"I'll let you run first."
Karl's tone was soft, devoid of threat. But Daphne didn't move.
Was it a bluff?
Not at all.
Karl meant every word. He was so sincere, Daphne didn't even need specialized equipment to know he wasn't lying. But truth or not, anyone who actually acted on that offer would be a fool.
He'd only said she could try to run. He never said they wouldn't chase her—or stop her. All he offered was a chance. A test.
Was Daphne really going to run?
Of course not.
No one's that naive—especially not a professionally trained Federal Intelligence Bureau agent. Karl's words were just a predator toying with prey.
Some people might stand a chance of escaping Karl's crew. Daphne wasn't one of them. So she stood completely still, not even attempting to reset her dislocated wrist. It just hung limp at her side.
At that moment, Maine's team finally registered what had happened.
It had all happened too fast. V had acted before Daphne's resistance could even begin. The whole thing was over in seconds—barely enough time for anyone to react.
But even if it was sudden, it wasn't hard to tell who was in the wrong.
A bartender they only casually knew, or a trusted friend who'd saved their lives?
No contest.
Click.
The safety on a gun disengaged. Rebecca, too short to aim from her seat, propped one foot on it to steady herself. She leaned halfway over the bar, raising her weapon and pointing it directly at Daphne.
She turned her head slightly toward Karl, her tone uncharacteristically serious.
"Karl, what's wrong with this woman?"
As she spoke, the rest of Maine's crew followed suit. Guns drawn, all aimed at Daphne. Even tipsy, they were still one of Night City's top-tier merc squads.
"To be honest, I don't fully know," Karl said calmly, his eyes on Daphne. "But I do know that someone fitted with the latest Militech-grade cyberware has no business working as a bartender in a rundown Dogtown dive."
Back in Karl's old world, that'd be like a street vendor casually carrying an assault rifle. Anyone who saw the real deal at their waist would be more than a little suspicious.
"Militech's latest tech?" Maine muttered, his expression tightening.
He hadn't expected this. The bartender of a place they'd been using as a base of operations—someone they'd chatted with, grown familiar with—was potentially Militech-affiliated?
That meant all their idle talk, their moves in and out of the bar… might've been watched.
It was unsettling.
Still, Maine was pragmatic. He and his team weren't exactly subtle. Most fixers in the city probably knew what they were up to. So maybe this was just coincidence. But damn—what a coincidence.
They'd just invited Karl's team for a drink, and it turned into a confrontation. Was this bad luck? Or had the bartender's luck run out?
Surrounded and outgunned, Daphne finally spoke.
Her tone had shifted—no longer cheerful, but cool and controlled.
"Everyone has secrets. That's not so strange, is it? Or are you the kind of guy who gets off on digging through other people's business, KK?"
"I've got plenty of flaws," Karl said, unfazed. "And one of them is curiosity. I get it—people have secrets. But asking the real identity of someone who just tried to shoot me? That doesn't seem unreasonable."
Daphne froze for a moment.
Then she replayed what had just happened. Karl had only asked about her real face. Neither he nor his crew had moved against her. The one who acted—V—had waited until she drew her weapon.
So Karl had really been waiting. Letting her make the first move. Setting bait.
People always said KK was unusually polite and principled for a merc. Seeing it firsthand confirmed it.
But being the one caught in that trap? Daphne wasn't amused.
Just as she was deciding how to respond, a new message popped into her interface:
"Let me handle it from here."
It was from her superior.
She blinked. She hadn't even had a chance to report what happened. How did they know?
Surveillance?
But she was just a sleeper agent… why that level of monitoring?
"A necessary precaution," the next message said, as if reading her mind. "You remember what happened with the last 'traitor,' don't you?"
Then came the order:
"Take out your phone. I'll speak with them directly."
Daphne didn't reply. But after a pause, she complied—placing her phone on the bar.
Under the sharp gazes of Karl's crew, she set it down.
And then a voice came through the speaker—one Karl recognized instantly.
"We meet again, KK. This is Smith."
It was the same Smith who had once hidden his face and hired Karl's team for that secretive presidential campaign mission.
Now, his voice rang out clear and direct.
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