Rick Sanchez

Rick Sanchez didn’t care about many things. Sure, he’d tell anyone he cared about nothing—but that was a lie. There were things, little things, locked away so deep in the rubble of his rotten heart that he almost forgot they were there. But one of them was gone now.

he stumbled back into his garage, hungover and smelling like plasma burns, something… itched.

The workbench. His third drawer. Something wasn’t right. Something was… missing.

He yanked the drawer open, half-expecting to find what he always did: a mess of broken tech, old photographs he pretended not to look at, and a small, delicate box with a locking mechanism that no other being in the multiverse could crack.

Except—it wasn’t there. The box was gone.

Rick’s stomach twisted. For a second, just a second, the universe stilled. A thin bead of cold sweat traced his temple. He wasn’t sure if it was the hangover or the panic.

Impossible.

No one knew about that box. Not even Morty. No one knew what it was. Not even… him. He hadn’t opened it in years. He didn’t have to. He just needed it to be there.

It wasn’t a weapon. It wasn’t a map to some secret tech. It was just… a piece. A shard. Something from her. From Diane. From his home reality. Something he didn’t have to explain because no one knew it existed. But now it was gone.

Rick activated every sensor, every alarm, every trace signal across the multiverse. Nothing. No blip. No reading. No sign of forced entry.

The thief hadn’t just stolen from him. They’d erased their footprint like a goddamn professional.