Chapter 615

Lying in shock-absorbing foam, the Malorian Arms 3516 was a sleek, cold matte pistol. The hand-carved flame etchings on the slide were still sharp, and the grip bore clear signs of wear—marks left by a certain rockerboy who’d pulled the trigger like a madman for fifty years.

“Goddamn...” Johnny’s projection suddenly froze. The holographic static hanging in midair stilled, his mechanical dog body trembled slightly, and the apertures of his cyber-eyes expanded and contracted rapidly. “Malorian 3516. It’s really it.”

Karl picked up the gun gently. Its weight made him raise his eyebrows—it was heavier than he’d expected. Not just physically, but in the historical sense as well. He rotated it under the dim light, inspecting every detail: