The Black Gold Gang had John surrounded.
All he could hear around him were shouts, with thick gold chains swinging.
The scanner activated.
Their firearms primarily consisted of kinetic submachine guns, and their prosthetic modifications were mainly subdermal armor.
Seeing that John remained silent, someone tilted their handgun, aggressively stepping closer, trying to make a pushing gesture.
Rat-a-tat-tat~
John raised his gun and fired, staring at him, first emptying the clip into the ceiling.
The deafening noise around them vanished.
"Whoa, whoa, oh, buddy."
The guy trying to get closer quickly withdrew his hand.
The Black Gold Gang members widened their encirclement, chambering their weapons, producing a chaotic crashing sound as metal weapons clashed with mechanical prosthetics.
John's expression remained calm.
He was a man who could let go of the steering wheel at three hundred miles per hour, recently finding himself frequently under gunfire, he had learned to feign composure under pressure.
John looked around:
Black men clad in white vests and hoodies, even modifying their mechanical prosthetics with gold and graffiti colors, as if in the next moment they would shoot him full of holes.
But the most crucial thing is...
John didn't sense any killing intent from these gangsters.
They were different from the Markados gang and Nocturne thugs; they didn't have that manic vibe where a word out of line could lead to an explosion, instead, they carried a bit of a pretentious air.
To put it bluntly, they were using their numbers to scare him, with no intention of actually risking their lives.
The Black Gold Gang could control the West District territory; they wouldn't cower easily. Their menacing stance and reluctance to fight made the situation seem not so simple.
John completely ignored their jeers and instead fished out a fragmentation grenade from his ammo bag.
The item had been found among some spoils.
A standard explosive device, lethal within a four-meter radius, it could heavily injure the gang members surrounding John.
"Holy shit, what the hell are you doing!"
"Don't move, drop your weapons."
The surrounding gang members grew alert.
John calmly removed the safety pin: "Shut your mouths, you're making my hands shake. I'm allergic to gun barrel accidents, and if I accidentally blow myself to bits with a Shark Coin slam fire, the grenade won't discriminate."
The atmosphere immediately grew tense.
The others tried to put some distance between them.
John turned and stared at the person on the outermost edge, advancing step by step with the grenade, mirroring their retreat step for step, ready to throw at any moment.
As a result, the gangsters didn't dare to move.
Inside, the confrontation was poised to explode, while outside, a black extended limo pulled up.
A black man dressed in a nanotube suit jacket stepped out, approaching the encirclement, he took off his gold-rimmed sunglasses and hung them on his collar, revealing lion-like eyes.
His temples were graying, and there was a golden heat dissipation line on his cheek.
On his mechanical hand, he wore several intricately designed gold rings, and his watch was of an impressively luxurious model.
Upon seeing the scene, he waved for the surrounding gang members to lower their weapons.
"Relax, young man."
With his gaze, he calmed the unrest, eased the tension, and then proactively stepped forward, nodding first to John before personally reaching out and reengaging the safety pin on the grenade.
The originally leading gangster also stood behind him, folding his arms while glaring at John.
The newcomer introduced himself.
"Vito Russell, head of the West District Shopping Street."
He carried a powerful presence, held a significant status, and for small issues like this, he would usually be a mere bystander from inside the car.
But Vito Russell wasn't like the ostentatious bosses of the new era.
He was the type of person who would step out to resolve trouble — helping his young subordinates gauge the situation and trying to minimize unnecessary casualties.
Vito spread his broad hand, "You're impressive, but how come I don't remember a young man like you in the West District?"
"John."
John pocketed the grenade and briefly shook hands with him.
Vito turned his attention to the few guys on the ground, "What's the situation here?"
"Some punks stole my vehicle and have suffered the deserved repercussions."
"No fatal injuries, you're a generous and merciful gentleman. To be honest, we came here for these guys as well."
Vito spoke in a calm tone, expressing his purpose, "They overstepped in Black Gold Gang's jurisdiction, and I need to take them away to quell public anger and give multiple parties an explanation."
"I'm afraid not, sir."
John shook his head, refusing.
The surrounding black men were visibly angered.
Their expressions shifted, seriously considering doing harm now.
John, unfazed, continued only to talk to Vito.
"I'm a victim too. From the perspective of street justice, I pay rent in the Black Gold Gang's territory yet suffered property loss."
With his eyebrows gradually knitting together, John didn't back down.
"With all due respect, Mr. Vito, if you had found these thieves first, would you have returned my stolen vehicle to the underground garage?"
Vito Russell did not answer.
His pupils flashed with a golden data stream, and after a brief query, a sum appeared in John's account.
Vito said:
"The apartment rent is refunded to you, consider it compensation for the inadequacies in our security, but I must take these youngsters away as it involves some business you shouldn't inquire about."
John had a flash of understanding.
Under everyone's gaze, he raised his rifle, using the stock to knock out Piotr Mercado.
Mr. Vito's face turned a bit grim.
John, however, calmly approached him, speaking in a voice only the two could hear: "I took a job at the tie clip, requiring me to bring this guy back alive. I hope you understand."
Upon hearing the name "tie clip," Mr. Vito squinted.
He exchanged a significant glance with John, seemingly realizing something, and then… he waved to let the gunmen make way.
Piotr wasn't very heavy, tied up like a pig on the back of the motorcycle.
John pulled out a syringe, first injecting him to keep him alive, then mounted the Alloy RCH and drove towards the city's oldest cross-city bridge in the West District.
[Eden City - West District Old Bridge Cave]
The hovercar tracks passed through Bilun Castle and the Inner Ring District, the once flood-discharge channel had dried up for many years, now filled with graffiti and various trash, often serving as a locale for illegal transactions.
[Mission Target Update]
[Complete the deal with Tie Clip's people. (Not Achieved)]
John sat on the steps smoking.
A black jeep rumbled over sand dunes and stopped in front of him, two or three burly men in leather pants approached, without a word squatting down to link up data lines, verifying Piotr Mercado's biological information.
The lead brute asked.
"Is he still alive?"
"Sleeping like a baby."
"Alright, you're John, huh? You've done well this time; we'll take both the person and the vehicle, and the payment will be credited to your account later."
The last man was about to touch the Eisenberg Motorcycle.
John calmly drew his gun: "I removed the chip, it's loaded with live ammo now."
The brute calmly explained:
"That bike was loaned to you by the employer temporarily, you'll receive the full payment, keep the firearms and chips to use as you like. But asking for an Alloy RCH to deal with a few punks... feels a bit greedy, buddy."
John showed no intention of responding, holding the gun still.
At this moment, the tie clip called.
[John, well done, glad you made it out smoothly. I heard you brought Piotr back, what's the situation now?]
"You played me."
John's tone was cold.