The digital clock on the dashboard ticked over to 1:05 AM.
Night City was alive in its usual neon glow—streets buzzing with scattered drunks, roaring bikes, and the hum of corporate patrol drones overhead. But in William's car, the atmosphere was unnervingly still. His fingers drummed against the steering wheel, each tap sharp and controlled. He was a man waiting for prey, and tonight his quarry wasn't a fixer or a rival mercenary—it was the wife of Mr. Hands.
Apparently, she had a fondness for this particular club. Too fond, perhaps.
William smirked faintly. So this is why I got flattened so easily by that bodyguard earlier. He leaned back in the seat and let his mind pull up the strange HUD that had been tagging along since his run-ins with V and Mann's crew.
[Physique]: 10
[Reflexes]: 8
[Technical Skills]: 4
[Intelligence]: 10
[Calmness]: 7
Not bad. Definitely an upgrade from the weak shell this body had been before Old Wei overhauled it. The ten points in intelligence were probably thanks to the time he had spent working with V—sharp insights earned in battle and survival. The extra points? Likely from that bloody mess with Mann's squad.
Focus, William. He reminded himself that these numbers weren't just pretty floating icons. They weren't a game—they were his reality.
And reality was cruel.
His cybernetic body had its perks, sure, but he had noticed that these "attributes" seemed to exist independently of the hardware. Strength, though—that was the clearest advantage. His prosthetics gave him resilience, but without the underlying strength these attributes represented, Mann would've knocked him out cold with one punch instead of just rattling his bones.
Then there was bullet resistance. His implants could absorb some of the shock, and his natural toughness carried him through the rest. Without those stats… he'd already be a corpse, left to bleed out in some Dogtown ditch.
Still, one thing gnawed at him: there was no skill tree.
Attributes are fine. But where are the skills? The talents? The cyberware-compatible abilities that turn rookies into legends? William clenched his jaw. He could feel the potential locked inside, but he didn't yet know the key to unlock it.
With a sigh, he reached into the glove compartment, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it. The burn in his lungs wasn't his—he didn't smoke. But the body's previous owner had. Tonight, he'd use the disguise.
The neon smoke curled lazily in the air.
And then—
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Knuckles rapped against his car window.
William flicked the cigarette into his palm, smothering the ember with a sharp sting. His lips twitched into the ghost of a grin as he rolled the window down.
"Uh… ma'am," he muttered.
A stumbling woman collapsed against him. Emma—Mr. Hands' wife. Perfume, alcohol, and the faintest whir of cybernetics clung to her. William caught her, supported her weight, and slid her into the backseat. Her head lolled against the cushions, eyes shut.
Perfect.
He started the car, pulling out of the alley, but almost immediately noticed headlights in his mirrors. Three cars. One swung ahead, boxing him in.
Spotted already? Damn it.
Before he could react, a slurred voice drifted from the backseat.
"Don't… worry about them, new guy. Just… drive! Drive outta this city!"
Emma's words were sloshed, thick with liquor, but she wasn't completely gone. William forced his breathing calm and gripped the wheel tighter. Every move mattered now.
From the corner of his eye, he saw her stir again. Her head tilted toward him, glossy eyes half-open.
"Damn champagne! Why do you feel… lighter?"
William gritted his teeth. Shut up, woman. Just stay unconscious.
But Emma wasn't finished. She leaned forward suddenly, her face sliding between the seats, breath warm with perfume and alcohol. William's pulse jumped.
"Huh? The aftereffects of Mewtwo… so strong… Chérie, tu es belle."
She slumped back down.
William exhaled slowly. His plan was simple: get her to a quiet spot, squeeze the automatic driving codes out of her, and slip into Dogtown unnoticed. Clean. Efficient.
But those damned escorts…
"Roll down the window. Drive right," Emma murmured.
William frowned. The right turn led toward the city center, not Dogtown. Drunk nonsense. Ignore it.
"To the beach," she insisted weakly.
He shook his head and followed the lead car instead.
"You're the dumbest driver I've ever seen," she muttered, then sat up straighter, as though addressing someone unseen.
"Get your people away from me, Wade Brick!"
A deep voice thundered through the car's PA system—Mr. Hands himself.
"Please continue to Dogtown. Don't listen to her."
Emma snarled and lunged for the wheel.
"Then I'll drive!"
The car swerved dangerously. William yanked it back under control.
"Ma'am—"
"Get your people out right now!" she screamed.
Silence. Then—decision. William slammed the accelerator, swerving around the lead car, and shot down a side street. His fingers danced quickly across a hidden panel, activating a malicious program he'd bought off a back-alley netrunner.
The AI seized the vehicle's systems. Unless Hands' hackers caught it, Emma was his.
Behind him, the three cars skidded, brakes screeching. They hesitated, horns blaring as traffic piled up behind them. Hands' orders must have come through—they resumed following, but at a distance.
Emma blinked, realization dawning.
"Wait… who are you?"
William offered her a crooked smile.
"Hi."
Her eyes widened in panic. She lunged forward, nails clawing. He caught her wrists with one hand, not loosening his grip on the wheel. Her kicks hammered his seat.
"Are you that man?" she gasped.
William didn't answer. His eyes were locked on the streets—half familiar, half alien. The city pulsed around them, neon veins glowing in the night. He drove like a man possessed, weaving through alleys, cutting corners, until finally he slipped into the shadows near Arasaka's coastal port.
With no tail in sight, he braked hard. The car screeched to a stop.
William tugged at his tie irritably. Emma's struggling had already rumpled his suit. He opened the passenger door, grabbed her by the arm, and pulled her out. Her heels clattered to the ground, bare feet meeting the damp, gritty pavement.
"Ah—!" she gasped as pain jolted through her.
Her cybernetics shifted in protest, but William was faster. A sharp punch from her caught his jaw, snapping his head sideways. He turned back slowly, his face blank, eyes cold.
The cruelty in that gaze made Emma's chest tighten with dread.
Why didn't I fight harder earlier? she thought, regret rising too late.
William wasn't some bodyguard. He was a mercenary—a professional one. And he was done playing nice.
She reached for her thigh holster, but William already had the knife in his hand. He threw it aside, the clatter echoing across the empty street. Emma screamed as his grip pinned her to the car.
His voice dropped to a whisper against her ear.
"I don't attack women. I don't drag disaster home to my family. I know where my line is…"
Her breath caught, hope flickering.
"…But I need you to do me a favor. A very small favor."
His lips twisted into a humorless smile.
"After all, you don't want Hands' business to go bad, do you?"
Emma's face drained of color.
This was no game. This was survival.