The silver mist of the Financial District didn’t just part; it screamed.
Abigail stood in the centre of the shattered cafe, her hair a banner of silver against the violet twilight. Across the street, leaning against the blackened remains of a Sterling transport, was the Impossible. It was her, the same height, the same razor-sharp jawline, the same platinum hair now braided into a crown of jagged black diamonds. But the eyes were a terrifying, absolute Red, glowing with a cold, predatory light that saw the world as a series of targets to be deleted.
“You’re a beautiful error, Abigail,” the Clone spoke, her voice a perfect, digitized echo of Abigail’s own. “But an error is still just a mistake in the code. I’m the Resolution.”
Abigail didn’t answer with words. She slammed her chrome g
