There is a bookstore in Prague that sells no books.
Only gaps.
Blank pages, misplaced chapters, footnotes to novels no one ever wrote.
Scholars call it The Interlinear, a fissure in fiction where text leaks from one reality to another. You arrive not by map, but by misreading directions, stepping through an alley that wasn't there yesterday and buying silence with memory.
Inside, the proprietor offers you a single slip of paper.
Not a page. A pause.
It reads:
> "This sentence is hiding."
You blink—and your reflection is gone from the mirror behind the register.
And that's when the voices begin speaking between your thoughts.
They don't interrupt.
They fill in.
---
Elsewhere, the Redactors are losing control.
One of them—Agent Dactyl—goes rogue and uploads himself into a hard drive sealed with a cross made of copper wires and Latin code.
But when his colleagues try to retrieve the drive, it screams. Not digitally. Physically.
A mouth has formed in the plastic.
