He crossed the short span of concrete and approached the sunken stairwell bordered by a metal railing. He descended the concrete stairs into the basement level, the ambient noise of the alley fading above him. At the bottom, he approached the heavy, reinforced metal door, though now it looked different from how he last remembered.
He didn't know if the biometric scanner would still recognize him, but as he stepped forward, the green laser swept over his face. The scanner chirped cheerfully, recognizing the underlying bone structure and retinal pattern it had logged years ago. The heavy deadbolt engaged with a loud, metallic clank, and the door slid open.
Santi stepped into the clinic and had his sense instantly assaulted by the sterile scent of medical-grade alcohol, ozone, and old blood. The space was exactly as he remembered it, clean, meticulously organized, filled with sleek surgical chairs and advanced biometric monitors.
But the ripperdoc, Viktor Vektor, wasn't currently in the main room. The heavy metal door leading to the back garage and storage area was closed, and Santi found his eyes immediately drawn to the primary operational chair in the center of the room as someone was lying on it.
He walked closer, his boots silent on the tiled floor. It was a Hispanic man, heavily muscled and currently unconscious, hooked up to a slow-drip IV of synthetic blood and mild anesthetics. His chest was bare, revealing a sprawling, intricate tapestry of gang tattoos. A crown of bloody roses was inked across his pectorals, and a massive, stylized 'V' was tattooed down his left forearm.
This man was a Valentino.
Santi stopped at the edge of the surgical tray, his violet eyes locking onto the gang ink as he felt a cold, hollow sensation open up in his chest. His mind instantly flashed back to the blood-splattered wall of Jax's living room. He remembered the details of Leo's older brother, Mateo, who had his eye gouged out with a toothbrush before being killed by a deranged 'Tino simply out of geographical spite. He remembered hearing of Leo's suicidal, grief-fueled rampage into the Glen, a short-lived act that ended with him dying in a hail of smart bullets fired by gangers flying these exact same colors.
The system of Night City demanded blood, and the Valentinos had taken their fair share from Santi's life.
Santi stood over the unconscious man, his jaw clenching tight. He could see a heavy, metallic trauma-laceration on the man's right shoulder, currently packed with sterile gauze, waiting for a cybernetic replacement. The ganger was completely vulnerable, and Santi knew that all he needed to do was send a single, forceful strike to the carotid artery, or a quick, localized EMP burst from his deck directly into the man's pacemaker, and it would be over.
But Santi wasn't a cyberpsycho. He wasn't Leo, and he had sworn to forge himself into a weapon of precision, not a wild animal driven by indiscriminate revenge. He forced his hands to uncurl, letting out a slow, controlled breath, suppressing the surge of anger.
He reached out a hand, intending to inspect the surgical tools resting on the silver tray beside the chair, but before his fingers could even brush the cold metal of a scalpel, the heavy hydraulic doors to the back room hissed open.
Santi snatched his hand back, spinning around on his heel. Stepping out of the back room, wiping grease from his massive hands with a stained rag, was Viktor Vektor. The ripperdoc looked older, the lines around his eyes carved a little deeper by the never-ending and exhausting grind of patching up the broken mercenaries of Night City. His broad shoulders were still thick with muscle, and his presence projected an aura of grounded stability.
Vik stopped dead in his tracks and tossed the rag onto a nearby counter, his eyes locking onto the intruder standing in his clinic.
The two of them stood in absolute silence for a long, tense moment. The only sound in the room was the steady, rhythmic beeping of the Valentino's heart monitor.
Santi was the first to break the silence, the street-rat swagger he usually employed faded slightly, replaced by a cautious, guarded respect.
"Hey," Santi started, his voice steady. "I'm not sure if you remember me, but I was here a long time ago. My name is-"
"Jesus Christ," Vik interrupted, the breath rushing out of his lungs in a sudden, sharp exhale. He took a step forward, his eyes wide with a mixture of absolute shock and a deep, haunting sorrow. "You look just like him... but with more hair."
Santi frowned, his brow knitting together in genuine confusion, crossing his arms over his chest, his guard instantly rising. "Who are you talking about?"
Vik let out a humorless, disbelieving chuckle, shaking his head as he closed the distance between them. "Alejandro's kid. Santiago. I'll be damned."
Vik looked him up and down, taking in the broad shoulders, the worn combat boots, and the fact that Santi was currently looking the massive ripperdoc directly in the eye without having to tilt his head back.
"You've gotten tall, kid," Vik murmured, a bittersweet smile touching the corners of his mouth. "Real tall. What are you now, six foot? How old are you?"
"I'm fourteen," Santi replied, his tone remaining flat, defensive. He didn't like being compared to the father who had left them to drown in the gutters of Santo Domingo.
"Fourteen," Vik repeated, dragging a heavy hand down his face. "Time moves fast in this city. Come on, grab a stool."
Vik gestured to a rolling medical stool near his desk. Santi hesitated for a second before walking over and sitting down. Vik pulled up his own chair, sitting heavily, resting his forearms on his knees so he was level with the teenager.
"How are things, Santi?" Vik asked, his voice dropping to a gentle, probing rumble. "How are you doing? How is Julia? And... how is your father?"
Santi stared at the ripperdoc. He could hear the genuine care in the man's voice, but the mention of Alejandro sparked a bitter resentment in his chest. He took a long moment to process his response, his eyes hardening.
"My mom and I are doing fine," Santi said coldly, deliberately ignoring the question about his father. "We had to move out of the corpo sectors a few years ago. Relocated down to Rancho Coronado. Mom was working two jobs for a long time, pumping CHOOH2 and working a liquor store register just to keep the lights on. But I recently got her to leave one of those jobs. So you can say things are looking up."
Vik frowned, his thick brows pulling together in profound confusion. He leaned back slightly, his eyes searching Santi's guarded expression.
"Rancho Coronado?" Vik asked, his voice thick with disbelief. "Two jobs? Why the hell would Julia be pumping gas? Where is Alejandro? Why were you two struggling like that?"
Santi looked away. He couldn't maintain eye contact, so he stared at the humming biometric monitor above the unconscious Valentino, his jaw clenching tight. He thought about the cheap metal urn that had arrived on their rotting porch. He thought about his mother sobbing on the kitchen floor. He didn't want to explain the brutal, corporate execution of his father to a man who had once been his friend.
Vik watched the boy look away and saw the tension in Santi's shoulders as a sudden, protective barricade dropped over his emotions. Vik was a man who traded in the bloody, tragic currency of Night City every single day. He didn't need to hear the words to understand the silence.
The ripperdoc closed his eyes, a look of devastating guilt washing over his weathered face. He remembered the last time he had seen Alejandro. He remembered punching his friend in the jaw, throwing him out of this exact clinic, calling him a monster for putting the experimental neural link in his son's head. He had told Alejandro to never come back. And Alejandro had kept that promise.
"I'm sorry, kid," Vik whispered, his voice thick with an agonizing weight. "I'm so damn sorry."
Santi took a slow breath, forcing the bitter memories back down into the dark. He turned his head, looking back at Vik, his expression returning to the cold, detached mask of a street-runner.
"It's all good, Vik," Santi said smoothly, waving a hand dismissively. "We're straight now. I've been pulling gigs. Making real scratch. Things are going very well for us now, which is actually why I'm here."
Vik opened his eyes, letting out a long, heavy sigh. He scrubbed a hand over his face, pushing the grief aside, and shifted back into the professional demeanor of a ripperdoc. He looked at Santi, assessing the boy's frame.
"You're fourteen, Santi," Vik stated, his tone shifting to a firm, medical authority. "You've got a lot of growing left to do. Your brain is still developing, and your central nervous system is still mapping your physical growth. There isn't much chrome you can get without risking severe, permanent biological rejection or stunting your skeletal development. But, I think I'm past the ethical road with you... And you're sitting in my clinic. So tell me. What is it you want?"
Santi smiled, a genuine, sharp grin that held absolutely zero childish innocence. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
"Thanks, Vik," Santi said, his voice dropping into the tone of a professional negotiating a contract. "I need a complete overhaul of my operating system and my frontal cortex. I want a Militech Paraline Mk.1 Cyberdeck hardwired in. I need an Ex-Disk, a Kerenzikov, a Kerenzikov Boost System tied directly into my spinal column, Self-ICE to harden my localized defenses, a high-capacity RAM Upgrade, and I need a secure, fixer-grade Agent integrated directly into my Neural Link."
Vik stared at him, his mouth falling open slightly in sheer, unadulterated shock.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Stop right there," Vik interrupted, throwing his hands up. "Are you out of your fucking mind, kid? Are you actively trying to become a cyberpsycho before you even hit puberty?"
"I'd argue that my psychological baseline is perfectly stable-" Santi started to argue.
"I don't give two shits about your baseline!" Vik stated, his protective instincts overriding his professional demeanor. He pointed a finger at Santi's chest. "Chipping in that much combat-grade chrome all at the same time is a death sentence! You're talking about rewiring your entire nervous system, flooding your frontal lobe with military-grade processing hardware, and hardwiring an Agent straight to your consciousness! A grown, hardened mercenary would need a week of immunosuppressants just to survive that installation! If I put all of that into a fourteen-year-old boy, it will literally melt your brain into gray sludge!"
"Trust me, it won't melt," Santi insisted, his violet eyes locking onto Vik's with absolute, unwavering certainty. He didn't blink. He knew what he was asking for, and he knew the unique architecture of his own mind. "My Neural Link isn't standard copper wiring, Vik. You know that. You installed it. It's been natively integrated into my astrocyte cells for six years, and if some of the things I've dug up are true, my neuroplasticity should have adapted to the bandwidth. Meaning I can handle the load."
"Yeah, but that shit's just theoretical!" Vik argued, shaking his head stubbornly. "I am not turning you into a vegetable, Santi!"
"Then run a diagnostic," Santi challenged, leaning back in his stool, crossing his arms over his chest. "Run a full, deep-dive brain scan. Look at my current synaptic load-bearing capacity. If the scan shows my nervous system will fry, I'll walk out that door and never ask again. But if the math checks out... you do the surgery. I got the scratch to pay for it."
Vik glared at the teenager. He knew that stubborn, unyielding defiance in the boy's eyes. It was a perfect reflection of Alejandro's own ruthless determination. Vik let out a harsh, frustrated growl, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Fine," Vik snapped, standing up from his stool. He walked over to a heavy medical console, grabbing a tangled mess of diagnostic cables and a specialized optical scanner. "Fine. But when this machine tells you that your brain is going to pop like a cheap fuse, you're going to accept it. I am not burying Alejandro's kid. And no matter what you think, I'm still limiting the amount of Chrome I'm putting in you."
Vik rolled the heavy console over to Santi and grabbed a sterile wipe, roughly cleaning the skin behind Santi's right ear, before jacking a thick, multi-pronged diagnostic cable directly into the boy's Neural Link port. He placed a halo-like scanner over Santi's head, aligning the diodes with his temples.
"Sit still and don't access the Net," Vik muttered, turning his attention to the glowing screens of the console. He typed rapidly on the physical keyboard, initiating a deep-tissue neurological stress test and a synaptic bandwidth diagnostic.
The machine hummed loudly, processing the data as a three-dimensional, holographic rendering of Santi's brain slowly materialized on the primary monitor.
Santi sat perfectly still, his breathing steady, entirely confident in the structural integrity of his own mind.
Vik stood over the console, his arms crossed over his massive chest, waiting for the red warning lights and the critical failure alarms to validate his medical expertise. But when the diagnostic reached 100 percent completion, a soft, melodic chime echoed through the clinic.
Vik leaned forward, his eyes scanning the cascading rows of green data, reading the synaptic response times, the neuroplasticity indices, and the load-bearing capacity interwoven through the boy's grey matter.
Vik froze, and the color slowly drained from his weathered face. He took his glasses off, wiping the lenses on his shirt, and put them back on, leaning so close to the monitor that his nose almost touched the glass.
He stared at the impossible numbers, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly.
"Holy shit," Vik whispered, the words slipping out in a breathless, terrified reverence. "Just what the fuck are you, kid?"
---
Stone is smooth, acceptable.
The infamous P@treon exists for those of you who want to read ahead.
patreon .com/Crimson_Reapr (Don't be a gonk, remove the space)
They get around 3 long-form weekly chapters (4.5-6k words each).