The crisp sound of credit chips sliding into his pocket still felt unreal.
Luca glanced down at the ten-thousand eurodollars clutched tightly in his hand. He wasn't sure if he should feel thrilled, nervous, or simply overwhelmed. Money like this didn't just fall into the lap of nobodies in Night City. It was always tied to something dangerous, messy, or outright insane.
Yet here he was, walking out of Rebecca's rundown apartment with a brand-new netrunner deck strapped to his back and a stack of eddies that could easily paint a target on his head.
He tugged at his jacket collar, trying to make his stance look sharp, intimidating—corporate, even. A predator, not prey. He silently hoped that in this part of town, nobody would be dumb enough to test him.
After all, his stats weren't for decoration anymore.
---
The Slums of North Longshore
As soon as Luca stepped outside, the world reminded him of exactly where he was.
The street smelled of burnt synth-meat and oil. Concrete walls were scarred with rusted gang tags and half-broken neon lights sputtering in the rain. A mangled vending bot lay face-down in the gutter, still buzzing faintly as if refusing to die.
The entire block looked like a graveyard for forgotten tech and unwanted people.
Luca let out a low sigh.
"Damn, it's desolate."
A voice from nearby answered, casual, almost mocking:
"Of course it's desolate. This is North Longshore."
Luca's brow furrowed. "North Longshore? Then… that means this is the north end of Watson District?"
"Where else would it be?" came the dry reply.
A cold knot formed in Luca's stomach. He muttered under his breath:
"…Then this is Maelstrom turf."
Trouble.
He'd heard the stories. Everyone had. If the Scavengers were rats and parasites, Maelstrom were something far worse—bugs that refused to die, rabid and unpredictable. They didn't just break rules; they didn't even acknowledge that rules existed. They were one of the three great scourges of Night City, the kind of gang that even other gangs crossed the street to avoid.
If the Valentinos or Tyger Claws were like stepping in dog shit, disgusting but tolerable, then Maelstrom was a whole different breed of foul. Like cracking open a can of fermented herring and leaving it under the hot sun—no one could stomach their presence for long.
And right now, Luca had walked straight into their den.
---
Maelstrom Attention
"Look at this corpo dog," another voice sneered, sharper than the first. "He even knows this is our territory."
The hair on Luca's neck prickled. He turned his head slowly.
Two men stood a few steps away, chrome implants jutting out of their faces like unfinished scrap metal projects. The red gleam of cyber-optics locked on him with hungry curiosity.
Of course. Maelstrom.
Luca muttered under his breath, his face twisting with impatience:
"How unlucky."
The second thug bristled immediately, stepping forward. "The fuck did you just say, corpo? Who are you calling unlucky?"
"Daojie, hold it."
The first punk lifted a hand, blocking his companion. His voice was calm but carried an edge of command. "I'll talk to him."
"But boss—"
"Shut up!" the leader snapped, glaring with his mismatched cyber-eyes. "Who's the boss here, you or me?"
Daojie clenched his jaw, then stepped back reluctantly.
The leader turned back to Luca, flashing a grin that exposed jagged metal teeth. "Name's Allen. Ironhand Allen. Everyone on this street knows me. I run North Longshore."
Luca didn't flinch. Instead, he lazily lifted his hand, fanning the air in front of his face like he was shooing away a swarm of invisible flies.
"What the hell do you want to talk about?"
His tone dripped with disdain.
Allen's grin tightened. But instead of snapping, he forced himself to stay calm. There was something about Luca that intrigued him—a sharp edge, a fire worth taming.
Allen stepped forward, laying a hand heavy with chrome plating on Luca's shoulder. "Brother, ever thought of working with me? Stick by my side, and I'll open doors for you. Promotions, connections—hell, I'll even help you climb in your corpo world. You'll eat good, sleep good, and no one will dare touch you."
Luca's response was immediate. He slapped the hand away with a sharp crack.
"Get lost. Not interested."
The Maelstrom punks bristled, fury burning in their eyes. A couple reached for their knives, ready to tear this arrogant corpo kid into pieces.
Allen, however, raised a hand. "Stand down."
He flexed the hand that had just been smacked away, lifting it to his face. Then, in a move that made Luca's skin crawl, Allen took a deep, exaggerated sniff.
"Brother," Allen whispered, a twisted smile stretching across his half-metal face, "you smell good. Real good. Come with me, and I'll make sure you have the most unforgettable night of your life."
Luca froze.
His eyes went wide, stomach lurching with disgust. He'd known Maelstrom were freaks, but this—this was a whole new level of twisted.
"You… you sick fuck!"
He nearly gagged at the thought. Rage flared hot in his chest, burning away hesitation. Without another word, Luca unleashed a full-powered punch.
His fist connected with Allen's jaw. The impact was brutal, cracking through bone and steel. The metal plating shattered, and Allen's jaw flew sideways, ripped almost clean off.
Blood and sparks sprayed across the ground.
---
The Fight Breaks Out
Allen stumbled back, eyes wide in shock.
Half his face was already a grotesque mess of implants. Now, another third was missing, leaving him a mangled ruin.
The humiliation was instant.
He couldn't even shout. His jaw dangled uselessly, words replaced by garbled static as blood trickled down his throat. But his rage—his rage burned hotter than ever.
He spun and waved his hand violently, signaling his crew.
"Kill him!" Daojie barked, eager to avenge his boss.
The punks surged forward, surrounding Luca.
There were too many of them. If they'd pulled out guns right away, Luca would've been done for. But they didn't. They thought Allen wanted this corpo kid alive. They thought they could beat him bloody with fists and pipes.
That was their mistake.
Because Luca was no longer the weakling he once was.
Before was before. Now was now.
He didn't know martial arts. He didn't know tactical stances or blade techniques. But his body—his reactions, his raw strength—were enough. Each punch landed like a freight train, each dodge sharper than the last.
The Maelstrom punks swung wildly, but Luca was faster. He smashed one's nose in, shattered another's ribs, sent another flying into a trash pile with a kick that could've broken steel.
One by one, they fell.
And for the first time, they realized—this kid wasn't normal.
Regret flashed in their eyes. They should've drawn their guns. Now, it was too late.
---
Allen's Desperation
Allen, clutching his mangled jaw, seethed. He couldn't scream, but he could still fight.
His cybernetic hand twitched, then tightened around the grip of a pistol.
He raised it. Aimed directly at Luca.
Luca, mid-swing against another punk, caught the movement out of the corner of his eye. His heart dropped.
Too fast.
His muscles tensed, but his body couldn't react in time.
Bang!
The gunshot echoed.
Luca flinched—only to realize he was untouched.
Allen's pistol clattered to the ground, his cybernetic hand blown apart by a bullet.
"What—?"
Luca barely had time to think before instinct took over. He spun, leaping into a Superman punch, and crashed his fist into the last standing thug. The punk collapsed instantly.
Breathing heavy, Luca straightened and turned toward the sound of the shot.
---
The Intervention
A massive figure strode into view, top knot bobbing with each heavy step. Tattoos covered thick arms, and a grin stretched across his broad face.
"You alright, chico?" the man asked, his accent thick and unmistakable. "These Maelstrom bastards—pests, man. Like roaches. You squash one, ten more crawl out."
Luca blinked. He knew that voice. He knew that face.
Jackie Welles.
Of course.
But Luca didn't reveal recognition. He adjusted his jacket coolly and asked, "Thanks for the save. Who are you?"
The big man slapped his chest proudly. "Jack Welles, Heywood born and raised. And you? What's your plan with these gonks?"
Luca glanced at the groaning, bloodied Maelstrom thugs scattered on the pavement. He tilted his head toward Rebecca's building.
"My friend lives here. I don't want more trouble. Let them crawl away."
Jack frowned. "These guys don't follow rules, hermano. Tell your friend to move. Or next time, they won't stop until there's blood."
On the ground, Daojie scrambled up, his face swollen. "We won't come back! I swear it!"
Luca stepped forward and kicked him in the ribs. Daojie wheezed, collapsing again.
"What the hell do you guarantee with? Even if you keep quiet, what about Allen? You gonna vouch for him too?"
Daojie bit his lip and looked away.
Luca sighed, shaking his head. "Forget it. Killing you would be more hassle than it's worth. Cleaning up corpses is a pain."
"As you wish." Jack's grin returned. He turned and glared at Daojie. "Why are you still here? Get the fuck out before I change my mind."
"Yes, yes! We're leaving!" Daojie and the surviving punks bolted, limping into the night.
---
Brothers in Arms
Luca patted Jack's shoulder. "Thanks, brother. I owe you one. I know a spot with good booze—my treat."
Jack chuckled. "Booze, huh? Well, good liquor should never go to waste."
"You know Wild Wolf Bar? Best joint in Night City. Let's drink there."
Jack's smile faltered. For a moment, he looked uncomfortable.
Luca feigned curiosity. "What, you don't like it? C'mon, Wild Wolf doesn't do shady side businesses. Their reputation's clean, second only to Afterlife."
Jack scratched the back of his head sheepishly. "Yeah, about that… Wild Wolf's my mom's bar. And she doesn't let me drink."
Luca burst out laughing. "No way! You're the young master of Wild Wolf?"
Jack blinked, then grinned wider. "Young master, huh? I like that title. Yeah, guess that makes me Young Master Wolf."
"Alright, Young Master Wolf," Luca teased, "you pick the spot then."
Jack thought for a moment. "How about Lizzie's?"
"You're the local expert. Lead the way."
Together, they walked off into the neon-soaked night, two strangers bound by fists, blood, and the unspoken promise of brotherhood.