The wind was unusually sharp that day, cutting through the narrow alleyways of Night City like icy razors. August was supposed to be a month of unbearable heat, the kind that left the city's streets shimmering in waves of distorted air. Yet, against all reason, the wind had turned cold. It wasn't the pleasant kind of cool that brought relief, but the eerie, bone-tingling chill that carried the scent of danger.
Zilf Seino tugged at the collar of his jacket, but it did little to hide the sweat drenching his back. Every drop rolled down like beads of ice. His breathing was heavy, shallow, and his voice betrayed the chaos in his mind.
"I told you, on time! Damn it! You idiots!"
The words weren't directed at the empty alley. No, Seino was speaking to someone—someone on the other end of a hidden comm-link. His tone was low but desperate, the kind of hysteria that comes when a man realizes his own life is dangling by a thread. Then—
Everything froze.
Reality asserted itself again with startling clarity.
William, who was watching this unfold through the immersive system, suddenly felt every detail with cutting precision: the way the hot wind whipped dust into his face, the clear strain in Seino's voice, the distant cacophony of a restless street, and the shrill hum of an advertising hovercraft circling above. The illusion was too vivid—it didn't just show, it dragged him inside.
A bead of sweat trickled down William's temple. His mouth was dry, as if he'd been breathing in desert air.
This was the world of Mewtwo, and it wasn't simply a game. It was a living nightmare of technology, one where the word immersive wasn't a gimmick—it was reality carved directly into your senses.
Before William could even marvel at the technology, his train of thought was cut off by the sudden chime of a voice in his ear.
"Try zooming the camera in close to the Hellhound's ear," Mr. Hands instructed, his calm yet sly tone filling the room. "See if you can pick up the voice on the other end. If it's someone you already know, it might save you from a world of trouble later."
William obeyed. The camera shifted, focusing on Seino's ear, amplifying the faint voiceprint hidden beneath the chaos of background noise.
And there it was—an unfamiliar voice, distinct from Seino's.
"Don't be nervous, friend." The stranger's tone was silky smooth, almost mocking. "Overtime is common at the company. Be patient and wait. I'll be right there."
William's eyes narrowed. The first part was spoken in Japanese, a low mutter, before the voice switched into English—the lingua franca of Night City. Yet, a faint Japanese accent still lingered on the vowels, almost impossible to hide.
"Arasaka?" William muttered under his breath, the name of the corporate behemoth immediately coming to mind.
Mr. Hands chuckled knowingly. "Careful with assumptions, kid. The Tiger Claw gang all speak Japanese, but plenty of Europeans work for Arasaka too. Judging someone's power by their language alone? Not smart."
William let the warning sink in and focused back on Seino's desperate rant.
"Damn it!" Seino barked into his comm-link, his voice cracking. "Do you even realize how much I risked sneaking out of Dogtown? If Hansen's people notice I'm gone during night shift, I'm fucking dead! I'll give you ten minutes. If you don't show, the deal's off!"
The alley stank of rot and cheap liquor. A drunk lay collapsed against a dumpster nearby, retching violently. The sour stench spread quickly, forcing both William and Seino to instinctively cover their noses.
Silence fell on the comm line. A silence that stretched long enough to make Seino twitch.
Then the voice returned—cold, sharp, a knife pressed against his nerves.
"Friend," the stranger said softly, "do you think your colonel would be pleased to learn you're a traitor?"
The color drained from Seino's face. His fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles cracked, his teeth grinding together with audible force.
"You… you bastards! Idiots! Scoundrels!" His words lacked strength, sounding more like the desperate barking of a trapped dog than an actual threat.
The stranger ignored him entirely. "Just wait there. Don't make this harder than it needs to be."
William frowned. A spy? Seino? That didn't line up. He wasn't looking at a mastermind; he was watching a pawn caught between the jaws of two predators, roasted alive like a turkey left in the oven too long.
Mr. Hands' calm voice broke through William's thoughts. "Fast-forward the playback. Skip ahead to the actual meeting."
William nodded, sliding the timeline forward. Seino's image jittered—he paced the alley, raged at invisible enemies, then crouched with his head in his hands, his body language screaming panic.
Finally—
"Here I come."
A sharp roar of an engine cut through the night. A sleek Quadra Turbo-R 740 slid into the alley with predatory grace.
Seino stood frozen, cigarette trembling between his fingers, surrounded by the scattered corpses of butts at his feet.
William's eyes lit up. He knew that car.
The Quadra Turbo-R wasn't just a vehicle; it was a legend. In the early 21st century, Japanese imports had dominated the American market, praised for their precision and affordability. But the Turbo-R was America's bold response, a symbol of raw power and audacious style. It wasn't for the faint-hearted—its monstrous engine demanded skill to tame.
William's first impression was simple: Rich bastard.
No ordinary street hustler could own such a machine. The driver was either a company executive, a high-ranking gangster, or a veteran mercenary who had bled enough to earn it.
Mr. Hands gave a low whistle as William voiced his thoughts.
The driver stepped out—and William immediately noticed the distortion. His upper body shimmered like a mosaic, scrambled by high-grade anti-surveillance implants. Even his voice, when it came, was partially fragmented.
"Let's get this done," the stranger said flatly. "Give me the item."
Seino's hands shook. He clenched and unclenched his fist as if to muster courage, but in the end, he pulled a small chip from his pocket, holding it out like it was both salvation and doom.
"Ten thousand euros," Seino demanded, his voice hoarse. "Cash. Not a cent less."
The stranger plucked the chip without hesitation, and Seino's earlier bravado evaporated.
"I'm tired," he muttered weakly. "Just give me the money, and I'll leave."
But the man didn't budge. His lips curved into the faintest hint of disdain.
"The route map you provided," he said coldly, "isn't worth that price."
Seino's eyes widened. He lunged forward to snatch the chip back.
He never had the chance.
A brutal kick caught him in the ribs, sending him crashing several meters into a pile of trash cans. Blood sprayed from his mouth as he gasped like a dying fish.
William stiffened. A Hellhound soldier—supposedly hardened—kicked away like a rag doll. That wasn't ordinary muscle.
"Company-grade prosthetics," William muttered. "Bionic joints. Reinforced titanium skeleton."
Mr. Hands nodded approvingly. "Good eye. Top-grade modifications. Expensive, but worth every cent in a fight."
Seino coughed, blood running down his chin. His desperation erupted in a scream.
"If the money's missing, I'll tell Hansen everything! I don't care if I die!"
The stranger remained calm, almost amused.
"There are explosives under the truck," he said quietly. "Do the job, and you'll get the rest of the payment. Think of this as a deposit."
He tossed a bag at Seino, who tore it open with shaking hands.
"Five thousand?!" Seino's voice cracked. "This is bullshit!"
"Half now," the stranger replied coldly. "Half later. That's more than fair."
Seino's shoulders slumped. His face twisted with frustration, but he had no choice.
"Fine," he spat. "I'll come back for the rest."
The footage cut to black.
The immersive system shut down with a faint squeak, and the familiar sandalwood scent returned to the air.
William blinked, the harsh reality of the simulation fading.
Mr. Hands removed his headset, his sharp gaze landing squarely on William.
"Well?" he asked.
William summarized quickly. "There was a golden tiger figurine on the passenger seat of the car. Could be connected to the Tiger Claw Gang, though it might just be a decoration. The driver's implants don't match typical gang soldiers, but the corporations and gangs have plenty of overlap. Without the license plate, I can't be certain of much else."
Mr. Hands gave a rare smile. "You're observant. That's good. Remember this—Colonel Hansen wanted you here for exactly this reason."
A notification flickered across William's vision.
[Mr. Hands' impression has been updated]
[Favorability: +10]
[Reward: Physical +2, Extra +1]
As the words faded, Mr. Hands rose from his chair, moving toward a tall wooden cabinet. He pulled down a long, dust-covered case.
"I was going to have my boys bring you something from the armory," he said slowly, "but after what I just saw, I think you've earned something better. Something from my own collection."
He placed the case on the table and slid it open. Inside, nestled in velvet, was a sleek black sniper rifle. The scent of fresh gun oil wafted out, sharp and metallic.
"This beauty," Mr. Hands said with a grin, "will let you deal with enemy netrunners and their friends before they can even touch you. Figure out the bullets yourself."
William's breath caught. His heart thumped harder than it had during the entire recording.
[Immortal·Technical Sniper Rifle "Neko-Mata"]
Manufacturer: Tsunami Defense Systems
A smile tugged at William's lips.
This wasn't just a reward. This was a game-changer.
This reward is really, really good.
(End of Chapter 6)