Its patch had been blown into a short circuit by Scab Dog, and the core components were either suffering from bad contact or completely fried—no feedback at all. Wearing it on his body no longer slowed Sianweistan's cooling rate.
John was lying on the bed in a tank top, thinking about how likely it was he could get in touch with [Scissors], and about the possibility of finding a new tailor, or even replacing the whole piece of gear…
He'd been overdrawn for a long time; the act of thinking burned through the last of his strength, and he blacked out on the spot.
He slept for a full twenty-four hours.
John was dragged back to consciousness by hunger and weakness. He left the bedroom, and the sky outside the window was somehow still bright, enough to make him briefly think he hadn't slept at all.
Only when countless messages popped up in his inbox and the date marked by his time plugin had flipped did he finally accept reality.
The restaurant had reopened for business.
