"I told him I didn't like how it tasted down there."
"Good morning, Night City!"
The blaring voice of the anchorwoman cracked through the static.
"Yesterday's dead lottery ended with a clean thirty!"
"Thanks to non-stop gang firefights, ten bodies dropped in Heywood alone!"
"But hey, even a cop bought it. So don't celebrate too fast…"
Outside the cracked window, a hovercraft screamed past.
Inside, Logan's fingers twitched. He blinked against the light as the TV kept chattering on like an old drunk.
This was his place. His home—a far cry from the half-ruined bunkers of Dog Town. For a man freshly torn from battle, it was almost… livable.
He sat up, body aching from every joint and implant.
Night City… no, Dog Town now. Another beautiful day, huh?
He rotated his prosthetic with a slow grind, reaching for a half-eaten corn roll on the table. One bite. Two. Systems read normal. Muscles responded.
He was alive.
His phone buzzed.
Otto.
The man's face filled the screen, grinning like a cartoon devil.
"You little bastard, you went through three cans of my Qinglizhi last night."
"You should be saving that cash for new limbs instead of guzzling stimulants."
Logan grunted. No lies there.
Though you probably smoked half my stash too… Are you calling for payback?
"Relax, buddy," Otto continued. "I'm no debt collector. Just head to the checkpoint camp when you can. Hansen wants the weapons back in our hands."
"Oh—and keep the Colonel's business in mind. Don't do anything… stupid."
A pause. Then a smirk.
"Also, drinks on you next time, got it?"
Call ended.
Logan leaned back, lost in thought. Hansen had ordered him to head to Dog Town's iconic building—Heartache. But he still wasn't sure who he was supposed to meet.
That voice… hoarse, shadowy. Could it be Hands?
Mr. Hands. The legendary middleman of the district.
It was 2075 now, and Logan couldn't say for certain whether Hands had already cemented his reputation. If it wasn't him… then things could get messy.
Still, Logan had one major advantage: he knew these people. Their habits. Their reputations. Their weaknesses.
Middlemen were the unsung architects of Night City. They dealt in favors, blood, and secrets.
To the average merc, it looked easy—just transfer some eddies, say a few words.
But in reality, middlemen were jugglers of fire, balancing the interests of corpos, gangs, punks, and psychos all at once. Without them, most dirty deals would collapse before they began.
Logan stepped out of his ramshackle building, descending the creaking escalator. Candles flickered in the distance beneath a sprawling memorial tree.
Johnny. V. The Memorial Tree.
He remembered.
Controlling V in the game… talking with Silverhand beneath that tree… those long, uncertain monologues about what to do next.
V might've felt the same way I do now.
But what's V doing these days? Man or woman?
He laughed quietly. The mood broke. Humor softened the morning static in his brain.
And then—
Rrring.
[Caller: Unknown]
"Hello, friend. I'm Hands."
Logan relaxed instantly.
Familiar voice. That's something.
"The famous Mr. Hands," Logan greeted, a smile curling his lips. "Pleasure."
The middleman chuckled, tone smooth, velvet-wrapped.
"Colonel Hansen's got good taste for once. Come to the Heart-wrenching Club. I gave you a day—figured you'd be limping after yesterday."
"Don't take too long. We've got things to discuss."
Click.
Call over.
Logan turned toward the dusty horizon where Heartache glimmered like a translucent pyramid under the neon sun.
But then—
Spit.
A glob hit the pavement inches from his boot.
"Filthy Hellhound. Worthless trash, that's what you are!"
A vendor, tucked beneath a shelf of knockoff parts, hurled curses like grenades.
Ah, right. Yesterday I was Colonel Hansen's attack dog.
Guess the Hellhound reputation stuck.
Logan didn't flinch.
Instead, he stepped in close—hand closing around the vendor's jaw with mechanical strength.
People stopped. Some wide-eyed. Some amused. A few even encouraged the vendor to fight back.
"Calm down, pal," Logan said evenly, grip like a vise. "Whatever the Hellhounds did, that wasn't me. But if you mouth off again…"
His prosthetic fingers flexed.
"Let's not test your warranty, okay?"
The man nodded frantically. Logan let go.
He walked off slowly, hands tucked in pockets, the crowd dispersing behind him with mutters and sighs of relief.
The road to Heartache was long—too long.
The past owner of this body must've blown all his pay on flash or cards. Not even a damn scooter.
Two hours later, winded and sore, Logan reached the barracks near the checkpoint.
Ghost Dogs paused mid-card game. Eyes flicked toward him—sizing him up.
He didn't look like a soldier anymore.
But no one said a word. The guards had let him through. That was enough.
"Here's your piece. And some of Hansen's spare change. Oh—and my commission."
A female soldier with a mohawk, jacket around her waist, cigarette dangling, tossed Logan his rifle.
Her rose-tattooed arm flexed as she checked her terminal.
Account updated: +1,000 eddies
"How much did you skim?"
"Three hundred," she said bluntly. "Take it up with the Colonel if you're feeling lucky."
"I want it back."
The woman raised a brow, ready to snap—but another soldier interrupted, spraying neon soda from his mouth.
"Give it back, girl. Otto vouched for him. Chill."
She hissed but complied. Logan's account ticked up again.
"Where's Otto?" Logan asked, strapping the rifle over his shoulder.
The soldier shrugged. "Dead in some girl's apartment, probably. Who knows?"
"Just… get out of here."
Logan nodded and called Otto. The line rang endlessly. No answer.
Fine. At least I tried.
He turned toward the glittering glass triangle ahead.
The Heart-wrenching Club.
It gleamed like a beacon of pain, possibility, and secrets.
Logan adjusted his collar, took a breath, and stepped forward.
How many steps had he taken since arriving in this world?
Who knew.
But one thing was clear—
It was a damn good start.