For many in Night City's underworld, Avalado was the very embodiment of ostentatious luxury. The wide synthetic leather seats made cruising through the urban sprawl feel like a pleasure rather than a necessity.
…
In the southern districts of the Glen, the buildings weren't as tall as those in the north, and the neighborhoods were visibly poorer and more rundown. The car carrying Padre and Marcus was driving along the road toward an intersection. As Marcus turned left, a truck waiting at a red light on the right suddenly plowed through a group of pedestrians crossing the street and then rammed straight into them.
Marcus instinctively swerved to evade, but the truck still slammed hard into the car's rear, sending it spinning before it skidded off and crashed into the roadside guardrail. Both Marcus and Padre were tossed about inside the cabin. Fortunately, they were wearing seatbelts—otherwise, they would've been seriously injured, if not worse.
Padre leaned out to look through the window and saw the truck slowly reversing to reposition itself. Though the truck's front end had taken some minor damage, the rear of their car was far worse. They weren't even in the same weight class—their vehicle couldn't take another hit like that.
"Marcus, drive! Now!" Padre urged as he saw the truck about to charge again.
Marcus, sweating profusely, tried to start the car, but for some reason, the engine wouldn't respond. The truck had already turned around and was coming back in for another strike.
Boom!
The strained guardrail let out a creaking groan before it shattered. The car was shoved sideways into a street-facing shop. The outdoor stands and merchandise at the entrance were obliterated in an instant. The vehicle got jammed in the doorway, and the area of impact began to twist and collapse under the pressure. Even if the engine started now, there was no way to drive out.
"Padre, get out!" Marcus shouted.
Avalado only had two seats—meaning only two doors. Marcus's side had been crushed and warped in the collision, completely sealed shut. The only way out was through Padre's door.
Padre unbuckled, opened his side, and climbed out. Then he reached back in and pulled Marcus out too.
The truck driver, realizing things weren't going as planned, tried to back away, but Padre raised a tech pistol and fired through the windshield, killing him instantly.
"Padre, are you alright?"
Padre didn't answer immediately. He scanned the shop around them. The staff and customers were all huddled in corners, staring at him in fear.
"It was Carlo. He sold us out. He's the only one who knew about my schedule today." Padre's voice was filled with anger. Carlo was his personal driver—Padre had always treated him well. Yet Carlo had betrayed him. He didn't know why, but betrayal was something he couldn't tolerate.
"We need to get out of here," Padre said, glancing at the wrecked car embedded in the wall before correcting himself. "Call the house. Have them send someone to pick us up."
Marcus nodded and dialed a holo-call. Padre turned back and looked once more at the terrified bystanders in the shop. He gave them a slight smile.
"Don't worry. We'll be gone soon. And I'm very sor—"
Bang—
Padre's words were cut off. He looked down in a daze and saw a bloody hole in the center of his chest. One of the shop employees, previously pale with fright, now stood calm and focused, holding a kinetic pistol aimed squarely at Padre.
"No—!"
Marcus reacted instantly—draw, aim, fire. A clean headshot before she could fire a second round. He immediately turned his gun on the rest of the crowd.
"Out! All of you, get the hell out!"
The customers had feared he might lash out at them indiscriminately. Now, hearing him yell at them to leave, it was like being granted amnesty. They scrambled out through a side exit.
Still wary, Marcus fired two more shots into the assassin's corpse—one to the head, one to the heart—before returning to Padre's side.
A few minutes later, Padre's men arrived. They rushed to stabilize the critically injured Padre and took him straight to a private hospital.
…
Trauma Team Private Hospital.
A corridor of pure white—the walls, the polished floor reflecting faint silhouettes, even the ceiling lights glowing a soft, sterile white. On either side of the hall were individual recovery rooms, each equipped with bathrooms and entertainment spaces. The smart glass remained opaque by default, only becoming transparent with authorized access to allow external observation of the patient.
Leo stood beside a doctor in a white coat, both gazing through the smart glass into one of the rooms. Lying on a clean bed, Evelyn was undergoing various diagnostic scans.
"How is she?" Leo asked.
The doctor, faced with a customer who didn't even blink at spending hundreds of thousands, was polite and thorough. "She's in terrible shape, but her condition has stabilized. However, it will take some time before she regains consciousness."
"Doctor, I have some questions I need to ask her. What's the earliest she might wake up?"
The doctor looked inside again and sighed. "I can't guarantee that. As I said, she's stable for now, but the trauma she suffered was severe. On top of that, she has a behavioral chip implanted."
"Behavioral chip—you know what that is? It's a remarkable piece of tech, a brilliant invention. It can turn someone into a completely different person—real enough to win an Oscar. But what the specialists selling these things won't tell you is that they come with devastating side effects. For instance, it can take a rookie fresh out of basic training and turn them into a war-hardened veteran."
"And then into a cyberpsycho who can't tell friend from foe. That's why companies still prefer braindance and VR combat training rather than mass-producing soldiers using behavior chips."
Leo was a bit surprised by how candid the doctor was. He had expected some corporate spin or sugarcoating.
Seeing his expression, the doctor chuckled and explained, "Behavioral chips weren't developed by us at Trauma Team. We gain nothing by hiding the risks. Besides, we're a private hospital—if some other corp takes a hit, all the better."
Even among corporations, unity didn't exist. Rivalries and sabotage were the norm. When one company stumbled, the others were more than happy to kick it while it was down.
Something occurred to Leo. "Does she dream?"
"I'm sorry?" the doctor asked, surprised. But realizing his question had sounded rude, he quickly added, "Yes. Though it's just fragments—brief, scattered dreams."
"Can you capture them? I mean, record her dreams using equipment—without harming her body, mind, or brain?"
"Of course. We're one of the top three hospitals in Night City. That kind of task is routine for us."
"Good. Then I'll leave it to you."
Just then, Leo's holo-call lit up.
"I need to take this."
"Of course. Go ahead."
The doctor tactfully stepped aside. The call connected, revealing the panicked face of a man on the display.
"Leo? Is that you?!"
Leo raised a brow. "Marcus. You don't look good. What the hell happened?"
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