Watching the headless corpse collapse, still steaming, Johnny stepped beside River and gave his limp body a slight kick.
"Hey! Not dead yet, are we?"
"If I wasn't, you'd have kicked me there," River groaned, opening his eyes and glaring at V. He had blasted through half the city, ignoring traffic lights, only to be dropped into a firefight without so much as a sip of water. And now he couldn't even lie down for a breather?
"Thanks~" Johnny said casually, sitting beside him. River's tenacity reminded him of old comrades he used to fight alongside—reliable, raw, and recklessly brave.
"Woo-hoo~ Woo-hoo~"
Of course, the NCPD always had impeccable timing.
"Didn't expect you to bring a team," V said as his body adjusted, bones aching. His ribs were definitely cracked, maybe broken. He needed a new circulatory implant—something that would let him keep fighting even when breathless.
"Someone's got to clean up the mess," River replied, nodding toward a sharp-eyed woman walking their way. "Let me introduce someone."
"Wenna Mifei, NCPD Operations Chief."
"Hello. Pleased to meet you," V said. The cross-shaped scar on Wenna's face marred her otherwise composed beauty. Her stance was firm, movements crisp—clearly a woman forged in fire.
"River said you were a great help."
"As a legal citizen of Night City, I consider it my civic duty," V quipped.
"A legal citizen who dares take on the Vortex Gang." Wenna smirked. "How about it? Ever thought of joining the NCPD? We'll treat you right."
"Thanks, but I work better alone," V replied politely. The last thing he needed was rules.
"Alright then." Wenna handed over a data shard. "Your reward for eliminating the Vortex Gang boss—100,000 eurodollars. Also..." She smiled slyly. "NCPD isn't as tight as you think. If you're interested in cleaning up this city..."
"But I'm not just interested in cleaning up the city." V shrugged as he pocketed the shard.
"Then be careful not to fall into my hands," she said with a wink, pulling out a business card. "But if you ever want to make some righteous cash, call her."
Regina Jones.
V glanced at the name and number, then looked back toward Wenna, who had already turned to leave.
"Regina, huh?" he muttered.
"She's solid. A Fixer with a conscience," River said beside him.
"A Fixer with a conscience?" V chuckled. "That's the best joke I've heard all week."
"She deals mostly with lowlifes—junkies, thugs, cyberpsychos."
"Sounds beneath me."
"She's trying to make Night City a little better," River replied earnestly.
V looked up at the darkening sky.
Better, huh?
---
Neon lights flickered in the foggy air, casting gaudy reflections across slick, grime-covered streets. Rain pattered off rusted metal, flowing through chemical-stained gutters. The smell of oil, rot, and ozone choked the alleys.
The night market was alive, despite the drizzle. Old stalls groaned under neon signs with chipped paint and glitchy lettering:
"Authentic Synthetic Meat Skewers"
"Used Cyberware Repairs"
"Special Inkland Cakes"
"Recycle OS Chips Here"
Food vendors and hardware sellers shared cramped space. Towering men pushed their way through the crowd—bulky, tattooed, their physiques sculpted by brute strength. They were unmistakable.
The Animals.
Few had full-body implants—only essentials for close-quarters slaughter. Gorilla Arms. Steel bones. Muscle boosters. Once they closed in, only a miracle would save you.
Hidden in the corner of the food street, a ragged man sat cross-legged beneath a patchy tarp. Before him, scattered across the plastic sheet, lay various bits of cyberware—burnt chips, salvaged servos, black market components barely holding together.
His mechanical right eye glowed dim yellow, scrutinizing the teenager kneeling in front of him.
"Kid, don't touch what you can't afford."
David froze, his hand halfway to a metallic arm joint. He glanced around, then whispered, "I need Leon Black's help."
The man's eyes twitched. His face stayed blank.
"That's gonna run you two thousand."
"Deal." David didn't hesitate, pulling out a worn credstick.
Once the transaction cleared, the man led David down a narrow alley lined with dumpsters overflowing with rancid food. Nearby, scavengers dug through piles with dead eyes. Homeless bodies, wrapped in rags and cardboard, barely moved—held together by dirt-cheap cyberware no one else wanted. Some weren't even worth gutting for parts.
Even organ harvesters had standards.
A massive ad screen flickered overhead. A virtual woman in a latex dress whispered sweet nothings through wall-mounted speakers:
"The Newest Braindance Unit! Ultimate Pleasure—Only 999 Eurodollars!"
The man led David to a cellar door under a rusted staircase. They entered a dim basement where shelves overflowed with unsorted cyberware, guns, and half-functional machines.
"What do you need?" the man asked, sealing the door behind them.
"Are you Leon Black?" David asked cautiously.
"What, don't I look like him?" The man swept aside his greasy long hair, revealing a deeply lined face and tired, red eyes.
"The guy I heard about is a cigar-chomping gunsmith," David muttered skeptically.
"Heh. Judge a book by its cover, and you won't even see your own death coming." Leon pulled a thick cigar from his jacket. His mechanical index finger lit the tip with a spark. He took a long drag. "So? What do you need?"
David hesitated, then rattled off, "One remote-controlled Type-3 high-explosive grenade, two Type-2 anti-armor mines, a Type-3 optical mask, a Super Type-2 assault rifle… and—most importantly—an epic-grade one-time network scrambler."
Leon raised an eyebrow. Everything was standard—except the last item.
"Scrambler's tricky. Expensive, too."
"Can't you make it?" David asked. "You're the Leon Black—Night City's legendary gunsmith."
"I am a gunsmith," Leon replied. He emphasized the word like a challenge. "I make weapons. Scramblers? That's netrunner tech. Whole different world."
David's gut sank. The scrambler was mission-critical. Without it, no escape plan could work. No jammer meant his comms could be traced—maybe even hijacked.
"Is there anyone else who could help?"
Leon rubbed his temples. "Maybe. But it won't be fast. Or cheap."
"I'll pay. Whatever it takes."
Leon looked at him for a long moment, then grunted. "Fine. I'll source one. It'll take a day, maybe two."
"I don't have two days."
"You'll take what I give you and thank me for it," Leon said, turning away. "You're lucky I even listened. Most punks I send packing."
David clenched his fists but said nothing.
As Leon moved to a workbench, his back to David, he added, "Your list tells me one thing: you're planning something stupid. So make sure you're ready for fallout. Because once this city smells blood, it never stops chasing."
David nodded silently.
---
Outside, the rain thickened, washing neon reflections into a swirling river of color. Across the street, a billboard flashed a new face—Lena Fox, arms crossed, coat fluttering, the text beside her reading:
"Protect What You Love. Night City Defense Corps."
In another window, a news report played:
"Today, the Black Mamba gang was officially declared disbanded following the death of their leader, Mike Taylor, in a joint operation led by NCPD. Sources say a mysterious vigilante was involved..."
Back in the basement, David took a breath.
If all went well, he'd be that same kind of ghost—striking, vanishing, never caught.
He looked over the weapons Leon had already laid out—cold steel, sharp edges, polished chrome, and deadly intent.
He had chosen his battlefield.
Now, he just had to survive it.
Ãdvåñçé 60 çhàptêr àvàilàble óñ pàtreøn (Gk31)