The setting sun slanted low, its glow fading from the skyline. Between afternoon and dusk, beneath the tidy high walls of Arasaka's Advanced Industrial Park in Tokyo, the streetlights were already aglow though night had not yet fallen.
Tap, tap.
From the side gate, Yorinobu emerged swiftly, carrying a briefcase. His movements were clean, efficient—he had obtained what he came for.
Over the past few months, after smoothing connections through the underground routes tied to viral prototype storage, he had rehearsed countless simulations in braindance infiltration, memorizing every step and protocol for this moment.
At last, persistence paid off.
The guards didn't glance his way. Drones patrolled as usual. The security cameras—either coincidentally turning or momentarily frozen—caught nothing.
Under the platform, a few figures approached, greeting him casually.
Some wore jumpsuits, others business suits—ordinary office workers, weary from the day, waiting to hit the izakaya for drinks. Nothing suspicious at all.
Yorinobu met their eyes briefly. No words were needed.
They blended seamlessly together, chatting about banal topics—izakayas, yakitori, geisha, recruitment, overtime, the stock market, terror attacks, the North American war...
Eeeeee—
Several taxis, their rooftop lights flashing, rolled up to the curb. The group picked one, waved casually, and slipped inside with practiced ease.
To any passerby, there was no doubt—just another group of corporate drones heading off for another night of routine excess.
...
After the taxi had driven for some distance—
"You were inside for twenty-three minutes, Lord Yorinobu. The operation is proceeding smoothly. The jet is ready. Shall we head directly there?"
The same middle-aged man who had been laughing moments ago now bowed his head respectfully. From a hidden compartment behind the back seat, he retrieved a black biosafety transport case and handed it over.
"No rush," Yorinobu said calmly. "Once the move is made, one must maximize the gain."
Peeling off his synthetic facial disguise, Yorinobu reached for the case. He unlatched his briefcase, carefully retrieving a cylindrical containment tube. Through the adjustable polarized glass—
Inside, a spiral test vial rested quietly, like the core of a pen.
Within the vial, a viscous crimson fluid—thick as oil—slid sluggishly within the glass.
[2076-12-18 | Temporary Designation: Tyrant-Ghoul-118-09 Fusion Virus (T-G Progenitor – Veronica – Ghoul Fusion Virus) — Vela Adelheid Arasaka Russell]
Derived from the Sonnentreppe Project—the very key to Saburo's bid for immortality—and Vela's latest biotechnological research, delayed only by war and succession strife.
According to Vela's own projections, it could massively enhance the host's physical capabilities, extend lifespan, and even trigger further evolution—a new-generation supervirus.
And now—it was his.
"Haha..." The thought alone made Yorinobu smirk, imagining Saburo's expression when he discovered the theft. The old man's fury would be priceless.
If only it could kill him outright—what a gift that would be.
But reality was rarely that kind.
Suppressing his restless excitement, Yorinobu placed the containment tube into the biosafety case, securing it within the shockproof gel padding.
Once done, he locked the case and double-checked the separate chip storage box in his briefcase. Then he drew out his encrypted phone and dialed a number, pressing it to his ear.
Beep... Beep...
The line connected quickly.
"Herrman, how's the situation on your end?" Yorinobu asked.
Anders Herrman—Arasaka's chief bioengineer, director of the Relic Project.
"Lord Yorinobu? You... you haven't boarded the plane yet? Hah... My situation is stable for now," came the nervous voice over the line. "But forgive me for speaking plainly—if you turn back now, it's still not too late. If you return the Relic 2.0 prototype chip and the Soulkiller program components, and cover your tracks properly, it will be as if nothing happened—"
"Enough. Do your job," Yorinobu snapped. "My path is like an arrow loosed—never to return. Born an Arasaka, I will either stand at the summit or rot in the abyss."
A lie.
He had never desired the summit—but such words, full of resolve and defiance, were what the old Edo loyalists needed to hear. It kept them bound to him.
As expected, his declaration had the desired effect.
Everyone in the car bowed their heads deeply.
"For the cause—unto death!"
Yorinobu held the phone tightly and continued, "Remember—you are my man. I will not short you on your reward."
"As for my family's disputes, keep your mouth shut. Don't speculate. Don't pry. If anyone asks, tell them I forced you. Even if I lose this fight, that woman Vela won't move against you immediately—she'll want to show magnanimity, to soothe hearts. I'll take responsibility."
Then, his expression hardened. "Understood?"
"But I—"
"It's decided. Don't think too much. Do your part." Yorinobu ended the call.
He swiped through his phone.
Traffic data, airport schedules, changes around the Arasaka Family Compound, even rough updates on Saburo's movements—all displayed before him.
That was as much as his network of agents, sympathizers, and insiders could gather—but it was enough.
He silently reviewed the data, calculating his hand.
Relic 2.0 prototype biochip, its schematics, Herrman's full experimental log, and the Soulkiller program components.
The chemical structure and fabrication process of the new memory-metal Quinque alloy and related materials.
The T-G-118-09 fusion virus prototype, R-618 Rebirth compound, rejuvenation surgery data, and Vela's personal research logs from the Sonnentreppe project.
All now in his possession.
There was no turning back.
The Arasaka Biotech Center in Tokyo—the facility where the fusion virus had been stored—was the final stop on his escape route.
Using synthetic skin disguises and borrowed identities had been essential. The previous sites were all departments he once led, with deep ties. But the Biotech Center was different. Even with insiders cooperating, caution was paramount.
His next destination—the true objective—was Night City.
Target: the liquefied Sakuradite and Sakuradite Cracking Bombs Vela was transporting back to Japan at Saburo's request.
Bzz, bzz.
Soon, the vehicle entered Kabukichō 5-chome, near the industrial park, pulling into a corner of an underground parking lot beneath a bustling food street.
Thud. The door opened. Yorinobu stepped out, carrying the biosafety case and briefcase, and switched cars.
His agents, who had been waiting in the shadows, stepped forward and whispered brief reports.
Inside the second vehicle, he glanced at the refrigerated Relic chip storage box on the back seat—[Integrity: 100%]—and gave a curt nod. "Destination: Tokyo Haneda International Airport."
"Yes, sir!"
The car started and drove out of the underground lot.
Leaning against the window, now dressed in civilian attire, Yorinobu watched the glowing Tokyo night roll past.
The bustling Kabukichō, the gleaming shopping streets, the towering Arasaka Tower, the chaotic lower districts, the silent, decaying alleys, the shadowed reclaimed zones, and the barely visible slums—
From afar, the city shimmered with light and promise. Up close, it was fractured and corroded.
Towering skyscrapers of glass and chrome stood alongside crumbling shacks of the poor, both visible in the same frame.
People went about their lives as always—the elite remained untouchable, the decadent still wallowed in pleasure, the desperate still struggled to survive. The war across the ocean had reached them—and yet, it hadn't.
Yorinobu suddenly felt like a bystander. A moth.
Alone.
Drifting.
Before him lay the roaring fires of oil-fed glory, the world-spanning corporate colonialism and new militarism entrenched in every nation.
And he—utterly alone—could only act beneath the guise of Arasaka's dynastic power struggles.
A bitter smile touched his lips.
Moths to the flame?
He thought suddenly of the idiom Saburo often spat when mocking idealists.
"So what if it is?" Yorinobu muttered with a dry laugh. He had no choice. Delay any longer, and even that thin "guise" of legitimacy would vanish. He would lose all power—reduced to a political pawn, a marriage tool to preserve the Arasaka bloodline, Saburo's instrument of balance. Perhaps, if phrased politely, he would be named an overseer to 'keep Vela in check.'
He scoffed.
That was not his path.
If that were to be his fate, why return to Arasaka at all? He might as well die gloriously as part of the Steel Dragons.
He had to prove it—to his fallen brothers and sisters of the Steel Dragons—that his ideals had not rotted. To the world. To the legends of the old resistance who once fought beneath the banner of opposing Arasaka.
To prove that he had lived.
That rebellion was not theirs alone.
"Sir, we've arrived."
The voice of his bodyguard in the front seat broke his thoughts.
Yorinobu exhaled deeply, then stepped out of the car, surrounded by his operatives.
He boarded the plane.
A direct flight—to Night City.