What the hell.
Even that phrase wasn't enough to describe the look on the faces of these ex–Voodoo Boys.
Because what the hell would be appropriate if they'd just seen a ghost.
But what they were seeing now—was KK.
And to many gangsters, street rats, and corporate goons, KK was far more terrifying than any ghost.
"It's KK!"
A scream of pure panic tore through the air. The first one to recognize him shouted so loud he startled the others out of their stupor.
The moment everyone realized the man standing before them was KK, their reactions varied—some froze, others instinctively backed away, some reached trembling hands toward their weapons… but not one of them dared draw.
"No need to panic."
Seeing the chaos in front of him—and that no one had stepped forward to speak—Karl raised both hands, gesturing for calm.
"I'm not here to cause trouble."
Not here to cause trouble?
That statement immediately calmed many of them.
These were people who'd spent time on the streets—many had heard of KK's reputation and how he operated.
His teammates might be unpredictable, but KK, at least, meant what he said. If he said he wasn't here for blood, then he truly wasn't. Whether that was because he didn't want the hassle, or just didn't feel like wasting the energy—it didn't matter. When KK said it, he meant it.
Every one of these ex–Voodoo Boys had heard the stories—how the Voodoo Boys had been wiped out by KK's crew. And they all understood: if KK's squad could take out the entire gang, dealing with their tiny splinter cell would be as easy as squashing a bug.
At first, seeing KK, most of them had feared he hadn't felt done with the Voodoo Boys—that he was here to finish off the stragglers. Now, hearing that he wasn't here to start a fight, a collective wave of relief washed through them.
But relief wasn't the only thing spreading.
Doubt crept in.
Was this really KK?
After all, imitators were as common as fake braindances in Night City. Maybe not on every block—but you didn't have to walk far to find some street punk claiming to be KK.
It was just like those fanatics who still called themselves "Johnny Silverhand" decades after his death.
Fakes using KK's name to bluff or intimidate people—hardly a rare sight. Over time, unless you were someone who truly moved in the upper echelons of the streets, it became harder and harder to tell if the man in front of you was KK… or just another fraud riding the legend.
Dogtown's rules were even wilder than the rest of the city.
This place was filled with either the truly desperate or the truly insane. Pretending to be someone like KK carried serious risks—but the rewards could be just as massive.
Because here, KK's name carried even more weight than in the city.
So when this man claiming to be KK showed up, acting surprisingly calm and polite, the Voodoo defectors couldn't help but wonder:
Is this guy really KK… or just some dumb bastard trying to use his name?
In a place like this, the truth was always messier than it seemed. Trust was a luxury no one could afford.
Still, even with that doubt, none of them dared test him.
It wasn't about courage or cowardice—if he was a fake, maybe they could beat him up and be done with it. But if he turned out to be the real KK?
Then walking up to challenge him would be a death sentence.
So they stood there, paralyzed, exchanging glances, saying nothing.
Karl frowned.
Why were they all just standing there, wide-eyed and mute?
Someone comes to your door—not to start a fight, but not just for a chat either—and you all just stand there like morons?
Don't tell me these Voodoo defectors split off because their brains didn't work. They look like they belong in the Animal Gang, not the Voodoo Boys.
He sighed and spoke again.
"I'm here to see Slidewire. Go let him know."
Karl had done everything by the book: introduced himself, stated his peaceful intent, and explained his reason for coming. But after his second request, the group still stood frozen.
They'd heard him, clearly. But none of them moved, all of them caught in hesitation.
After a few more seconds, just when Karl was starting to wonder if only the one who screamed earlier had a working voice box, a woman finally stepped forward.
Either she had more courage—or more likely, the others had shoved her forward because of her rank.
"T-There might be someone like Slidewire here… but there's definitely no one called Slidewire," she stammered.
"…What?"
What kind of dumbass answer was that?
"You know what, forget it. I'll go find him myself."
Karl rolled his eyes, done playing games.
"Lied—just need to find a terminal, right?"
"Correct."
Lied stepped into view, his tone calm. He'd been observing from the side, and clearly understood the situation better than Karl.
These defectors clearly had no intention of revealing Slidewire's location—or even admitting he existed. But faced with Karl, they didn't dare refuse directly either.
So they'd tied themselves into mental knots trying to do both, resulting in complete incoherence.
Karl's street-level intimidation worked even better than he realized.
But as Lied stepped out and Karl began to move deeper inside, the group seemed to recover their nerve.
Maybe it was because they only saw one unknown Black man beside Karl. Maybe it made them think: Hey, maybe this guy really isn't KK.
One of them worked up the nerve to block Karl's path.
"There's no one named Slidewire here, you—"
He never finished.
His eyes rolled back. Sparks shot from his neural port. The smell of scorched flesh filled the air as he collapsed backward, hitting the ground with a heavy thud.
"Don't block my way."
Karl didn't even look at him as he spoke.
"I came here to talk. I'm not here to kill anyone. But if you can't speak straight and want to lie to my face—there won't be a next time."
Everyone heard him loud and clear.
As they watched him walk inside without hesitation, not a single soul dared stop him again.
The guy on the ground wasn't dead—just fried his neural port. He might lose half his life. Might end up brain-dead. But at least he was still breathing.
The next one who got in the way? Might not be so lucky.
It's really KK!
That thought struck every defector like a bolt of lightning—shattering any remaining hope.
There was nothing fake about him.
That icy calm, that quiet dominance… just his voice made it clear their lives were hanging by a thread—threads he could snip without blinking.
And even as their hearts pounded in terror, all of them shared the same sentiment.
Thank god.
Thank god it's the real KK.
Thank god… he's not here for us.
They looked down at the unconscious man on the floor—and, each in their own mind, reassured themselves:
At least it wasn't me.
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🔥🦾 CYBERPUNK: THE RELENTLESS 🦾🔥
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