"Guys! Breakfast here."
Carl's voice broke through the heavy, musty air of the apartment as he pushed the door closed with a dull clunk, the rubber seal catching like it always did. The light from the hallway outside bled in for a second before it vanished, swallowed by the dim orange hue of the flickering ceiling panel. The bag in his hand crinkled—thin plastic, slightly damp from the heat of the food inside.
The apartment smelled like old sweat, leftover booze, and still-smoldering electronics. Somewhere under it all was the ghost of blood, metallic and sharp, clinging to Carl's jacket like a second skin.
Oliver stirred first, a groan leaking out as he shoved a grimy cushion off his face. His hair stuck up in all the wrong places, and the blanket tangled around his legs had long since given up the fight. He squinted at Carl through the haze of sleep and crusted-over contact lenses.
"You went out?" he muttered.
Carl didn't answer. He just let the bag thud down onto the table—one of those plastisteel things with uneven legs and at least three cigarette burns.
On the couch, Jackie shifted with a grunt, his foot still resting squarely on Oliver's ribs. He blinked slowly, eyes bloodshot, hair sticking out like a busted broom. The stale tang of beer and cheap cologne wafted off his hoodie as he yawned.
"Sushi? In the morning? You some kinda corpo now, huh?"
"Big sets," Carl said, still standing, still stained.
Jackie stretched and scratched the back of his neck. Then his nose wrinkled. He sniffed once, twice, and froze.
"Wait a sec... ¿qué es eso?" he muttered, his head tilting. "Carl, you smell like sangre."
Carl said nothing. Just nodded toward the flickering holoscreen mounted crooked on the wall. The N54 news reel was still running, muted but loud enough to fill the silence with tension. Overprocessed footage showed a cordoned-off street, yellow tape dancing in the wind, drone-cam panning across a crowd of NCPD officers surrounding a covered body.
The glowing text bar rolled across the bottom of the screen:
Cyberpsycho Neutralized – Santo Domingo, Block D
A bead of fake condensation dripped down the screen. The image glitched, rewound, and played again.
Jackie's eyes widened. He leaned forward, arms on knees. Oliver sat up straighter, still tangled in the blanket.
"Hold up. That's… our street."
Jackie turned toward Carl. His voice dropped.
"Please tell me you weren't out when that happened."
Carl didn't respond. Instead, he began unpacking the food. The sushi trays hissed slightly as the plastic popped. Inside were neatly arranged pieces of synthetic fish—pink, gray, off-white—and cubes of compacted rice that had all started to fuse together. Thin slices of processed avocado curled at the edges. The smell was warm soy oil and something that tried to be vinegar but failed.
Oliver blinked harder, shaking off the last of his sleep. "Wait. Carl…"
Carl reached for a pair of flimsy chopsticks from the side pocket.
"Yeah?"
"You got dragged into that?" Oliver asked, his voice suddenly sharper.
Carl dipped a piece of neon-orange faux salmon into soy sauce, lifted it to his mouth, and chewed like it was no big deal. The rice stuck slightly to his teeth, gummy and lukewarm.
"Wasn't dragged," he said calmly. "Walked in."
Jackie froze. "What do you mean 'walked in'?"
Carl kept chewing. "I'm the one who dropped the psycho."
The room went dead quiet.
Even the buzz of the vending machine in the corner seemed to fade, like it was leaning in to hear too.
"You what?" Oliver asked, halfway between disbelief and full panic.
Carl nodded, finally sitting down. "Full Sandevistan. Mantis blades. Dermal armor. The guy was loaded."
Jackie just stared. His sushi tray was in his lap, untouched.
"And you solo'd him? ¿Estás loco o qué?"
Carl pulled out one of the drink bottles—lukewarm purified water, twenty eurodollars per bottle—and cracked the seal.
"Figured the payout would be worth it."
Oliver leaned in, blinking. "And?"
Carl took a long sip. It was like drinking air with the faintest hint of plastic.
"Ten thousand."
Jackie collapsed backward onto the couch. "Chingado, Carl. Ten thousand for almost gettin' turned into sashimi?"
"Couldn't even keep the gear," Carl said, letting the bottle rest against his chest. "Arasaka flagged the body. Post-mortem clause. Whole thing's theirs."
Oliver let out a dry, tired laugh. "You risked your neck and all you got was a corpo invoice."
Carl shrugged. "Wanted to see if I could track someone running Sandevistan. Turns out—I can."
Jackie shook his head and finally picked up his chopsticks. "Next time you wanna test your reflexes, call us. I don't wanna find out you got turned into street soup 'cause you got bored."
Oliver raised a piece of sushi and pointed it at Carl. "Yeah. We run together. That's the rule."
Carl nodded once. "Noted."
The sushi tasted like it had been made by someone who had only read about sushi once. The inari had a wet cardboard texture, and the soy sauce was both too salty and somehow not salty enough. But none of them stopped eating.
The room finally settled. The hum returned.
Then Carl reached into his coat.
"Oh—almost forgot."
He pulled out a sleek, matte-black datashard. No logos. No corp tag. The kind of shard you either found something important on… or lost your brain to.
"Found this on the psycho. Didn't wanna jack it into my own head."
Oliver leaned over. "Use my terminal. Just don't fry the port."
Carl stood, still chewing a half-collapsed rice roll, and headed into the back. The glow of Oliver's terminal lit up the cluttered little side room—scratched-up monitor, an ashtray full of burned-out menthols, and a faint hum coming from a nearby surge protector that hadn't been replaced in years.
He slid the shard into the port. A soft click. The screen flickered, colors briefly distorting as if it was thinking twice before showing him anything.
Then came the message. Just one line. Centered. Silent.
The cherry blossom born of chrysanthemum and rose has arrived in the City of Nightlight.
Carl froze, the light from the monitor casting a soft blue sheen over his face. The air in the room felt still, like something was waiting. Not just the words—but the weight behind them.
It didn't read like some random data scrap. No timestamp. No routing tag. No metadata. Whoever had left this wanted it to be found—and understood—by someone who already knew what it meant.
He read it again.
Cherry blossom. Chrysanthemum. Rose.
All flowers, sure—but this wasn't a botany lesson. These were symbols. Maybe names. Maybe crests. Maybe codenames from someone playing a long game in the dark. The phrasing had structure, like old poetry or ritual code. The kind you hear whispered between syndicates or old-school clans. Or those corpo sects that still think they're feudal warlords behind the chrome.
City of Nightlight? That was Night City, for sure. But calling it that… it had weight. Like the person writing this didn't just live here—they were arriving with purpose. Maybe from outside the city. Maybe even from a place no one talked about anymore.
Carl leaned in slightly, eyes narrowing at the glowing line.
The cherry blossom was here.
But what the hell was it?
He ejected the chip and slipped it back into his jacket, fingers tightening slightly around it. The plastic felt colder now, like it had soaked in the ghost of the message.
Not useful now. But it would be. He was sure of that.
And whatever it meant, it wasn't over.
Not even close.
He turned on his heel and stepped back into the main room.
"Save me some inari."
Oliver, mid-sip, tossed a tray over his shoulder without looking. Carl caught it without missing a step.
Jackie was hunched over the browser now, eyes scanning used car listings while the holoscreen still played B-roll of NCPD cleaning up the scene Carl had left behind.
Carl raised a brow. "That El Capitán's site?"
Jackie nodded. "Yeah, Capitán's solid. Ex-corpo, left the suits behind, now runs rides outta Santo. Guy's got a rep for clean hands."
"Clean-ish," Oliver added, sipping again. "Some of the cars got blood in the glove box. You just gotta check which ones he personally certifies."
Carl scrolled with them. The cars were all shapes and sizes. Some sleek, others chunky with obvious bullet patches. Most were suspiciously underpriced.
Until one stood out.
Midnight blue. Four-door. Reinforced frame.
[Skyline Hera EC-D I360]
Status: Mint
Price: €$31,000
Seller: El Capitán
Notes: Owner died en route to pickup. Never driven.
Carl's lips curled into a small grin.
He knew the model. Quiet engine. Fast pick-up. Enough space for gear—and room to get out when things got hot.
"This one," he said. "Yeah. I'm getting it."
Jackie tapped his water bottle against Carl's. "A'ight. You finally joinin' the big leagues, ese."
Oliver lifted his own. "To not having to cram three grown men and a shotgun in the back of my sardine can."
Carl chuckled.
"That back seat was practically a coffin," Jackie muttered. "Smelled like engine grease and betrayal."
"Hey," Oliver said with mock offense, "it's got character."
Carl leaned back into the cushions, the glow from the screen reflecting off the wall.
For once, it wasn't just about surviving the day.
Not just bloodshed. Not just reaction.
This was forward momentum.
He had a crew.
He had a lead.
Now?
He had a ride.