down at the cyberpsycho's body more than once before disappearing into the dark, already planning something he wouldn't share.
Remi and Azure walked down the sidewalk together, trading snarky jabs like they always do. A strange way to cope, but maybe it worked. I watched them fade into the neon haze—Remi with his hands in his pockets, probably thinking about food, and Azure already pulling out her phone to check something for her shop.
The last ones out.
Then there was me.
I stuck around, waiting for something. Anything. A call from Wissen. A message from Blake. Some divine sign telling me what came next. But nothing came. No answers, no directions. Just the cooling air and the wail of distant sirens.
So I went home.
Back to my apartment just past midnight. Back to seeing the city outside my window, taking in the quiet night, save for the occasional siren echoing through the streets.
I didn't turn on the lights. Didn't bother changing out of my gear right away. Just collapsed onto my bed, staring at the nearby window like it might spell out the answers I didn't get.
But I never got any.
The stars were faint. The sky was perfect—too perfect for a night like that. I watched it for who knows how long, letting my thoughts drift from one danger to the next.
I lay there, still in my clothes, just watching the lights—stars, buildings, even planes—drift across the skyline. Fond memories of stargazing with my dad enforce a habit that I can't quite erase.
He said I always noticed more than he could. Sharper eyes and faster reflexes, or so he reminded me. I was supposed to do something better with all that.
I miss him.
And yet I knew he would be disappointed in me, in the person his daughter had turned into.
Was it guilt? Shame? I didn't even know. But I knew enough to understand that neither my dad nor my mom would've wanted this life for me.
After all, what kind of parent would want their kid to end up working black market gigs just to stay afloat?
But being a model wasn't enough.
The virus. The gangs. The creeping suspicion that we were already too deep.
I know I failed him.
But there was no other way. I needed the money to stay afloat, to keep me and my mom from going homeless. Now, we're thriving, better than the life we had before.
And I'm sure as hell not going back.
Eventually, sleep pulled me under.
And when I woke up, I didn't even have time to think before my non-edgerunner friend group chat pinged me.
Brunch. Usual spot. No excuses.
So here I am now—Gina again. Cropped white tee, high-waisted jeans, a black leather jacket slung over my shoulders, and worn white canvas shoes that still pass for clean. I sit at this café table, surrounded by old friends, pretending to be normal. Pretending I'm not waiting for the next bullet to fly.
But I know better. This peace won't last.
It never does.
Another poke. "Hellooooo?"
I look up. My friend Nari leans across the table, lips pursed. "Did Gestalt hypnotize you or something? You've been zoned out since the commercial break."
One of the others laughs. "He's kinda hot, though. Like a messed-up silver fox."
I shake my head, lips twitching. "I think I've just got too much on my plate. Too many work appointments and all that."
"Girl, same," Nari says, stealing a fry from my basket. "But at least pretend you're not having an existential crisis while I'm venting about my roommate ghosting me."
There's another burst of laughter, and I let it wash over me.
Even if my brain's still playing catch-up with the chaos of last night, the act of sitting here, laughing with them, pretending I'm just Gina Kyung, helps a little.
Only a little though.
I'll take what I can get.
"Okay, okay," I say, straightening up with a dramatic sigh. "Let's be real—your roommate probably ghosted you because you kept turning the bathroom into a Sephora graveyard. I counted five open bottles of toner. Five."
"Excuse me?" She gasps. "That's a skincare routine, and it's curated."
"Sure," I say, popping a fry in my mouth. "If curating means your sink looks like a beauty influencer got evicted mid-livestream."
That earns another round of laughter. Nari almost chokes on her iced chai.
Another friend chimes in between sips of matcha. "Speaking of ghosts—do we think Christine's still talking to that walking red flag with the crypto startup?"
"Oh fuck," I groan, dropping my face into my hands. "If she brings him to karaoke again, I'm leaving."
"You did say he looked like a discount Keanu," Nari adds, grinning.
"Correction," I say, raising a finger. "I said he looked like Keanu if you dunked him in Axe body spray."
More laughter. The rhythm of the conversation starts to flow again.
"Speaking of disasters," one of the girls says, "tell me why I caught feelings for a guy who sends voice notes longer than a podcast episode."
"Nooo," another one groans. "Red flag. If a man's voice note has seasons, girl, run."
"Run to where? We're just rotating the same four emotionally unavailable guys with good Spotify taste," I reply, sipping my iced coffee.
"Okay, but he made me a playlist," she protests weakly.
"So did my DoorDash driver once. I tipped him better."
We dissolve into another round of giggles, and I flash a smile as the topic eventually shifts to which influencer is currently on "cheating scandal number three." I toss a smug glance across the table. "Please. Y'all really out here acting like I'm not the hottest one here."
Nari lets out a snort-laugh. "No argument. That's why we keep you around. It helps balance out our average."
"Exactly," I say, flicking my hair back with exaggerated flair. My tone oozes fake arrogance. "It's exhausting being the emotional support bad bitch."
They all cackle, someone throws a balled-up napkin at me, and I dodge it effortlessly, smirking.
And then my phone buzzes.
I glance down. A message from Mister into the edgerunner group chat.
"Michelangelo wants to meet soon. Everyone, get ready."
The warmth drains from my face. The name alone flips a switch within me.
I take a breath, stand, and smile with practiced ease. "Sorry, girls. One sec, work just sent me a message."
"Awww, right when I was about to drag y'all into ranking exes," one of them groans.
"Put a pin in it," I say, slinging my jacket over my shoulder. "I'll need that laugh when I get back."
The moment I leave the café, I swipe into the group chat.
"When are we meeting him?" I text.
Mister responds quickly. "We're meeting him in neutral territory, for the sake of convenience. I'm thinking of Silvery Dynamo, 8 pm. How are we feeling?"
"Works with me," I reply.
Shock jumps in right after. "OMG?? KK lemme get ready!!"
Remi adds, "Ayoooo, say less."
Wissen texts, "Best of luck to you all."
Azure remarks, "Damn, we still don't know what this guy's angle is, right? I'll be there, but I'm keeping my distance."
Tetra chimes in. "Yeah, do we have nothing to work off of? Oh well, I guess we'll find out tonight. Location and time works for me too!"
I react with a thumbs-up emoji, then send a quick message: "See you all tonight then." After that, I switch to a private message with Wissen.
"You ever gonna tell me why Arasaka reached out to you, specifically?"
His reply comes fast.
"They want a direct line to me. Word finally got out that I've been planning to step back. Arasaka thinks if they cozy up to me now, they'll get to shape what comes next, or at least part of it."
"So Michelangelo's an agent for whatever Arasaka wants in Vancouver and also a way into your empire?"
"Pretty much, at least that's what I'd assume," he answers. "But as for why they're moving so openly in Vancouver... I don't know. Maybe they think Gestalt will keep giving them room to operate."
"And he's letting them?" I reply, more concerned than accusing.
Wissen doesn't answer right away. "Well, like we saw on the news, he's using them to deal with the cyberpsycho problem. But 'why hasn't Arasaka overstepped yet?' I've been wondering the same thing."
"Do you think he's got leverage?"
"Maybe. Or they think they owe him something. Either way, Gestalt's playing a dangerous game, and no one's figured out what cards he's holding."
I pause, thumb hovering over the keyboard. "I just hope he's not in over his head. The last thing I want is to watch my city sell itself out."
"Well, at the very least, he's a man of his word. It's his ambition and tenacity that I'm worried about. Currently, he's on a tightrope. So I wouldn't be surprised if things come crashing down."
I sigh. "Yeah… you're right. Anyways, I guess I should prepare for the meeting now."
"Yes, you should. Good luck."
I pocket the phone and head back inside, letting the warm buzz of the café calm my nerves for just a little longer.
"Everything good?" Nari asks as I slide back into my seat.
"Yeah," I lie smoothly. "Just work. Nothing major."
I grab a fry and force a smile, anchoring myself back into the moment.
…
April 19, 2021. 7:35. Vancouver. 11 days left till Italy.
The Silver Dynamo buzzes with quiet corporate polish—mirrored walls, cold lighting softened by neon highlights, and muted jazz-fusion playing beneath the low murmur of conversation. It's the kind of place where people in suits talk mergers over martinis. Neutral ground, or so it's sold. In a city like this, that's as good as it gets.
We all agreed to meet early, so none of us would be surprised by Michelangelo—or anything else.
Now, we're seated together at one of Silver Dynamo's corner booths. Mister got there first, naturally, and the rest of us followed soon after. His coat is draped beside him, posture sharp, eyes flicking subtly toward the entrance every few minutes. He doesn't say it, but he's on edge too.
I came prepped. Switched into full techwear before we left: matte black tactical pants and boots built for movement, with armoured panels at the joints. Under a cropped black hoodie—cut high to flash a midriff—I'm armoured up with a contoured Kevlar plate that wraps my torso, sleek and matte where bare skin would be. No flesh, just layered composite plating designed to move with me and take a hit without ruining the silhouette.
Light armour traces my limbs—just enough protection to deflect trouble, but not enough to slow me down. A sidearm rides high on my thigh, knife tucked at my lower back, submachine holstered under the arm. Smokey eyes, contoured cheeks, matte lips. My cap's pulled low to shadow my face, hair tied tight beneath it.
I don't blend in—which is the point. Between the cap, the makeup, and the layers, I'm masked enough to throw off whatever bullshit Arasaka tracking's out there. Might've gone a little overboard, but if things go south, I want to be ready.
Azure whistles low under her breath as I adjust the strap of my shoulder rig. "Damn, Artemis. You look like you're about to kick down a corpo boardroom."
"Or blow one up," Shock adds, sipping her drink with zero concern.
Remi, already halfway through a bowl of truffle fries, nudges it toward Tetra. "Take one, dawg. You'll stress less."
Tetra shakes his head. "Uh, I'm not—"
"Eat, bro." Remi nudges the plate closer to him.
"Fine, okay." Tetra gives up and picks one up with little resistance after that.
"Ugh, I feel like I missed a dress code memo," Shock mutters, tugging at her bomber jacket while looking at my outfit. "Seriously, you and Mister look like you're two seconds from launching a black ops mission."
"That's because we might," I mutter, sliding down a bit in the seat beside Azure.
"...Wait. The hell? These are actually pretty good," Tetra says, eyebrows rising slightly in surprise as he stares at the fry like it just betrayed his upbringing. "Wow…"
Remi raises a brow. "Dawg, they're just truffle fries."
"Well, I mean, I grew up eating whatever we could fish, dry, or trade for," Tetra admits. "So this stuff is kinda… nice."
Remi leans in, theatrically offended. "You telling me this is your first truffle fry experience?"
Tetra shrugs, a bit sheepish. "Probably?"
"Bro." Remi places a hand on his shoulder. "I'm gonna fix you. I swear to God, by the end of this year, you're gonna have a working knowledge of five-star appetizers."
Shock joins in, grinning. "Heyyy, I've been helping with that too! I've been giving him proper meals lately. I actually got him hooked on dumplings earlier!"
Azure's shoulders shake as she tries not to burst out laughing. "God, you guys are like two steps away from adopting him."
Tetra snorts, then laughs. "Well, I won't say no." He eyes his fry as if it might jump at him, then takes another bite. "I'm still getting used to things that come from a grocery store instead of the coast."
I find Tetra smiling, and before I know it, I am too.
I feel the tightness in my shoulders loosen, and the edges of the room soften.
This is so stupid.
Maybe it's the absurdity of it all—the fact a bunch of us are just bickering over food of all things—makes me think maybe we'll be okay.
Then I glance at Mister.
He hasn't touched his drink. He's still watching the door, staring at the figure about to enter.
And just like that, I lock back in.
The door opens.
Conversation dies instantly.
He walks in like he already owns the place.
Michelangelo.
Tall, lithe, and composed. His shoulder-length black hair is tied back, pale skin untouched by sun or time. A black tailored suit hugs his frame, and a single red armband is the only colour in sight on him.
Two katanas rest in an X across his back—polished, untouched.
Hm, odd position for weapons.
He moves like he's gliding.
Calm and calculated.
Like everything around him is moving just a bit too slow.
He scans the entire room and then pauses when he sees us.
The man gives no smile or nod.
Instead, he walks toward our table in an unnerving manner.
We all sit there as he does, frozen and uncertain.
Mister is the first to speak once the Arasaka agent gets closer to our table. "Michelangelo, I presume."
The operative nods. "Correct, it is a pleasure to meet you."
Mister gestures to the group. "I'm Mister. These are my associates—Artemis, Azure, Shock, Remi, and Tetra."
Michelangelo's gaze sweeps over each of us like a barcode scanner. There's no malice, just calculation.
He inclines his head. "Understood. I am excited to work with you all."
No one moves.
No one breathes.
Then Michelangelo calmly produces a sleek tablet out of his suit and places it at the centre of the table.
"The incident from two nights ago," he begins, his voice devoid of emotion. "You encountered the cyberpsycho directly, yes?"
Mister nods. "We did."
Michelangelo taps the screen. A crisp holo-display projects above the table. The cyberpsycho's profile glows in pale blue light.
"Roderick Hale," He says. "Forty-five. Former construction foreman. Turned freelance mercenary after his divorce—needed the income to support his son. He worked in private conflicts across the globe. Because of that, he has a spotty employment history, with long periods away from home. He's the father of Nathan Hale, a sixteen-year-old boy. Deceased."
The room stays quiet.
"His son was killed in a gang-related incident outside a high school in Burnaby," Michelangelo continues. "Stabbed after school hours near the west entrance. No arrests. No suspects. No answers. Roderick came back too late to do anything."
He swipes to another file—police reports, fragmented logs. "After that, he spiralled. Fell into a depressive slump and kept taking dirtier jobs—off-the-books contracts that got bloodier over time. Eventually, he self-medicated with neuroboosters and whatever else he could get his hands on. Combine that with implants built for military use, not street work... things didn't end well. Forensic analysts found traces of SynthCoke in his system too."
Azure nods slightly. "So basically, his cybernetics overwhelmed his emotional feedback loops."
Michelangelo glances toward her, acknowledging her point. "The neural strain exceeded tolerance thresholds. His brain was no longer prioritizing rational thought—it was rerouting to simulate memory triggers. Everything he did was a broken echo of Nathan. The revolver that he primarily uses was still voice-locked to his son's biometric ID. He'd talk to it like Nathan was in the room. Every action was just... playback. He was simulating past events—over and over again."
Shock's face stiffens. "Oh... that's… tragic… like, horror show-levels of tragic."
"But," I say, "That doesn't explain all of it. He talked to us. Like he still knew something was wrong."
Michelangelo nods. "Correct. We believe he was in the late stages of implant-induced psychosis—a tipping point where identity becomes fragmented, but isn't yet fully erased."
Mister leans forward. "I see. So then, may I ask why did Arasaka send someone of your calibre? I can understand sending an implanted operative, but to say the least, you're far from a regular street mercenary."
Michelangelo's expression doesn't change. "Because this isn't isolated. And it's pressing enough for Arasaka to send me."
He swipes again. Another display comes up—heat maps, city readouts, cases with red blinking markers. Vancouver. Berlin. Jakarta. Johannesburg.
Without missing a beat, Michelangelo continues.
"There's been a spike in reported cases globally over the last six months. Arasaka and several other megacorporations have been tracking it. At first, the pattern was simple—patients with heavy implant loads and unresolved trauma. But that explanation stopped making sense when the cases kept climbing, even in areas with lower cybernetic density."
I glance toward him. "So it's not just SynthCoke?"
He shakes his head. "No. That was the initial theory—many within Arasaka's Vancouver branch thought the drug was the catalyst. But Arasaka's international branch reports believe it's more likely a secondary accelerant, not the root cause. Useful for study, but not ground zero."
"If it's not the drug… then what changed? What's triggering these new outbreaks? And why are the symptoms spreading faster than before?"
Michelangelo exhales, then brings up another display. Lines of red-tinged code twist across the screen like a living organism. "This. NetWatch picked up a digital signature moving across multiple citynets. It embeds itself in neural firmware—no ID tags, no origin trace. It behaves like a virus, but it's smarter. Predictive recursion. Self-erasing routines. We believe this is the real culprit behind the cyberpsychosis spikes. We found traces of the virus in across multiple cities, and now Vancouver. Every time the code surfaced, cyberpsychosis cases spiked shortly after."
Shock frowns, sitting upright. "Wait… you're saying this virus is making people snap?" She inches closer towards the screen, inspecting the lines of code on the display.
"We think so," Michelangelo replies while adjusting the display, zooming in on the code for Shock. "Or at least, that it's doing something to increase neural instability. It corrupts core sensory logs, rewrites internal processes, and then wipes itself from all recovery buffers like it was never there. Anyone with high neural integration is vulnerable, especially netrunners and those pushing the boundaries of implant capacity."
I glance at Shock. Her expression's gone tight. No sparkle, just focus.
Tetra shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "So the drug… it just speeds things up?"
"That's one possibility. Another is that the drug and the virus are unrelated, and they're just two different causes tearing apart the same mind. SynthCoke might be exposing cracks that the virus can slip into."
Azure leans forward, arms crossed. "And Arasaka's interest?"
"We're here to study both the drugs and the virus. Whether it amplifies their effect or simply thrives alongside them, it's too dangerous to ignore. Vancouver's numbers spiked faster than anywhere else. Whatever this is—it started here, or at least found fertile ground."
I drum my fingers against the table. "So this thing isn't just tech. It's targeted."
Michelangelo gives a slow, deliberate nod, eyes fixed on the cascading code. "That is our current assumption. Regardless, the virus is an incredibly resilient one. Once it enters the system, it mutates—rewrites local processes, corrupts core sensory logs, and then vanishes. No trace. Wipes itself clean like it was never there."
"How?" Azure leans in, brow furrowed. "Cyberware has internal firewalls. Even black-market jobs have at least some encryption."
"It bypasses them," Michelangelo replies flatly. "I am not sure how, but it knows their flaws. NetWatch refers to it as predictive recursion."
Shock audibly gasps. "Oh! Like disguising itself as diagnostic subroutines to slip in unnoticed!"
Azure's expression hardens. "Wait, how the hell do you even know this?" she demands. "If the virus can delete itself, then how did you discover it?"
"Someone caught a fragment running in a closed sandbox environment," he replies. "It was a total fluke. If the recovery team had been slower by even one second, we'd have nothing. Currently, Arasaka is having difficulty reverse-engineering it. We need more samples—clean ones. And they don't last long."
A cold silence follows.
Tetra mutters beside me, "Good thing I don't have implants."
I shrug. "Same here. Guess being stubborn paid off."
Remi scratches the back of his neck. "Damn… I got chromed up like three weeks ago. Should I be worried or what?"
Mister tilts his head slightly. "So the rumours about the infection were true. How did you get access to all this info on Roderick, anyway?"
"The Vancouver Police Department granted Arasaka investigative access. We have full digital clearance into all forensic records tied to cyberpsychosis. Mayor Gestalt himself approved it."
I see, so it's already official.
"We appreciate the transparency," Mister sighs and shakes his head. "That's one hell of a head start." He then pauses, tilting his head slightly again. "But if everything you said is true... then how do we know you're not compromised? You're a heavily implanted operative yourself. What makes Arasaka so sure you won't snap next?"
Michelangelo doesn't flinch, and his voice is flat. "Because I've already been tested."
The room goes quiet again.
He continues, unblinking. "My systems are monitored in real-time. No emotional deviation. No memory fragmentation. And if that ever changes..." A small, chilling smile flickers across his face. "I won't be the one to notice it first, you'll be safe."
Tension hangs thick in the air. It doesn't take me long to realise what Michelangelo meant. What the fuck… if he goes even a little off the rails, someone is gonna pull the plug on him. No second chances or questions asked.
He swipes the screen again, moving the discussion forward. "In conclusion, I'd recommend that we begin by investigating adjacent cases. There have been three more recent outbursts—different districts, same symptoms. Delusions, implant feedback failure, identity breakdown. I've marked their last known locations."
I exchange uncomfortable glances at the rest of the team while Michelangelo taps once more on the tablet, pulling up another record.
"Also, we should trace the origin of Roderick's drugs. Someone supplied him, and we need to know who. The closer to the source of manufacture, the better."
I look around the table. Azure's arms are still crossed, but her fingers twitch slightly. Shock's usual defiance is quieted, eyes narrowed in unease. Even Remi, for once, says nothing.
I groan, rubbing my forehead in contemplation. This isn't a cleanup job anymore; it's containment.
Never mind researching for Blake's safety, if we're too late... this whole thing becomes a full-blown crisis.