Rebecca's boots pounded against the broken concrete, her breath ragged, the heavy machine gun weighing down her arms. The weapon rattled in her grip, its recoil shaking her entire frame as she unleashed hell into the night. Brass casings clattered to the ground like rain, sparks bursting as they ricocheted against rusted steel and shattered glass.
Flanking her were Pyrrha, Dolio, and Mann. Together, the four of them pressed forward, their firepower weaving into a deadly curtain meant to suppress the Zeta Tech turrets that guarded the approach.
"Go to hell, bastards!" Rebecca roared, her teeth clenched so tightly her jaw ached.
Her eyes stung from smoke, sweat, and powder residue, but she didn't care. The thrill of combat—the rush of adrenaline—drowned out the pain. She barely noticed when hot brass bounced against her cheek, leaving faint burns. She just kept firing.
A streak of blue light cut across her vision.
The next moment, a sudden gust of wind tore through the battlefield.
Snap!
Rebecca's eyes widened. The sound wasn't just a bullet passing—it was death itself brushing past her. Her whole body froze, that primal instinct screaming inside her chest, the sensation of a person suddenly falling through ice into a freezing abyss.
Nobody escapes that feeling.
Not mercs. Not punks. Not even cybered-up killers like her.
"Rebecca!" Mann's voice bellowed beside her, but he was half a second too late.
The machine gun in Rebecca's hands split apart in a violent burst. Metal fragments flew in all directions, shrapnel biting into the ground. She gasped as the weapon's disintegrating frame flared with sparks, and her arms shook from the force.
Then Mann was there, scooping her up without hesitation. His grip was iron, almost bruising, but it saved her life. Dolio's rifle kept barking, covering their retreat. Pyrrha swiveled, her scope flashing as she tried to pick out the unseen assailant. Together, without a single word exchanged, they slid behind the half-destroyed husk of a pickup truck, the kind of silent coordination that only years of fighting together could create.
They knew.
They all knew.
They were being hunted by a sniper.
The four scrambled toward the skeleton of an unfinished high-rise, concrete pillars jutting upward like broken teeth against the neon skyline. Bullets sparked as Pyrrha twisted her rifle and fired toward the rooftop.
High above, William lowered his head just in time as Pyrrha's shots hammered into the rooftop ledge. Shards of concrete exploded around him. He rolled across the gravel, tucking into a crouch behind the next platform, his sniper rifle clutched tight.
"He's got the heavy piece, Hamster," William muttered through his comms, his voice steady despite the chaos.
A chuckle came back through his earpiece. "That's fucking awesome!"
William's lips pressed into a thin line. Awesome or not, his job wasn't finished. He steadied himself, the long barrel of his Nekomata gleaming faintly beneath the artificial lights of Dogtown. The rifle felt less like a weapon and more like a scythe in his hands—a Reaper's tool.
He took aim.
Dolio sprinted across open ground, trying to circle behind cover. William didn't hesitate. His second shot cracked through the night, the high-velocity round colliding perfectly with Dolio's gun. The rifle snapped apart in her hands, steel shards spraying into her palm. She hissed in pain, clutching the wound.
"He's playing tricks on us!" Pyrrha shouted, her voice carrying over the roar of gunfire.
"Twenty minutes…" William whispered to himself, exhaling slow. That was all he needed to hold. Twenty minutes of stalling, keeping this crew pinned down, and the Nether Hounds would arrive.
It was supposed to be simple. Set up his rifle. Control the approach. Keep them from breaching Hamster's network studio.
In theory, easy.
But as he watched them move, William felt the weight of his own hesitation. His life was on the line, yes, but so was the reward. And the memories of his past—his failures, his regrets—kept him rooted to this position. He told himself it was safe. Safer than most jobs. Safer than charging in blind.
He adjusted his scope, breath held.
Mann appeared in his sights, crouching near a window to peek out. William squeezed the trigger—another shot cracked, bursting the wall just above Mann's head. Chunks of concrete rained down on the merc.
Close. Too close.
That's right, William thought. Keep dancing for me. Hold still long enough and by the time the Hounds arrive, you'll all be gone.
Behind cover, Rebecca thrashed against Dolio's grip. Her eyes blazed with fury, her small frame practically vibrating with the need to charge. If Dolio let her go, she would sprint headlong into William's nest and try to tear him apart with her bare hands.
"Mann!" she snarled. "Let me go after him!"
"Change the assault point. I'll find this sniper," Mann growled back. His tone was iron, calm despite the chaos.
Before Dolio or Pyrrha could argue, Mann patted Dolio's shoulder and moved. With surprising agility for his size, he leapt from a side platform and disappeared into the shadows below.
William tracked him through the scope, but Mann's movement was unpredictable, swift. By the time William realigned, Mann was gone.
"Shit."
Cursing under his breath, William threw the Nekomata over his shoulder. A sniper rifle was useless at this distance now. He reached into his waistband, pulling free a heavy pistol. With a practiced motion, he checked the magazine, cocked it, and slipped into a crouch.
"Fucking lunatics," he muttered. Any sane crew would have pulled back by now. Zeta Tech turrets, a hidden sniper, unknown backup—this wasn't worth it.
But no. These punks weren't sane. They pressed forward, fearless, reckless. Maybe that's what separated legends from corpses in Night City.
Leave no room for retreat.
William descended the metal ladder bolted to the side of the building, every step rattling under his boots. His stance shifted into something drilled by muscle memory—pistol raised, elbows bent, shoulders squared. Standard military posture, clean and efficient. His eyes scanned every shadow as he moved into the maze of alleys below.
He had to stay close to Hamster. The netrunner was their lifeline. Without him, this whole mission was nothing.
Meanwhile, Mann advanced with the patience of a predator. The rifle in his hands gleamed faintly under a flickering neon sign. It wasn't standard-issue gear—this was Arasaka work, the kind of high-end weapon you only got through bloody hands and desperate escapes.
The alley was a sensory overload. Holo-ads for cheap food and illegal chrome flickered against the walls. The stench of synth-drugs and trash lingered in the air. Addicts twitched in the corners, sipping slush or whispering to voices only they could hear. Behind him, the crack of gunfire still echoed, a reminder that the battle hadn't slowed.
The good news: no more sniper shots.
The bad news: the sniper knew Mann was coming.
"Those Nether Hound bastards are a nightmare…" Mann muttered, checking his corners.
Then, suddenly—movement.
William stepped out from cover. Their eyes met for the first time.
The clash was immediate.
William's hair bristled as Mann towered over him. Even with cybernetic muscles augmenting his frame, William's 5'4" build looked small compared to Mann's bulk.
William moved first, lashing out with a sharp kick to Mann's calf. The impact sent a tremor up Mann's leg, but the man didn't falter. William followed up, grabbing the muzzle of Mann's rifle just as it roared. A neon sign overhead fizzled out, sparks raining down.
Mann grunted, caught off guard. His eyes narrowed. How is he this strong?
With a surge of raw power, Mann swung William and slammed him against the wall. William's organs jolted inside his chest, his vision flashing white.
Shit… what strength.
"You're not a Nether Hound," Mann snarled. "Wait—you're that idiot… William?"
William kneed him in the gut. Mann staggered, then retaliated, throwing him aside. William hit the ground hard, rolling just in time to avoid Mann's next strike.
A shot cracked—Mann's shoulder burst in a spray of blood. He hissed, stumbling back.
"You bastard!" Mann growled. "Where the hell are you from? How did you get our info?"
William stayed silent. He couldn't reveal the truth—that he knew their names, their tactics. That was his secret weapon.
"We're going back, understand? If the Nether Hounds arrive, none of us are walking out alive," William said instead, trying to buy time.
Mann laughed, blood dripping down his arm. His sunglasses glinted with mockery.
"You talk like Hansen himself. But I'm not here to chat, Ghost Hound. I'm here to kill you."
The words carried no hesitation, no doubt.
William's jaw clenched. His persuasion was worthless. These mercs weren't logical—they were survivors. And survivors trusted only their guns.
Before he could speak again, Hamster's voice cut through the comms, frantic.
"William! Hurry! They're breaching—hacking the turrets! Fuck, they're pulling me apart!"
William's blood ran cold. He hadn't expected this.
"Those hackers… they're not Mann's crew," Hamster screamed. "It's Militech! Militech, damn it!"
Then silence.
At the same moment, Sasha's voice shouted over Mann's comms: "Mann! Retreat! Arasaka's coming!"
"Arasaka?!" Mann shouted, disbelief in his tone.
The night exploded into chaos.
From the distant motel, an eruption thundered through Dogtown. Gunfire rolled like thunder. Above, Nether Hound drones swarmed across the skyline, descending in waves. One drone scanned the street, its sensors locking onto William's position with a rhythmic, mechanical beep.
"Are you kidding me?" William hissed, diving for cover.
Mann cursed beside him, also realizing the truth. The two enemies, locked in combat just moments ago, now found themselves pinned down by the overwhelming firepower of the incoming drones.
There was no time left for rivalries.
Night City had swallowed them whole.
---