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Santo Domingo, one of Night City's oldest districts, has witnessed every tectonic shift in the city's history. During the last Corporate War, it became a sanctuary for refugees, creating the "best workforce" the megacorps could ever exploit. But the factories didn't bring prosperity; they brought a cycle of poverty that forced the locals into self-sufficiency. Places like Rancho Coronado became cities within the city, with their own bars, schools, and repair shops.
Right now, Jax was inside one of those "repair shops."
With Sasha's silent precision, a heavy iron gate lost power. A security camera jerked, its feed now serving as her eyes. Jax flipped over the gate with the fluid grace of a predatory cat, pressing his back against the peeling red bricks of a low-rise building.
From his vantage point, he saw two 6th Street members lounging on oil drums. Just past them sat a defensive automated turret. Jax frowned. His system's "Danger Level" indicator was pulsing a steady yellow, but his common sense was screaming.
Why would a suburban repair shop in the 6th Street's own backyard need a heavy machine-gun turret? This wasn't a front-line outpost in the war against the Valentinos. This was the heart of their territory. And then there were the four netrunners Sasha had detected.
Something is rotting here, Jax thought.
Sasha: "Kiwi, you ready?"
Kiwi: "Connected. Camera three is mine. I see two runners in the main bay. Cracking the firewall now... I'm in. What's the play?"
Sasha: "Clean work, Kiwi. I was worried you'd trip a counter-hack. Listen, those two runners are our priority. If they detect Jax, they'll lock the whole place down. Remember, we need the target alive."
Kiwi: "Copy that."
Jax listened to Kiwi's voice. In the Edgerunners he remembered, she was the personification of cold betrayal. But here, under Sasha's lead, she sounded almost... respectful.
Sasha: "Jax, you have twenty seconds. Pilar is dropping the jammer. Kiwi and I will black out the sensors. You hit the bay and neutralize those runners before they can jack out. Go!"
Jax didn't hesitate. He pushed off the ground, his organic muscles propelling him three meters into the air. He caught the edge of the roof and hauled himself up. The turret and the cameras died exactly as he reached the ventilation duct.
Click.
He ripped the vent cover off and slid into the darkness.
Sasha: "Left!"
Jax hit the floor of the interior, a dagger already in his hand. A 6th Street guard stood by a refrigerator, his head turning as he heard the faint scuff of boots. Before a sound could leave his throat, Jax's hand clamped over his mouth. A cold, surgical slide of the blade across the neck followed. Jax caught the body, lowering it silently as the life bled out of the man.
"Seventeen seconds!" Sasha urged.
Jax moved. He bypassed the kitchen and saw the two netrunners through a glass partition. They were already slumped in their chairs, their optics sparking—Kiwi and Sasha had fried their interfaces from the inside. Jax stepped into the bay, delivering two swift, non-lethal strikes to the back of their heads to ensure they stayed under.
Then, he turned to the lockers. He pulled one open, and his stomach did a slow roll.
"Target is dead, Maine," Jax said into the comms, his voice tight. "And he's... not exactly in one piece."
Maine: "Explain."
"Head, torso, and a thigh. All separated. Which part do you want to carry?" Jax looked closer. The skin was yellow. Asian. Not Mexican. This wasn't a Valentino.
"Big problem, Maine!"
Jax moved to the next locker, ripping it open. He stared at a cache of precision military hardware. Submachine guns, sniper rifles, and two black steel Katanas. He jacked his personal cable into a nearby terminal.
[Authentication Failed—]
"Sasha, crack this. Now."
Three seconds later, the screen flickered to life. Jax scrolled through the recent mail logs.
FROM: Lori Vance TO: Barris SUBJECT: The Package Captain said to keep this one buried. The data in his head is the prize. Militech paid us to snag this corporate dog, but they didn't say we could keep the toys. Especially that prototype rifle. That goes to the Captain. Arasaka's Tyger Claws are already sniffing around. They won't let this get big, but keep your eyes peeled.
Jax felt a cold irony wash over him. This wasn't a gang snatch-and-grab. This was a proxy war between Arasaka and Militech, and they were the idiots who had just stumbled into the middle of it for a measly fifty thousand eddies.
"Fuck the Fixer!" Maine's roar echoed in the comms, followed by the sound of something metal being crushed. "You call this a small job?!"
"How was I supposed to know?" Pilar shrieked. "It looked like street business! Who knew it involved Arasaka's 'black gloves'?"
Kiwi: "What's the move, Maine?" Her voice was like ice again. She hadn't signed up for a suicide run against two megacorps.
Maine hesitated. Fifty thousand was an insult for this kind of heat. But then, Jax sent a burst of photos from the weapons locker—the prototype Militech hardware.
Maine let out a low, predatory growl. "Fuck it. We're doing it. The mail says the Corps want to keep this quiet. They won't send an army if we vanish with the goods. We're taking the weapons and the data. If the Fixer lied, we'll make him pay in blood."
"We're driving up, Jax," Maine barked. "Grab what you can. Let's fucking do this!"
Jax looked at the severed head in the locker. This was Night City. You go in for a paycheck, and you come out with a war.
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