"Good morning, Night City!"
The television blared its usual grim update, the kind of morning greeting only Night City could deliver. Static and distortion cut through the anchor's voice as neon graphics flashed across the cracked screen.
"Yesterday's dead body lottery ended up with a full thirty casualties! Thanks to the endless gang wars, ten people died in Heywood alone. But it's not just gang members this time—one police officer is dead too. Looks like you'll all have to pay the price for that one."
The newscaster's fake cheer jarred against the somber message, her voice drowned out by the distant roar of a hovercraft gliding over Dogtown. The sound rattled the windowpanes and shook the shabby furniture inside William's room.
William lay sprawled across his bed, his eyes half-lidded. His fingertips twitched, and his prosthetic joints buzzed faintly as they recalibrated. He forced himself upright, rubbing the stiffness from his cybernetic limbs. The headache pounding in his skull reminded him of yesterday's chaos.
This was his home now—a cramped, rundown apartment perched precariously above a narrow alley. Yet compared to the unfinished, half-collapsed high-rises in Dogtown's center, it was almost… pleasant. The original William, the man whose life he had inherited, had called this place home. Now, with those memories embedded in his mind, everything looked familiar but also strangely alien.
Groaning, he sat up and stretched. The servos in his arms whirred as he extended them overhead. "Oh, Night City… or should I say, another miserable morning in Dogtown?" His voice was dry, half amused, half resigned.
He shuffled toward the cluttered table. A half-wrapped Gold Medal Taco sat waiting for him, grease already soaking through the paper. He bit into it and chewed slowly, more out of routine than hunger. A status HUD blinked faintly in his vision, confirming that his vitals had stabilized. The body aches were fading, the nanites repairing tissue damage overnight.
The shrill buzz of his phone cut through the quiet. He tapped to answer, and Otto's familiar, grinning face filled the cracked holo-display.
"You, kid!" Otto barked. "Yesterday you borrowed three cans of my Qinglizhi. I swear, you should really save up some money and replace those rusty old prosthetics of yours before they fall apart mid-fight."
William gave a small nod. As much as he hated to admit it, Otto was right. His gear was outdated and clunky compared to what most mercs ran with. But he also remembered Otto had taken plenty of his supplies in the past. Was this call about collecting debts?
"Relax, I'm not here to shake you down," Otto continued with a grin. "If you've got time, head over to the camp near the checkpoint. Colonel Hansen wants his soldiers' gear back, and that includes you. Don't keep him waiting."
Otto's grin softened into something almost genuine. "Also, remember what I said yesterday—don't mess around with Hansen's orders. And hey, brother, let's grab a drink when you're free."
The call cut out. William stared at the dim screen for a moment before tossing the phone aside. Hansen had told him to meet someone at Dogtown's notorious hotspot, the Heartache Club. But who exactly was waiting for him?
A shadowy image formed in his mind: a gravelly voice, a figure whose face was always hidden behind darkness.
"Could it be Hands?" William muttered under his breath. "The famous fixer from the Pacifica district?"
It was 2075 now. He wasn't entirely sure if Hands had already cemented his reputation as a key player. If it really was him, things could get messy. Still, William knew enough about the man to tread carefully.
Fixers were the lifeblood of Night City's underground. Without them, mercs like William would be nothing. They brokered deals, soothed disputes, and connected desperate clients with disposable soldiers. Many punks thought middlemen were just parasites skimming off the top. But the truth was, without fixers smoothing the way, most jobs would collapse before they even began.
He descended the creaky metal stairs outside his building, boots clanging against rusted steel. Dogtown stretched before him, a maze of crumbling concrete, graffiti-stained walls, and neon signs buzzing faintly even in daylight. In the distance, the massive Memorial Tree loomed, candles swaying gently in the breeze.
The sight stirred something inside him. He remembered controlling V in the game, standing beneath that very tree, talking with Johnny Silverhand. Back then, it was just pixels on a screen. Now it was real, and the weight of it pressed down on him.
Where was V now? Was he alive? A man? A woman? William smirked at his own wandering thoughts. "Guess some mysteries are better left unanswered."
His phone rang again. The display read: [Caller: Unknown].
He answered. A smooth, calm voice spilled through the line. "Hello, friend. I'm Hands."
William straightened instinctively. Confidence replaced his unease. "The famous Mr. Hands. An honor."
The fixer chuckled. "Rare for Colonel Hansen to pick someone so polite. Come to the Heartache Club. I heard about your injuries yesterday, so I gave you some time. But I won't wait forever—there are things we need to discuss."
The call ended as abruptly as it began.
Pocketing the phone, William set out toward the unfinished towers on Dogtown's edge. The road that cut between the ruins was long and broken, dust and ash clinging to the air. As he walked, a glob of spit landed directly at his feet.
"Stupid Hellhound dog! Useless trash!" a vendor sneered from behind a cluttered stall. His eyes burned with resentment. William realized the man had recognized him. Yesterday, he'd been Colonel Hansen's enforcer, shaking down residents in the name of the Hellhounds. Now that he'd fallen out of favor, the vultures circled.
William's face hardened. He gripped the vendor's chin in one cybernetic hand, squeezing just enough to make the man gasp.
Passersby gathered quickly, whispers buzzing like flies. Some looked terrified, others thrilled, a few even egging the vendor on. The vendor's bravado crumbled instantly, fear widening his eyes. He hadn't expected William's prosthetics to carry such crushing force.
William's voice was low, controlled. "Keep your mouth shut. Whether I'm Hellhound or not doesn't matter. But if you cross me again, you'll regret it. Behave yourself."
The vendor bobbed his head furiously, too scared to speak. William released him, brushing his hands against his coat as though nothing had happened. Without another glance, he slipped his hands into his pockets and strode away. The crowd scattered, murmurs fading into the chaos of Dogtown.
Time passed differently here. In the game, fast travel made everything instant. In reality, Dogtown sprawled endlessly, every step a reminder of its size. William's legs ached from the walk, sweat collecting under his collar. He cursed the old William for wasting money on glitter drugs and cheap thrills instead of buying even a beat-up car.
Two hours later, he reached the Hellhound barracks. Soldiers lounged around the entrance, their laughter sharp and grating. The moment William stepped through the gate, silence fell. Dozens of eyes locked onto him, sizing him up. He didn't look like one of them anymore.
A mohawked female soldier strode forward, rose tattoo curling along her bare arm. She tossed a gun toward him. "Your piece. And some cash from Hansen. Consider it… a reward."
William's account pinged. A thousand eddies. But the number wasn't right. "How much did you skim off?"
"Three hundred," she said flatly. "If you don't like it, go whine to the colonel. Or get lost."
William's gaze didn't waver. "Give it back."
Her eyes narrowed. She was about to snap when another soldier exhaled a stream of glittering vapor, his tone lazy. "Just give it to him, girl. No need to stir shit. Otto's name came up already…" He smirked. "Kid's got some backing."
With a scoff, the woman transferred the missing funds. William's account chimed again. He gave a curt nod and turned to the soldier. "Where's Otto? He said he'd pass me some gear."
The man shrugged, his grin too wide. "Who knows? Heard he keeled over at some girl's place. Dead, alive… doesn't matter. Don't ask questions you don't need answered. Now, get out."
William left the barracks, the weight of uncertainty pressing down on him. Otto, dead? The thought sat uneasily in his gut. Pulling out his phone, he tried calling. The line rang endlessly, unanswered.
He gave up. His gaze shifted toward the skyline, where the Heartache Club gleamed like a jewel amid the rubble. Its transparent pyramid shimmered in the daylight, a beacon of decadence in Dogtown's wasteland.
William exhaled slowly. One step at a time. He had taken his first step into this world, and whether it was the first or the hundredth, he knew one thing: there was no turning back.
"A good start," he muttered to himself. "Yeah… let's call it that."
--- End of Chapter 4 ---