Chapter 3 — Redemption and Change? There's a Script for That
"Name's Xen," Xeno said, his voice low but steady.
He didn't hesitate to follow the invitation. In Night City, opportunities came wrapped in risk — but ignoring one could be the difference between living and becoming another statistic in the Death Lotto.
He used the old nickname from his amateur boxing days — Xen. His real name felt too heavy now, a relic from a life that no longer existed. The person called Xeno was gone — buried somewhere back in a different world.
Now, there was only the fighter. The stranger in Night City 2070.
---
The private suite overlooking the underground boxing arena was the kind of place only money could build and corruption could maintain.
The glass walls glowed faintly with smart-holo tinting, displaying shifting ads for cyberware brands and energy drinks. The muffled roar of the crowd below vibrated through the floor, echoing like a heartbeat trapped in metal.
A tray of cigars and half-empty glasses of golden synth-liquor sat on a chrome table, still steaming from the neon reflections.
And in the middle of it all, two men waited.
One was an older man in a sleek black suit — polished, composed, and too comfortable in his skin. His hair was silver-threaded and slicked back with a shimmer that might've been nanogel. Chrome lenses flickered in his eyes like twin data feeds.
The other man, younger and massive, wore a weathered combat jacket. The faint blue glow of his cybernetic veins pulsed beneath the skin of his neck.
Xeno recognized him instantly.
> Victor.
Champion of Night City.
The same man who, in the game, would one day retire to patch up mercs and edgerunners for free — a rare saint in a city of devils.
Right now, though, Victor looked every bit the fighter he once was: strong, alert, the kind of presence that filled a room.
"Welcome, Xen," the older man said smoothly, rising to shake his hand. "Name's Fixer. I handle talent contracts for Giant God Sports. You've already met Night City's golden boy."
He gestured toward Victor with a grin that was just a bit too polished.
Victor smirked. "Kid's got power. Haven't seen moves like that in a long time."
"Thanks," Xeno replied, offering a respectful nod. He bumped Victor's fist — a small gesture, but one that meant something in this world. Mutual recognition.
---
Fixer gestured for Xeno to sit, his rings clinking softly against the glass table. "Let's talk business, champ."
He poured himself a drink but didn't offer one back. A classic Night City power play.
"First off, you've got something special. Talent like yours doesn't walk in off the street. You fight like a goddamn holo-star — clean, flashy, unpredictable. And that? That's sellable."
He leaned in, his cybernetic eyes whirring faintly as they adjusted focus.
"I can make you a name that echoes across the city. Westbrook apartments, personal hovercraft, corporate sponsorships. You'll have cash, recognition, and freedom."
Xeno stayed quiet, eyes flicking toward the window overlooking the ring below. Fighters were still brawling — blood and sweat under blue light. Every punch felt heavier knowing this city paid to see others bleed.
Fixer kept going, like a salesman who smelled desperation.
"You'll get out of Watson — no more slums, no more crawling through alleyways. You can move your family to safety, live the kind of life—"
"I don't have a family."
The words came out sharper than he meant.
The room went quiet.
Fixer blinked, his smile freezing mid-sentence. Victor shifted slightly, studying him.
"The Unification War took them," Xeno said flatly. "I was all that was left."
A long silence hung over the table, broken only by the distant echo of gloves slamming into flesh downstairs.
Victor sighed. "Yeah… I get that."
His voice softened, almost nostalgic. "Lost my folks back when Arasaka Tower blew in 2023. Radiation sickness. Night City doesn't forgive anyone, kid — not even the ones trying to live honest."
For the first time, Xeno saw Victor the man — not the champion. The survivor.
---
Fixer, ever the professional, quickly adjusted his tone.
"I'm sorry for your loss, Xen. But maybe that's exactly why you're perfect for this. Pain sells. The city feeds on tragedy, on redemption, on heroes who crawl out of hell and swing back harder."
He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "You've got the skill. Now we give you a story."
Xeno frowned. "A story?"
Fixer grinned, his cybernetic teeth glinting under the neon.
"People don't pay to watch fights anymore — they pay to believe. Redemption arcs, rivalries, betrayals — that's what the viewers crave. You don't just punch, you perform."
He swiped the air, and a holo-screen flickered to life — replaying Xeno's earlier match in slow motion.
Every strike. Every dodge. Every hit that made the crowd roar.
"See that? You already have the spark. All we need to do is fan it into fire. You're going to be the next legend."
Victor crossed his arms. "He's not a puppet, Fixer. You can't script real fights."
Fixer smirked. "Says the guy who fought thirty matches under Militech branding. Don't be a hypocrite, Vic — you know how this game works."
Victor glared, jaw tight, but said nothing.
Fixer turned back to Xeno. "You've got two options, kid. Stay invisible, keep fighting for crumbs. Or you play the game — become the man everyone talks about. The fallen fighter who rises again."
Xeno's tone was flat. "You're saying I should pretend to fall?"
"Exactly." Fixer's eyes gleamed. "We manufacture struggle, redemption, and the illusion of change. People love to think they're watching a man grow. Truth doesn't matter — spectacle does."
Victor slammed his hand on the table. "You're insane. You're turning this into a goddamn soap opera."
Fixer laughed. "And yet, you still watch them, old man. Sponsors love drama. The more noise he makes, the faster I can get him legal status, credits, and fame. Everyone wins."
He turned to Xeno again. "Think of it this way — the city eats stories like oxygen. You can let them write one about you, or you can write it yourself."
---
The room went silent again.
Xeno stared at the neon reflection of himself in the glass wall — the faint scars on his knuckles, the veins of chrome under his skin, the hollowed eyes of a man between lives.
He remembered the system inside his mind — the R&D interface, the timelines, the blueprints of creation. He could craft anything from nothing. But power without identity was meaningless. He needed presence. Recognition. A way to matter in this city.
Maybe Fixer was right — if Night City ran on spectacle, then maybe it was time to play the part.
He looked up. "Alright," he said. "I'll do it."
Victor's head snapped up. "Kid—"
"It's fine," Xeno cut in. "You said it yourself, Victor. Boxing kept you alive. Maybe this is my version of that."
Fixer smiled like a wolf. "That's my guy. You're going to make history."
---
Victor wasn't smiling. "Fixer, if this goes south—"
"It won't," Fixer said, standing and straightening his tie. "Not with me directing the story. Don't worry, champ — I'll make sure he shines. Everyone loves a bad boy turned hero."
He turned back to Xeno, the grin never fading. "Here's how it starts. You go back out there. Pick fights. Act arrogant. Beat the hell out of anyone who steps up. Make them hate you — then make them love you."
Victor stood abruptly. "That's suicide. There are twenty fighters down there."
Fixer shrugged. "Then the kid better start making headlines."
Victor's cybernetic hand twitched. "You're playing with lives."
Fixer's voice dropped an octave, losing its warmth. "I play with investments. Don't confuse the two."
---
Xeno stood, his shadow stretching across the neon-lit floor.
"You both have your reasons," he said quietly. "You," he looked at Fixer, "see numbers and fame. You," he turned to Victor, "see integrity and pain."
He flexed his fingers — the gloves humming softly as the R&D system stirred inside his mind.
"But me? I see an opening."
Victor's brow furrowed. "What kind of opening?"
Xeno smirked. "One where I stop being someone else's pawn."
Fixer laughed. "That's the spirit, kid. Just remember — even when you write the script, the audience owns the ending."
---
As Xeno turned to leave, Victor's voice stopped him at the door.
"Kid," he said, his tone rough but sincere. "Night City loves its heroes loud… and its corpses quiet. Don't let them write your ending."
Xeno paused, glancing back over his shoulder, neon light reflecting off his eyes.
"Then I guess I'll just hack the script."