Viktor's clinic smelled like disinfectant, hot circuitry, and old metal—like a hospital built inside a scrapyard. The lights were too bright, the walls too clean for the neighborhood, and the humming machines behind the curtain sounded like they were always one bad day away from dying.
In the middle of that calm chaos, James was sparring with Viktor.
Boxing gloves. No chrome. No fancy tricks. Just two people testing skill with raw muscle and rhythm.
Even with age dragging at him, Viktor still hit like a truck. The man's punches carried the kind of weight that could shatter a jaw with a single clean shot. The problem wasn't power—it was stamina. His body didn't bounce back the way it used to.
Viktor pushed forward with a short combination—left jab, right hook, another heavy hook—trying to break James's guard.
It didn't work.
James absorbed the blows like a wall that refused to crack, then stepped in and drove a clean punch into Viktor's abdomen.
Viktor's breathing instantly went out of sync.
The air left his lungs in one ugly burst, and his legs weakened as if someone had pulled the plug. He staggered, then dropped to the floor with a bitter laugh that turned into a cough.
James lowered his gloves and stepped forward, grabbing Viktor's arm and helping him up.
"You alright, Old Vik Head?"
Viktor straightened slowly, leaning into the support like he hated needing it.
"Still got it…" he wheezed. "Cough… cough…"
He chuckled, even while struggling to breathe.
To Viktor, teaching James was strangely enjoyable.
Most people learned slowly. Most people needed repetition, correction, pain, and time.
James didn't.
He learned like his brain was a sponge, grabbing the essence of every move the moment Viktor demonstrated it. The man adjusted instantly—stance, balance, timing. It was like watching someone download skills instead of training them.
And then there was James's body.
He looked lean—almost too thin—yet the force he produced was worse than Viktor's, and Viktor had once been a champion. That kind of output shouldn't exist in a mostly flesh-and-blood body. Viktor had seen chromed-out lunatics throw punches like that, but James did it without the usual mechanical whine.
The only annoying part was how fast he improved.
If this kept going, Viktor realized, he'd run out of things to teach.
"Have some water," Lucy said.
She had been sitting off to the side, legs crossed, watching quietly like a cat that didn't want anyone to notice it cared. When the sparring ended, she stood, walked over, and handed James a bottle. Then she used the back of her fingers to wipe the sweat from his cheek like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"The two of you are progressing way too fast," Viktor muttered.
His tone was complaining, but his face wore the softest smile—almost parental, almost proud.
Then his expression shifted, like something else had slipped into his thoughts.
"If only Jackie could learn like you."
James's heart gave a small jolt.
"Jackie?"
So Viktor already knew him.
Viktor nodded, settling into a chair and rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah. You don't know him yet. Used to be in a gang, but he's a good guy. Big heart. Big fists. Now he's an edgerunner like you."
He pointed casually, like he was talking about a neighbor.
"If there's a chance, I'll introduce you. I'm sure you two will get along."
James nodded. "Alright."
Friends like Jackie were rare. In Night City, most "friends" were just people waiting for the right moment to sell you. A man like Jackie—loyal, loud, honest—was the kind of ally you didn't refuse.
And Jackie meant connection.
Which also meant V.
James's mind drifted for a second, a tiny curiosity scratching at him—In this world, is V male or female?
Before he could chase the thought, Viktor cut in again.
"The Kiroshi optics you wanted arrived today. Not the newest model, but it's solid. Quality's good."
That alone said a lot.
Viktor had reach. Real reach. He acted low-key, but being able to acquire Kiroshi gear this fast meant his channels were strong. Kiroshi optics weren't cheap streetware. They were premium tech originally meant to protect astronauts from extreme light exposure. High-end vision systems. Clean signal. Reliable performance.
James grinned. "Not bad, Viktor. You got it fast."
He slung an arm around Viktor's shoulder and patted him like they were old teammates.
Viktor shot him a look. "Not calling me Old Vik Head anymore?"
"Hehe," James replied, refusing to apologize.
Viktor leaned closer, suddenly serious. "I'll warn you now—this thing isn't cheap. Even with a discount, you're still looking at tens of thousands."
"I have money," Lucy said calmly, before James could speak.
Viktor blinked.
Lucy didn't even flinch. She said it like it was obvious, like she was paying for a coffee instead of premium cyberware.
She had saved for years for a dream—an escape plan, a fantasy of the moon.
But that dream had been born from loneliness.
Now her heart had something else inside it. Something heavier. Something warmer.
And suddenly, the moon didn't feel as urgent.
James opened his mouth. "My dad still left me a lot of—"
Lucy glanced at him.
James stopped immediately and cleared his throat like his words had hit a wall.
He turned to Viktor with a forced grin. "Guess I have no choice but to live off this soft support."
"You brat," Viktor snapped. "Don't take advantage and act innocent."
He looked genuinely offended, like James had committed a crime against the natural order.
Deep down, Viktor was jealous. In Night City, someone spending that kind of money for another person wasn't common. That was the type of gesture that meant real love, and Viktor hadn't seen much of that in his life.
For half a second, he wondered bitterly if he would still be single if someone like Lucy had ever looked at him the same way.
Then he shook it off, hiding the emotion behind sarcasm.
The implant procedure itself went smoothly.
Unlike back-alley ripperdocs who cut flesh like they were slicing meat, Viktor ran a clean clinic. Real anesthesia. Proper sterilization. Proper after-checks.
James lay back in the chair.
One moment, he felt the cold touch of the equipment.
The next moment, it felt like he'd blinked.
"The surgery was very successful," Viktor said, checking James's bio-readouts with practiced focus.
No rejection. No abnormal spike. No complications.
James sat up, testing his vision.
And the world changed.
It wasn't just clearer. It was sharper, deeper, more alive.
The Kiroshi system fed him information like quiet whispers: distance, temperature, micro-movement, light distortion.
It also came with protection—sunlight shielding and flash resistance, meaning a flashbang wouldn't turn him blind at the worst possible moment.
But the best part?
The messaging feature.
James glanced at Lucy and sent a private text directly through his optics.
Lucy froze mid-step.
A second later, her face turned faintly pink, like a girl who had never been teased before.
James sent another message.
Her blush deepened.
He realized, almost with shock, that cheesy pickup lines from an ancient era were still dangerous weapons today.
Viktor watched the silent flirting for a moment, then sighed and looked away like a man who had seen enough tragedy for one day.
"Alright," Viktor said, cleaning his tools. "Stop making eyes at each other in my clinic. I've got another client coming soon."
James stood and stretched. "I'm just testing the functions, okay? And honestly, Old Vik Head—you should find a partner. I'm worried your endocrine system might crash someday. Pretty sure the warning signs already started."
Viktor nearly exploded.
He lifted his hand, pointed at the door, and held it there like a loaded gun.
James laughed. "Alright, alright. We're leaving."
Outside, the city hit them like a wave—neon, noise, and a thousand dirty smells.
James had another task today.
He needed firearms.
In Night City, buying a gun was easy—almost casual.
But that was for cheap pieces. Low-caliber pistols that scared regular people and did nothing against real threats. Gang thugs had subdermal armor. Experienced edgerunners had reinforced bones and plated skin. Some bullets wouldn't even get past the first layer.
High-end weapon stores existed, but they were in rich territory—city center. That wasn't James's playground yet.
So he aimed for something realistic: buy decent weapons, then modify them later. Diversify his options. Build a small arsenal that suited his style.
Funny thing was, Night City still had a law called "illegal firearm possession."
So how do you legally carry a gun?
Simple.
Pay for a license.
Every legitimate gun store offered it. Even for black-market pieces—if you paid extra, staff would "register" it for you. Otherwise, if an NCPD officer caught you carrying, they'd have a perfect excuse to shake you down.
The gun shop's door chimed as they entered.
A fully automated sentry turret rotated slightly and aimed right at James's head—friendly reminder: don't get stupid in here.
The clerk behind thick glass smiled wide.
"Welcome. How can I help you?"
James stared at him. "Buying a gun."
"Of course," the man said cheerfully. "What else would you be here for? With the beautiful woman beside you, I'm guessing you don't need me to recommend streetwalkers."
Lucy's stare turned cold enough to freeze oil.
James coughed hard, swallowing whatever joke he was about to throw back.
"Stop the useless talk," James said. "Show me your best goods."
The clerk grinned, pulled a shotgun from the wall, and slapped it down on the counter with theatrical pride.
James checked the weapon.
A DB-2 Satara.
Close range? Brutal.
Spread? Wide enough that aiming barely mattered. Anything within ten meters in front of you could get shredded.
But it had problems too.
Loud.
One shot.
Reload delays.
And subtlety?
None.
"I need something quieter," James said. "If I fire this, the whole street will know I arrived."
The clerk didn't fully believe him—but he listened.
He brought out two pistols.
One: Militech Lexington.
Two: Arasaka Kenshin.
Rival corps, same counter. Night City humor.
James took one look at the Lexington and dismissed it. It was designed to disable, not end. Great for cops. Not great for someone who might need to drop a chromed psycho fast.
Then he picked up the Kenshin.
He felt the difference immediately.
Electromagnetic tech. Armor-piercing rounds with tungsten tips. A handgun that wanted to kill.
"This," James said simply. "I'll take it."
The clerk smiled. "Good taste. Ten percent discount for a new customer. Free box of ammo."
"Price."
"Fifty thousand."
James placed the gun down slowly and stared at him.
The stare said: Try again.
The clerk cleared his throat. "Thirty thousand."
James glanced at a hand saw on the shelf. "Plus that."
The clerk grinned, suddenly looking like a fox who'd just won a game. "Deal."
James didn't bother arguing further. Something about the guns' origin was definitely shady, but that was normal. If the clerk had laundered them properly, it didn't matter.
James paid, grabbed extra ammo, and accepted the shop's contact request.
"If I get good new stock, I'll notify you," the clerk said.
James walked out, then lifted a hand and gave the shop owner one clean, polite middle finger.
Lucy didn't laugh.
But her mouth twitched.
And in Night City, that counted as a win.
End of Chapter 6.
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