From the cracks in the street, shapes emerged. Faceless, humanoid, born of static and intent. Echo turned to Kira. "Are these them?"
"No," she said, fear in her voice. "These are echoes of echoes. Failed fragments. Lost thoughts."
The beings reached for Echo—not to harm, but to merge. He felt them seep into his thoughts, and suddenly, he was many. A thousand lives, lived in alternate strings. Each screaming.
He clenched his fists and the blade pulsed, grounding him to a singular truth:
He had survived worse.
He spoke their name. His name.
And they fled.