I'm a Detective on the Memory Black Market

If others hit the debris, they need equipment. He can do it with his bare hands. Others were emptied, their orifices bleeding and turned into empty shells. He took it. Every time. The price is that your memory is randomly broken into pieces. Nothing related to the case can be broken - everything that is broken is his own. The strawberry cake crumbled. The source of the coin was shattered. He didn't know what else he had lost. He doesn't care. The docking area, thirty meters underground in Harbor City, is the black market of memories. Someone slipped a note: "Stop checking." He didn't listen. Someone showed him a route to the middle level, and off he went. Someone had been following him for three years. He discovered it and moved forward. A gray room, a woman in a white sweater, and an unopened door appear repeatedly in the fragments. He couldn't see her face. Every time the screen gets there, it cuts off. He went deeper. Every time you go down a level, you clear it harder, and one more piece of memory is shattered. He carried it. It's broken but still standing, still able to fight, and still able to see. The door opened. He saw the number. L-002. Launch date: 2047.03.14. The day his sister died. The old scars on his wrists brightened. Memories are not deleted - they are overwritten. Someone wrote about his memory, someone sold a product under the name "Delete". He's not looking for memories. He is memory.