The Scav den was silent now.
The air smelled like blood, gunpowder, and something worse—something rotten. K stepped out into the night, painted red from head to toe, the knife in his hand still dripping, the gun trembling in the other. His breath came slow and heavy, but his mind was a fog, a distant hum of static.
Everything that had happened inside the den felt far away, like a half-remembered dream.
The holo buzzed in his ear.
"K? The hell's going on? All I heard was gunfire and screaming."
K stopped just outside the alley, blinking against the flickering neon reflecting in the puddles. He swayed slightly, his knuckles straining around the knife handle.
A long beat passed.
"…I'm fine."
His voice sounded hollow, even to himself.
"Yeah? 'Cause you sure as shit don't sound fine. You alive?"
Another pause. Then, finally—
"It's over."
Knox exhaled in relief, but suspicion still laced his tone. "Alright… I sent a Delamain to pick you up. It's waitin' outside. Just—"
K barely heard the rest. His gaze lifted past the alleyway, spotting the sleek black Delamain cab idling by the curb. The glowing company logo pulsed gently on the side, a stark contrast to the filth and carnage he had just crawled out of.
Without a word, he trudged forward, boots scraping against the pavement, leaving dark red footprints in his wake.
The cab door hissed open as he approached. The Delamain AI's voice, crisp and emotionless, greeted him as he slid inside.
"Welcome, valued customer. Your account has been linked. Please ensure all limbs remain inside the vehicle at all times."
K slumped back into the seat. The interior was too clean, too sterile—black leather, polished chrome, not a single imperfection. He didn't belong in here.
His fingers still locked around the knife, muscles refusing to let go. The gun in his other hand shook slightly, nerves raw from adrenaline.
Knox's voice crackled back in his ear.
"So? You torch the place?"
K stared ahead, eyes dull, voice flat.
"…Not yet."
"The fuck do you mean, 'not yet'? Client wants that whole place wiped. It's bad for business."
The Delamain pulled smoothly away from the curb, gliding through the city streets—silent, precise. Behind them, the alley and the Scav den shrank into the distance.
Then—
Boom!
A roaring explosion shattered the night, lighting up the rear window in a wave of fire and debris. The Delamain's smart glass dimmed automatically to protect the passengers from the flash.
K barely blinked.
He didn't turn, didn't anything. He just stared ahead, expression blank, while embers danced in the rearview reflection.
"…Okay. Now it's done."
Silence on the line. Then—
"What the actual fuck."
K didn't answer. He barely heard him. His stomach twisted. Something ugly and heavy sat in his gut, rising up fast.
The Delamain AI chirped up again, annoyingly calm.
"Detecting signs of nausea. Would you like a biodegradable sickness bag?"
Too late.
K lurched forward and vomited onto the pristine floor.
Knox, still on the call, groaned loud enough to rattle the speakers.
"Are you shittin' me, K?! Do you have any idea what kind of deposit I had to put down for that ride?"
K wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes still unfocused.
"…Bill me."
The Delamain let out a polite chime.
"Charges have been applied to your account. Please enjoy the remainder of your ride."
K let his head drop back against the seat, eyes half-lidded, mind slipping back into the haze.
The city lights smeared across the windows as they drove on, the explosion just another distant memory in a city that never stopped burning.
The entire ride felt like a blur. Before he knew it, he was standing in front of Knox's apartment, his body running on fumes as he trudged forward. The weight of the night clung to him—blood dried stiff on his clothes, sweat caked to his skin. His boots scraped the bottom of the doorway, each step heavier than the last.
By the time he got inside, his vision tunneled, exhaustion digging its claws into his skull. He pushed the door open with his shoulder.
Inside, dim light pooled from a desk lamp, casting shadows against peeling wallpaper. Knox was at the table, hunched over a mess of old tech and spare parts. The sound of soldering filled the air—sharp, crackling.
K barely made it past the threshold before Knox glanced up.
"Jesus Christ—you look like you just left a fuckin' cult ritual."
K didn't answer.
Knox scoffed, leaning back in his chair. "The hell happened in there? You know you're gonna have to find better ways to get jobs done. Comin' back a bloody mess every night ain't it, choom."
K kept walking.
Knox let out a frustrated sigh while lighting a cigar on his desk. "I get it," he said, taking a puff a savoring it before exhaling. "First time's always the hardest. But it's this or die. That's Night City for ya."
K stepped into his room.
The door swung shut behind him, muffling whatever Knox was still saying.
He stood there, unmoving. The air was stale, thick with the scent of old metal and sweat. His fingers curled around the grip of his pistol, the cool steel pressing into his palm. The knife was still in his other hand, blade dark with something he didn't bother identifying.
He didn't even remember picking them up.
His gaze drifted—past the clutter, past the cracks in the wall, past everything. Nothing settled in his mind. Just static.
Seconds passed. Maybe minutes.
Then, with a slow exhale, he let his body drop.
The mattress let out a tired groan beneath him. The gun and knife slipped from his fingers, hitting the sheets with dull thuds. His head turned slightly, unfocused eyes staring at nothing.
A long, slow blink.
Darkness.
Then—a faint vibration.
K's eyes slid open. The ceiling above him was smooth. No cracks, no flickering bulb, no stench of old sweat and rust. The sheets beneath his fingertips were crisp. White.
The soft chime of missed messages buzzed from somewhere near the bed.
K exhaled through his nose. No urgency. No surprise. Just another morning. It's been months since the first gig.
A warm weight shifted beside him. Bare skin brushed against his arm. A woman, still asleep, curled in the sheets, one leg hooked over his. He pulled away, rolling out of bed as she murmured something incoherent.
He reached for the nightstand, fingers finding the chipped ashtray before plucking out a half-smoked cigarette. The paper crinkled as he brought it to his lips, flicking his lighter. A brief glow. First drag—long, steady. The nicotine hit his lungs, dulling the edges of his thoughts.
Smoke curled from his mouth as he picked up his phone. The screen lit up with too many missed calls. A few from unknown numbers. One from Knox.
Another buzz.
A groggy voice behind him: "Come back to bed."
K pulled on his pants, took another slow drag. The call icon flashed on his screen. Without turning, he muttered,
"Can't—work's callin'." He exhaled smoke, grabbing his jacket. "Lock up when you leave, wouldya?"
The Northside air was thick with engine fumes and factory smog, the sky a dull, artificial gray. The whole district smelled like hot metal, rust, and damp concrete, like a machine left out in the rain for too long. Even this early, the hiss of industrial vents and the distant rumble of cargo loaders made it clear—Northside never slept, it only slowed down.
K stepped out of his apartment complex, boots crunching against scattered debris. The place was a box of concrete and neglect, just like everything else in Watson's forgotten corners. His jacket was still slung over his shoulder, last night's cigarette pack half-crushed in the chest pocket.
The old Quadra Turbo R sat in the same spot, parked between a piss-stained alley and a dumpster that reeked of synthetic meat. It had seen better days—the paint was scuffed, one of the back panels dented, and some gangoons had left a fresh bootprint on the driver's side window. Probably some joyriders who thought they could jack it.
They learned the hard way.
K sighed and ran a hand through his hair before pulling the door open, the hinges groaning. As he slid into the worn leather seat, his phone buzzed.
Knox.
He exhaled, flicked his lighter, and let the fresh cigarette dangle from his lips before answering.
"What do you want, old man?"
"Old man? Now that's no way to talk to your betters now, is it?"
K let the Quadra's engine cough, sputter, then finally roar to life, spitting a faint puff of exhaust smoke into the alley.
"You got a job, or what?"
"Do I got a fuckin' job, he says," Knox scoffed. "I ain't callin' to see if you ate today, genius. When can you get to the office? I wanna give the deets in person."
K shifted the stick into reverse, the tires rolling over scattered glass and old paper flyers as he backed out.
"Gotta be later. Another gig came down the line. Meetin' with the fixer in a few."
"What—you cheatin' on me now? I thought we had somethin' special."
"It was you who said I need more clients, asshole."
"Yeah, yeah, I know—I'm just kickin' your dick."
K pulled onto the main road, neon lights reflecting off his windshield as a boostergang biker blew past him, nearly clipping a pedestrian. He barely reacted.
"Nice job by the way with that gig in Little China. Clean—in and out. Real professional-like. Keep this up and you'll be drownin' in clients, huh?"
K exhaled smoke, watching the rain-streaked cityscape flicker in his side mirror.
"Thanks, I guess… still waiting to get paid though."
"Yeah, yeah, eds are on the way. Stop by as soon as you're done, would ya? No stoppin' over on Jig-Jig either, ya hear me?"
K smirked, shifting gears as the Quadra rumbled through a red light.
"Wouldn't dream of it."
He hung up.
Ahead, Night City stretched out—cold, restless, hungry. The skyline was a jungle of neon and steel, and the streets were already teeming with the next batch of desperate souls looking for an edge.
A fixer was waiting. A job needed doing.
And if nothing else—today, at least, he had work.
CHAPTER END—