David showed up to the clinic fifteen minutes before the time printed on the pamphlet because being early felt like the only thing he could control, and the front desk pointed him toward the small logistics office in the back where a woman in a navy jacket with a Vault-Tec Medical emblem on the shoulder slid a clipboard across the table and said, "Read, sign, and we'll kit you," and that was that; the form was simple, he was a contracted courier for non-controlled meds and supplies, not a paramedic, not a guard, and not a negotiator, deliveries were door-to-door with identity checks and signatures or recorded confirmations, cold-chain items rode in marked coolers, anything over a certain value required a second staffer present, and if a scene looked wrong he was to step away and call it in rather than play hero, the kind of rules that sounded obvious until you were staring at a hallway with three angry people and one door you needed to knock on. They issued him a white jacket with a red medical symbol, a simple neck mic for check-ins, a tablet with preloaded routes, and a badge that opened the delivery garage, then walked him to the van so he could meet the team; the vehicle was a boxy white truck with VAULT-TEC MEDICAL DELIVERY SERVICE painted in red on the side, the symbol repeated on the hood, spotless enough to signal "professional" without looking like a Corpo ad, and inside the cab sat the driver, a woman in her late twenties with a steady stare and short hair tucked under a cap who introduced herself as Vera, and in the back two security escorts already checking their gear, one big and quiet who went by Atlas, the other leaner and talkative who called himself Kite, both wearing armor that looked more like heavy EMT gear than merc chrome, plates under dark fabric with medical patches sewn on and a lot of pockets for practical stuff; they shook David's hand like it was routine and got right to work showing him the layout: front bench for driver and courier, back bay with racks for coolers and bins, a small safe bolted to the floor for high-risk items, clipboards and seals arranged in order, gloves and masks stocked in a drawer, and a thick binder that spelled out what to do when the unexpected happened. The first route of the day took them from the clinic to a row of low apartments on the south side, then to a taller block near the freeway, then out toward an older complex by the water pumps, so Vera rolled them out easy, talking him through the radio checks and timestamps while Atlas scanned the street and Kite checked the camera feeds running from the van's corners; the work felt simple at first—confirm names, verify an ID, match barcodes, get a signature or a recorded statement on the tablet, hand over pills or a bag of IV supplies, remind clients of dosage or storage if the label called for it—and the faces at the doors were the usual mix of Night City: an old man with a liver spot and a shaking hand, a young mother balancing a baby on her hip while signing with the other hand, a tired renter who opened the door just wide enough to accept a small cooler with insulin and said "thank you" in a voice that sounded like the words hurt, a construction worker on a mid-shift break expecting a brace and pain patches and relieved when he didn't have to haggle or tip a fixer to get them. Between stops Vera taught him the small tricks that didn't make the handbook but kept runs smooth: hold the tablet high so the camera catches both faces at signature time, angle your body so the hall sees your badge first and your pocket second, use your off hand to steady the cooler so you don't drop it when someone grabs at the handle, say the person's name twice because people trust you faster when they hear themselves in the sentence, and always check the stairwell mirror before you step out because quiet corners gather quiet trouble. Atlas and Kite never hovered in doorways unless they had to, they stayed near the van or halfway down the hall with a line of sight, calm and present, not posturing, the kind of security that reassured clients without turning the building into a stage, and when David asked how often things went bad Vera said, "Less than you think, more than we like," which felt true. At the third building an older woman insisted on paying with physical cash instead of a chip and David was ready to wave it off until Vera told him gently to take it because dignity sometimes travels in small bills, and at the fifth stop a man tried to add a different prescription to the bag when David looked down to seal the cooler, which earned a simple, "Sir, that's not yours," from Atlas that froze the hand in midair until the man put it back and muttered that he was only testing the help, and at the seventh there was nobody home, so David followed the procedure, locking the items back in the safe and marking the attempt on the tablet, then calling the number on file to schedule a second run; the rhythm of it settled into him by midday, the city sliding past the windshield in familiar streaks while the work gave his hands something honest to do, and every time they swung back by the clinic to pick up the next batch he checked the board for updates on his mother even though he knew there wouldn't be any in just a few hours, a small habit that let him feel like he was doing something. After lunch the route took them closer to the edges where the new green crept into old lots, grass in patches between cracked asphalt and young trees planted by people who were tired of staring at dust, and David stared once or twice because it was still strange to see a rabbit hop across a median in Night City, then he looked away before it started to feel like hope; they ran a cluster of deliveries in a tower with elevators that worked only when they wanted to and walked nine flights when they had to, Atlas taking the heaviest cooler without being asked while Kite kept up a steady stream of commentary about the smart way to choose stairwells, "right hand on the rail, eyes on the landings, listen for quiet that isn't quiet," and at a door on the sixth floor they hit the day's only real trouble, three men at the end of the hall pretending they had business there while watching anyone who walked past, one of them leaning against the wall with his jacket open enough to show metal, and Vera didn't break stride but she shifted her path so the van's emblem on her back was visible, then stopped two steps from the door and said loudly enough to carry, "Vault-Tec Medical delivery for Ms. Rios, signature required," so the whole hall knew this was not a drop for resale, and Atlas turned his body just so, not aggressive, not retreating, but at an angle that said a lot about force without promising a fight; the men stared and then looked away like they had been weighing something and the numbers didn't add up, and the door opened on a woman in her fifties who looked like she had been listening for that knock all morning, and David took her signature and handed her a small cooler with a reminder about storage, and by the time the door shut the men had wandered down the stairs like they had someplace better to be, which they didn't. They finished the route with a run to a community kitchen that had an agreement with the clinic to distribute a box of bandages and basic meds to people who showed up with minor cuts and coughs, because treating the little things early kept the big things from devouring the budget, and while Vera stamped the inventory sheet the cook behind the counter slid a bowl across to David and said it was "for the road," steam rising from real broth with carrot slices, and he ate half standing there before Vera waved him toward the door because the clock didn't stop for kindness; the last stop was a small apartment over a laundry where the heat from the dryers made the hall sweat, and when the man inside saw the price on the tablet he winced like he had been bracing for worse, then relaxed when he realized the number was one he could meet, signed, and said, "You folks don't skin me alive," and David didn't know what to say so he just said, "We try not to," and meant it. Back at the clinic they rolled the van into its slot and did the end-of-day routine, inventory counted against receipts, coolers wiped, safe logged and closed, tablet synced with a little chime, and the logistics lead signed them off with a tired "Good run," which felt like a real badge to David in a way school never had; he went up one floor and checked on his mother again, listened to a nurse tell him there was no change but her vitals were steady, and he sat for a while just watching her breathe, Buddy nowhere in this timeline yet, just the beeps and the low hum of machines and a nurse adjusting a line. When he finally left the clinic the sun had dropped behind the towers, the streets drifting toward evening, and he felt the kind of exhaustion that was more in the shoulders than the legs, a day of moving, listening, and not making mistakes, and for a stretch he let himself be proud that he had done something clean that mattered to people who needed it, even if it was just handing over boxes and coolers; on the walk home he kept the jacket on because the emblem made him look like he belonged to something decent, and in a city like this that could stop certain kinds of trouble before it started. His building smelled the same as always, a mix of cooking oil, damp concrete, and ozone from some bad wiring, and the elevator took three jabs at the button to decide it would work, and halfway up it shuddered like it wanted to stop between floors, and he thought briefly about how he would explain that to his mother when she came home because she hated that elevator, then pushed the thought away so it didn't bruise him. The door to his apartment stuck twice before the lock gave, and he stepped into the familiar thin rectangle of living space, set his bag down, pulled the jacket off the way you do when a day's over and your skin wants air, and almost missed it—the shape under the table that hadn't been there in the morning, a black duffel he didn't recognize tucked just far enough back that a lazy eye would skip it; he frowned, looked toward the window to see if the latch was still set, checked the deadbolt out of habit, then toed the bag lightly to make sure it wasn't wired to anything stupid, and it gave the dull drag of weight shifting on the cheap floor, the sound of metal on fabric under the canvas, and his stomach did a small twist he didn't show on his face because the city teaches you to move slow when you don't understand what you're looking at. He crouched and pulled it forward, the strap rough in his hand, the zipper sealed all the way like it had been closed by someone careful, and he stared at it for a long second, thinking of every dumb story that starts with a kid opening a bag that didn't belong to him, then ran his tongue along his teeth and decided there was no good answer he could get without looking; still, he didn't pull the zip yet, not with the day still sitting in his shoulders and the room too quiet, and he told himself he would eat first, drink water, then deal with whatever this was with a clear head, because the clinic had taught him one thing already—procedure beats panic nine times out of ten. He slid the bag under the table again, turned on the tap until the water ran less brown, and leaned on the sink for a minute staring at his reflection in the cracked mirror, then laughed once at how serious he looked in a room that hadn't changed at all even if everything else had, and when he sat down with a piece of stale bread and the last of a cheap instant soup packet he kept glancing at the black canvas like it was a person waiting to talk; the city's noise came up through the window in the way it always did—sirens far off, someone arguing in the hall, a car stereo trying to drown out both—and he let it wash over him until the knot in his neck loosened just enough. He didn't know it yet, but this was the hinge that would swing the next days hard, a choice packaged in a rectangle of canvas, and when he finally stood and dragged the bag back into the light he felt the room tilt with it, not physically, just the way a moment can feel heavier than what it weighs, and he set two fingers on the zipper pull and told himself one more time to move slow, because slow was the only thing that had kept him intact this long, then he took a breath and pulled.
