V

V stared out the cab window, watching the rain-soaked streets of Night City blur into streaks of neon and shadow. The Delamain cab purred smoothly past the urban sprawl, gliding through the chaos outside with an eerie silence. If V’s mind had been clearer, he might’ve appreciated the cab’s quality – how quiet and effortless the ride was, a rare luxury in this city. But his thoughts were far from the present, tangled in the enormity of what was ahead for him.

His hands rested in his lap, fingers flexing absently. This was it. The big job. The one that would set both Jackie and him up for life or leave them buried in an unmarked grave before sunrise. It was the kind of gamble that V wouldn’t have dared take back when he was working with Arasaka. Back then, he had security, status, purpose – or at least the illusion of it. Now, he was just another merc in the city, trying to survive using the only talents the corporate machine had drilled into him.

Next to him, Jackie was the picture of restless energy, buzzing as he sat in the synth-leather seat, his knee bouncing lightly and his fingers drumming a rhythm against his thigh. He had that easy energy about him, the kind that masked a readiness to act the second things inevitably went to hell. It was part of what made V trust him so much.

Jackie had been there when V hit rock bottom. When he stumbled out of Arasaka’s shadow, a wreck of a man with nothing but the ashes of his old life, Jackie had been the one pulling him back together. To this day, V wasn’t sure why. Maybe Jackie had seen something in him that was worth saving. Or maybe Jackie just couldn’t help being Jackie. He saw a man who was drowning and he tossed him a lifeline.

“Excelsior,” said Jackie, his voice cutting through the quiet. “This is how you wanna cruise into the major leagues.

V tore his gaze from the window and frowned. “Wouldn’t get overly excited. Haven’t gotten there – not yet.”

Jackie shot him a lopsided grin and it was all V could do to stop all his worries about the job hit him all at once. “Dunno, Jack…kinda feels like you’re losing that steel grip of yours.”

Jackie’s grin faltered just slightly. “Huh, seems to me like it’s you who’s got some kind of problem.”

V hesitated, the words catching in his throat. How the hell do you tell your best friend – the guy who pulled you out of the gutter and helped piece your life back together – that the job he’s banking everything on might be a setup? He exhaled, steadying himself. “Need you to keep your head clear and in the game – we got a job to do.”

Jackie’s grin disappeared, replaced by a glint of seriousness in his eyes. “Head’s never, ever been clearer in my whole fuckin’ life. Lemme explain something to you V…my whole life I’ve spent in this shit around us. And I ain’t going back.”

For a moment, V held Jackie’s gaze. There it was again: that unwavering determination, the fire that had kept Jackie going when most people would’ve folded. It was inspiring, sure, but it didn’t soothe the knot tightening in V’s stomach. He turned back to the window, watching the rain cascade down the glass. The truth was, this wasn’t just pre-job jitters. Something about the whole gig felt off.

It all started with Dex. Dexter Deshawn – a man whose name carried almost as much weight in Night City as the man himself did. Supposedly, he was one of the best fixers in the city. He talked a good game, promising Jackie and V their ticket to the top, and even made good on one small part of that promise already: a seat at the Afterlife, the hallowed ground of Night City’s merc community. That alone was enough to win Jackie over. But for V? The shine started wearing off the moment he started digging.

The first red flag had come when V mentioned Dex to Vik. Vik Vektor wasn’t just some old ripperdoc; he was a legend, someone who’d seen it all and then some. He’d been around long enough to know how the game was played, and when V brought up Dex’s name, Vik’s response wasn’t the encouragement V had been hoping for – it was a warning. He told him to watch his back. If Vik was telling him to be cautious, V knew better than to just shrug it off.

Then there was Evelyn Parker, the client. Another red flag. A fixer’s job was to handle the client, keep the mercs focused on the job while they managed the big-picture stuff. A good fixer is supposed to be the buffer between the client and the mercs, keeping things professional and aboveboard. But Dex fucked that up too. Evelyn Parker wasn’t just calling the shots and forcing a meeting with V – she was running her own game, and Dex didn’t seem to have a clue about that. When V had met her…it was like she was testing him, sizing him up in a way that felt more like a power play than a negotiation.

And then there was Dex’s so-called due diligence. He’d claimed to have done his homework on Evelyn, digging into her past to figure out who he was dealing with. Problem was, someone from Pacifica had reached out to him and told him to stay away and stop asking questions. And Dex folded. No follow-up, no questions. He just dropped it.

And finally, when Dex mentioned someone from Pacifica reaching out to him, all sorts of alarm bells started ringing. Pacifica was chaos given a ZIP code, once home to The Pack – a gang that had managed, however briefly, to carve out one of the most jaw-dropping success stories in Night City’s underworld.

Back when Jackie and V were still taking nickel-and-dime gigs from Padre, The Pack had been a joke. Just another gang scraping by on the edges of survival. They had more numbers than the other small gangs, but not nearly enough to compete with the big dogs. Plus, they didn’t have the resources, or any backing, or any reason for anyone in the city to give them a second thought.

Then came their war with 6th Street.

It had been a lopsided brawl from the start. 6th Street was too big, too connected, too organized, too entrenched, too rich in both cash and firepower. They were the real deal – military-grade gear, corporate ties, allies in high places. Betting on The Pack against them was like betting on a joytoy to outgun a MaxTac squad. But somehow, somehow, they pulled it off.

The Pack didn’t just win; they obliterated 6th Street. Gutted their leadership, destroyed their infrastructure, and left them floundering in the dirt. Even now, 6th Street was still reeling, their power base shattered. It was the kind of victory that made people sit up and take notice.

But The Pack didn’t stop there. Flush with momentum, they turned on the Animals and steamrolled them. Then, for their next act of insanity, they set their sights on Pacifica – a district that was less a territory and more a battleground. Nobody controlled Pacifica. Not really. V had heard that the Voodoo Boys had claimed it as their playground, but even they couldn’t keep it locked down. Scavs, cyberpsychos, and every flavor of insanity fought for scraps in its ruins. Taking Pacifica was…suicidal.

Yet The Pack had once again defied expectations and pulled off a miracle. They muscled out the VDB, the Scavs, and anyone else foolish enough to plant a flag there. They turned Pacifica into the seat of their new empire, a feat that felt less like a gangland power grab and more like rewriting the rules of Night City.

That was around the time the stories about The Pack’s leader started making the rounds.

Nobody seemed to agree on who – or what – he was. Some whispered he was a rogue AI, one of the nightmares that had slipped through the Blackwall, hijacking a human body and puppeting it around Night City. Others spun tales of an oracle who could divine the future, outmaneuvering enemies before they even realized they were in a fight. The most outlandish stories said he was a ghost, capable of materializing where he was least expected, slipping past locked doors and through unbreachable security before striking with terrifying precision.

The stories only added to the gang’s legend, propelling them to near-mythic status. But in Night City, legends burn fast.

What once was an unstoppable force – a gang at the height of its power – was now little more than a fading memory. The Pack had been attacked by…who knows what. And then they went silent, their enigmatic leader disappearing without a trace. Sure, they still technically controlled Pacifica, but only because no one else wanted the cursed district. The stories, the myths, the hype that had once surrounded The Pack was all but extinct. Now, they were clinging to past glories, riding the coattails of a bygone era when they stood tall and fearless under a leader who seemed untouchable.

Rumors lingered, of course. The kind that spoke of corporate retaliation, of deals gone bad, of powerful enemies who’d decided The Pack’s time was up. But the thing about rumors in Night City was that they didn’t mean much when no one cared enough to follow up on them. The Pack was dead and gone. They hid away in their cursed district, not really bothering anyone. So…why were they nagging at V’s mind now, creeping in like an unwanted memory?

V shook his head, trying to dispel the thought. It didn’t add up. If The Pack were somehow involved in this heist, they’d have to be a lot stronger than all the rumors suggested. And even if they were, they wouldn’t be using someone like Evelyn Parker to hire a fixer like Dexter DeShawn to tap up two scrappy mercs like him and Jackie.

The sharp chime of an incoming call sliced through V’s thoughts. He glanced his display as T-Bug’s name appeared and he answered. Her face popped up in the corner of his field of vision – sharp, calm, in control.

“Hey, how’s things?” T-Bug asked, sounding almost detached, like she was asking about the weather instead of the most dangerous job of their lives.

Jackie, who V guessed had answered T-Bug’s call first, chimed in. “Smooth as fuckin’ sandpaper.”

V glanced around, trying to spot where exactly the Delamain cab was. Konpeki Plaza rose in the distance, a gleaming monument to opulence.

“We’ll be, uh, pullin’ up to the hotel soon,” said V, trying to sound composed even as a thousand uneasy thoughts churned in his head.

T-Bug’s eyes flicked to something off-screen, probably monitoring some kind of feed. “Listen, set up a direct, encrypted line to guide you through Konpeki. V, ring Jackie now, see if we’re in sync. Can’t be too careful.”

V nodded, swiping through his contacts until Jackie’s name came up. The call connected went through and Jackie shifted a bit in his seat.

“Got static,” said Jackie, rapping the side of his head with his knuckles. “Say somethin’, Bug.”

T-Bug’s voice came through clean and clear. “The greatest crimes issue from a desire for excess and not from necessity.”

Jackie blinked, then let out a soft chuckle. “Say what now?”

“Aristotle,” T-Bug replied, her voice tinged with a hint of amusement. “Guess you read me, then?”

“Yea, I read you,” Jackie shot back, smirking. “Not so much your Greek friend, though it was kinda exciting.”

V could almost hear T-Bug rolling her eyes. “Could give it some thought, try to understand…How ‘bout you V?”

“I want more Aristotle.”

T-Bug snorted softly. “Ok, tech checks out, looks like.”

The Delamain cab slowed to a stop in front of Konpeki Plaza, and Delamain’s smooth, automated voice filled the cabin. “Thank you for choosing the Delamain Service, and best of luck. I shall wait here for your return.”

The gravity of the moment settled over V like a lead blanket. Jackie shifted in his seat before breaking the silence.

“Shit’s finally happenin’,” he muttered, the edge of excitement undercut by nerves. He ran a hand down his corpo suit, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles. Then, as if remembering something, he glanced at V. “Almost forgot…no iron, huh?”

V sighed, pulling open his jacket to reveal the Unity pistol he had holstered there. It was instinct to carry it – comfort in cold steel. But Jackie was right; guns weren’t part of the plan tonight, and carrying one would only set off alarms before they even made it inside.

Reluctantly, V popped open the storage compartment in the rear seat and stowed the Unity inside. Jackie stepped out of the cab and rounded to the trunk. The soft click of the latch sounded as he opened it and hoisted out the black case containing the Militech flathead drone, and V followed him to the entrance of the hotel.

It didn’t take much for V to get himself and Jackie past the Konpeki Plaza security guards and desk clerk. All he needed was to brush off the old ‘corpo V’ persona, slipping into the skin of someone who belonged here. He spoke with the entitlement that high-end places recognized instinctively. Throw around enough imaginary weight, and people stop asking questions.

As they crossed the lobby, Jackie’s pace slowed, his head turning slightly as he took it all in. The walkway was flanked by sand gardens, meticulously arranged. Two vibrant red maples stood like guardians of the opulence around them.

V walked just behind Jackie, watching as his friend’s usual swagger seemed momentarily checked by the sheer extravagance of Konpeki Plaza. Jackie wasn’t used to this. Growing up in Heywood, bars meant sticky floors, battered furniture, and the acrid tang of cheap beer. This was worlds away from Mama Welles’ joint.

They stopped at a hostess stand near the entrance to the lobby bar. V moved up beside Jackie, taking a moment to scope out the scene.

“Could bring Misty here one day,” Jackie said, gesturing toward the lavish bar. “When we, uh…close this deal.”

V followed his gaze. High-backed booths lined one side of the bar, filled with patrons who looked like they’d all stepped out of the scream sheets. Each group radiated wealth. V caught the eye of a man seated in one of the booths. He had the kind of practiced charisma that suggested fame, his entourage hanging on his every word like disciples at a sermon.

“Wouldn’t hurt to take a peek inside…” suggested V. He could use a distraction to calm his nerves.

Jackie shifted the case in his grip. “Sheeit, look like some fuckin’ travelin’ salesman with this case. Goin’ upstairs.”

V nodded, watching as Jackie headed toward the elevator. Once Jackie was out of sight, V turned back to the bar. He strode over, letting the faint buzz of conversation and the clink of glassware wash over him.

Behind the bar was a bartender polishing a glass, a striking figure whose golden skin shimmered. His crisp black shirt and white vest were immaculate, offset by a red bowtie that somehow made him look both approachable and untouchable. His every movement was precise, almost mechanical, but there was something else – an intensity to his gaze that felt out of place. V was certain the bartender had been watching him and Jackie earlier, though he couldn’t say why.

To the side, a middle-aged man in a wrinkled red button-up leaned heavily on the bar, waving his arms with drunken exaggeration. His voice carried over the muted hum of the room, slurred but forceful.

“And when I say heads are gonna fuckin’ roll, I don’t mean it as a turn of phrase.”

The bartender gave a slightly nervous nod to the man while he polished a glass, his golden face a mask of patience. “Had enough, guy – don’tcha think? Makin’ the other customers uncomfortable.”

The guy in the red button up didn’t seem to understand the hint and he kept drunkenly talking. “Good! ‘Cause this affects them, too! It’ll slap everyone in the face!”

V slid onto a stool at the bar, the polished surface cool beneath his forearms. He leaned slightly to one side, keeping the drunk guest in his peripheral vision. He was nursing a glass of something amber, mumbling half-coherent theories that barely disguised his desperation to be taken seriously.

“What’s gonna slap everyone?” asked V.

The guest let out a hiccup-laden laugh. “You wanna know what a bearer of bad news looks like?” he slurred, tapping his temple theatrically. “What’s four hundred yards long, weighs a hundred thousand tons, and is nuclear powered? The answer’s docked in the bay. Hanako Arasaka decided…hiccup…decided to take a little vacation.”

V straightened slightly, his jaw tightening. He cast a quick look around the bar. Patrons chatted among themselves, oblivious, but loose lips had a way of drawing the wrong kind of attention.

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“Keep it down,” V said sharply, his voice low but firm. “That’s the Emperor’s daughter you’re mouthing off about. Spongin’ up booze in a bar and mouthin’ off for everyone to hear – think that’s a good idea? Keep it up. Sure it’ll work out great for ya.”

The guest blinked at him, then gave a slow nod, as if the fog of intoxication briefly cleared. “Shit…you could be right.”

V leaned closer, lowering his voice further. “Walk away. Do it while you still can.”

The man swayed on his feet for a moment before muttering, “Know what? Gonna go and do just that!” He downed the last of his drink, slapped the glass on the bar, and stumbled away. The bartender smirked a little as the man walk away before he turned to V.

“Evenin’,” V said, turning to fully face the bartender.

The bartender, with his gold-toned skin and spotless white vest, offered a genuine smile. “Evenin’. What can I get ya, kiddo?”

V raised an eyebrow. He’d been pulling at what was left of his corpo personality all day to talk Jackie and him past the security guards and the hostess at the front, and he easily slipped back into it with the bartender. “Kiddo? How ‘bout your name first? Wanna make sure your supervisor hears about this.”

Instead of blanching like the desk clerk had, the bartender tilted his head and set down the glass he’d been polishing on the counter. “Whatever made you think I work here?”

V gave him a flat look. “Hmm…you’re standin’ in front of me?”

The bartender smirked, his gold face catching the low light. “Hmm…you got any idea who owns Konpeki Plaza?”

“No,” V said, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“Strangest thing – nobody knows,” the bartender replied smoothly. “S’like they’re a ghost. But whoever it is, they like to keep things bright, shinin’ and sparklin’. Maybe, just maybe, they’re so concerned about the quality of service, they sometimes moonlight as the bartender.”

V studied him, his gut twisting with a faint unease. “Uh-huh. And why would they do that?”

The bartender shrugged, his expression amused. “Dunno…to keep a proprietor’s eyes on things? Maybe rake in some tips.”

“Cool story, choom,” V said, his voice dry. “Too bad it’s made up.”

The bartender leaned in slightly, his gold-plated face unreadable, as if every expression had just been polished away. “Everyone’s making something up. Just like you, kiddo.”

And that’s when V felt it – an old sensation he hadn’t felt in a long time, one that had kept him alive during his days in Arasaka counterintelligence. A subtle yet undeniable alarm echoed in his mind, a quiet, instinctual nudge that the old-timers used to call the ‘bailout button.’ Every good operative had it. It was that deep, primal sense that told you when you’d stumbled too close to something you weren’t meant to see. Even working counterintelligence, there were some truths you weren’t meant to suss out, truths buried so deep that simply asking the wrong question could put a target on your back.

And at that moment, staring into the golden face of the bartender, V’s bailout button was blaring like a fire alarm.

The bartender wasn’t like the others in Konpeki Plaza. Not the rent-a-cop with a puffed-up sense of authority, easily disarmed with a corporate tone, nor the hostess who hid her indifference behind polished manners and a paycheck’s worth of loyalty. No, he was different. His professionalism was…calculated. It was a mask, as though his real face and intentions were buried beneath layers of gold and practiced smirks.

It made V’s skin prickle, his nerves scream that he’d just walked into the orbit of someone playing an entirely different game.

V’s gut twisted. It wasn’t just the cryptic comments or the almost playful arrogance – though those were bad enough. It was the creeping, gnawing suspicion that said: this guy knows. Maybe not everything, but enough. Maybe about the bio-chip, maybe about the heist, maybe even about V and Jackie.

V’s thoughts spun in a dozen different directions all at once. Was this some kind of warning? A message that Arasaka had clocked them? Were Jackie and him already compromised? He fought the urge to glance over his shoulder, to scour the room for hidden cameras or ‘Saka ninjas trying to blend into the lavish surroundings.

The bartender shifted slightly, his smirk disappearing entirely. “Can I getcha somethin’? At the least…water?”

His tone was calm, almost mocking in its ease, and it only made V’s bailout instincts scream louder.

V met the bartender’s gaze for a beat, then gave a slow shake of his head. His face betrayed nothing as he straightened, his internal alarms still ringing. Whatever game this guy was playing, V had no intention of being part of it.

Without another word, V turned and left the bar, his steps steady and deliberate, as if he could outpace the unease curling in his gut. He slipped into the elevator and hit the button for his suite’s floor.

The elevator hummed softly as it climbed to the 42nd floor, its polished steel interior reflecting V’s distant gaze. He forced a steady breath, trying to put the bartender and his cryptic smirk out of his mind. He needed to focus. The heist was all that mattered. The heist and Jackie and the biochip and the plan. Everything else was just noise.

The elevator dinged softly and the doors slid open to reveal the hallway leading to the Lapis Lazuli suite – his temporary base of operations. The level of luxury on the floor made even the lobby seem modest. Warm light bathed the hallway, while avant-garde art pieces dotted the place, each one worth more than V had ever earned in a year with Arasaka.

As he walked towards his suite, his operative instincts kicked in. He scanned for details, counted doors, and mentally mapped the layout of the hotel. Not paranoia – preparation. Then, just ahead, two figures caught his attention, standing near the wall in hushed conversation.

V slowed his pace, keeping his movements casual while his mind switched to high alert. One of them was a man in a tan vest over a blue shirt, his animated gestures mixing with the Russian words spilling from his lips. The other was a woman standing stiffly by his side, her posture radiating controlled violence. Blond, sharp-eyed, dressed in a crisp black skirt and white vest that didn’t quite hide the chrome packed in her body. A bodyguard, no question. She reminded V a little too much of the ‘Saka ninjas he’d had the misfortune of crossing paths with in his past life. She was all chrome and barely concealed psychotic rage wrapped up in a discrete package.

His internal Agent buzzed, the translator chip kicking in to feed him their conversation.

“I think he told the truth. At least as regards Kang Tao,” said the woman.

“Sweetheart…surely you remember the tech, the tests we did on our people,” answered the man. “The New Irkutsk Oblast chemical contamination? They lied. The Bakunin Three explosion? They lied. They always lie.”

The woman seemed taken aback by this. “So, this guy too? The son-of-a-bitch! But that laugh of his – so very authentic!”

V kept his eyes forward, pretending to ignore them as he passed. The translator’s calm voice filled his mind with their exchange, but he didn’t let his gaze linger. He focused instead on the numbers of the suites, counting down to his destination. But even as he moved past them, he couldn’t help noticing the subtle shift in the bodyguard’s stance, the way her eyes flicked toward him for a split second. She was sizing him up, the way all trained killers did when someone entered their orbit.

His instincts told him to keep walking, and he did, the tension in his shoulders easing only once he was out of their immediate view. He reached the door to the Lapis Lazuli suite, entered the access code, and slipped inside. Jackie was already there, the case with the Militech drone in it sitting on the sleek table beside him. He glanced up as V entered and V gave him a nod. Whatever weirdness had just gone down in the hall, it would have to wait.

&&&

Mikhail Akulov

Mikhail stepped into his suite at Konpeki Plaza, the door sliding shut behind him with a soft hiss. His polished synth-leather shoes barely made a sound as he walked. Behind him, Nadezhda followed like a shadow – always close, never intrusive. He didn’t need to glance back to confirm she was there. She was always there, just one step behind, ready to act without hesitation.

And that terrified him.

Her presence had always been intimidating, but lately, there was something different about her – an instability simmering beneath the surface. Mikhail wasn’t an expert, but he knew the signs. The erratic flicker of her eyes, the slight lag before her movements synced with human normalcy. She was losing herself to cyberpsychosis, bit by bit. The chrome they’d rafted onto her, the upgrades meant to make her unstoppable, were eating away at whatever was left of her humanity. But her handlers didn’t care. To them, Nadezhda wasn’t a person. She was a weapon, meant to cut through any obstacle.

Mikhail let out a weary sigh as the door locked with a soft click. He loosened his tie, the tension in his shoulders ebbing slightly as he crossed the room to his favorite spot: the bar tucked neatly into the corner. The suite was absurdly luxurious, every inch of it screaming wealth and status – sleek countertops, plush furnishings, and floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a stunning view of Night City’s neon sprawl.

He poured himself a vodka, its crystalline clarity catching the light as he swirled it in his glass. Leaning against the bar, he let the cold touch of the glass ground him, his gaze drifting to the city beyond. The drink burned just enough to remind him he was alive, which was a small comfort amidst all the uncertainty clawing at his mind.

Night City was a beast like no other. A chaotic, pulsing mess of ambition and desperation. A city where dreams were traded as currency, and power was measured in how many bodies you could step over to reach the top. And yet, it called to him. Mikhail had seen countless cities in his time as a fixer – Moscow, Berlin, Tokyo – but none of them held a candle to Night City. Its unrelenting energy, its lawlessness cloaked in the guise of opportunity…it was intoxicating.

He raised the glass to his lips, savoring the sharp bite of vodka as it slid down his throat. Part of him couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to stay here. To leave the old world behind – the bureaucracy, the endless backroom deals, the rigid hierarchy of the Soviet Union – and carve out a new life for himself amidst all the skyscrapers and vice.

He could do it. He knew he could.

Mikhail wasn’t just another fixer. He was the fixer. The Soviet Union’s best. Maybe even the best in the world. If he decided to stake his claim here, to work the angles and build his empire, Night City would bow to him like all the others. The connections, the wealth, the power – they’d come to him, as they always had.

But that was only a dream. Reality had no room for such indulgences. It was governed by forces far larger than himself; forces that didn’t ask for permission or forgiveness. The Secretary General of the Soviet Union had personally summoned Mikhail for this mission, and he wasn’t foolish enough to refuse. When the most powerful man in the Soviet bloc tells you to pack your bags for Night City, you don’t question. You don’t hesitate. You say yes, bow your head, and count yourself lucky that you weren’t being shipped off to some frozen wasteland in Siberia, condemned to disappear from history.

Mikhail took another sip of his vodka and drifted to the suite’s massive window to stare out at the city stretched out below him. Most people looked at Night City’s skyline and saw the monolithic power of the megacorporations – Arasaka, Militech, Biotechnica – entities that seemed invincible, their influence inescapable. To the average person, these corporations were gods, their reach unlimited and their domain unquestioned.

But Mikhail saw something different. He saw the gaps in the armor, the threads that tied the giants to a greater tapestry. Corporations were powerful, yes, but they weren’t omnipotent. Most people had forgotten the lessons of history, but Mikhail hadn’t. Governments – quiet, insidious, unyielding – still held power that corporations could only dream of.

The Unification War had made that clear enough. Sure, Militech had been the NUSA’s patron, pouring billions of eddies into the war machine and even supplying it its current president, a former Militech CEO. But it wasn’t Militech that had declared war. It wasn’t Militech that had rallied its armies, negotiated the treaties, and decided the future of millions. That was the government’s domain, and governments still wielded machinery that could shape the world on a scale that barely any corporations dared to outright match. Armies, alliances, policies that could sink economies overnight – these were the tools of the state, not the boardroom. And while some corporations flirted with that level of influence, they often still had to tread carefully around the world’s largest governments.

Mikhail knew that fact better than most. His position as the Soviet Union’s top fixer had given him a front-row seat to the quiet wars of power. He was an agent of that machinery, a cog in the system that demanded fealty and rewarded success with survival. Now, the stakes were higher than ever. The Soviet Union and China were locked in a bitter struggle for dominance in Asia, and securing an arms deal with Arasaka had become critical. The winner of that shadow war would wield leverage capable of tilting the balance of global power for decades.

But nothing in this world came without complications.

The Pack. Just the thought of them was enough to sour Mikhail’s mood. When he’d first set foot in Night City, they were nothing more than another gang scrapping for relevance. But in the months that followed, they had evolved into a genuine force to be reckoned with. Their meteoric rise had culminated in seizing control over an entire district and cozying up to Kang Tao, the Chinese megacorp.

That alliance, if it had fully come to fruition, would have spelled disaster for Mikhail’s mission. It would have undercut the Soviet Union’s influence and SovOil’s foothold in the city, jeopardizing the fragile negotiations with Arasaka. The stakes were too high. The Pack had to be dealt with – and swiftly.

The campaign to dismantle them had been far messier and costlier than Mikhail had anticipated. It had drained political capital and piles of eddies to orchestrate their downfall. He’d had to lean heavily on his contacts within the Bratva, leveraging their ties to the Scav gangs that prowled Night City’s underbelly. Crates of weapons, tech, and narcotics had flown into Scav hands, buying temporary loyalty. A fat bounty was placed on The Pack’s leadership, incentivizing every trigger-happy merc and desperate thug to take a shot. But even that hadn’t been enough.

Mikhail had underestimated their leader. On paper, the guy wasn’t impressive – a cocky upstart, young and out of his depth. But he was surrounded by talent, and what he lacked in personal acumen, his crew more than made up for. The Pack had become a formidable machine, and dismantling it required escalation. Mikhail had no choice but to bring in SovOil’s private forces, elite Soviet operatives, and the best solos money could buy.

In the end, they succeeded – barely. The Pack fractured, their leadership dead or scattered, and their influence diminished to a whisper in the shadows. But the cost had been steep, measured in blood and resources. Night City might have forgotten The Pack already, but Mikhail hadn’t.

Mikhail turned to Nadezhda with a sigh, ready to get everything over with. “What’ve you got for me?”

“My handlers report another attack. A SovOil safehouse in Heywood. Same pattern as before – total annihilation.”

Mikhail’s grip tightened around the glass in his hand. “And Ribakov? Have we heard from him yet? He was supposed to put a stop to these attacks.”

Her expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker of hesitation in her voice. “Dead. They found him and his crew all dead in an abandoned apartment.”

Mikhail felt the words land like a punch to his gut. “How?”

“Same as the others,” she continued, her tone cold and clinical. “Early reports say every cybernetic implant in the team was superheated – burned out completely. The bodies were contorted, frozen in rictus. It wasn’t just an attack; it was…something else. Torture, maybe. SovOil’s investigators are baffled – none of their models or known tactics explain what happened.”

A chill prickled Mikhail’s skin. “That doesn’t sound like Kang Tao’s usual M.O. Sabotage, sure. But this?”

Nadezhda nodded, her features hard but shadowed by a hint of unease. “And worse? We have no idea who’s behind it. The merc teams we hired to bolster defenses are being taken out one by one. Kang Tao – or someone else – has found a way to track and neutralize them. Our informants in Kang Tao’s ranks aren’t talking. Three of our best spies went dark just this week.”

Mikhail turned away from her, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. The city’s dazzling skyline seemed to mock him as he slammed back the last of his vodka. “Not a whisper? No intel about what Kang Tao deployed to do this?”

“Nothing,” Nadezhda said. “Whoever or whatever is responsible has left no discernible trail. If it’s Kang Tao, it’s off the books – something experimental. Something dangerous.”

The vodka hit Mikhail’s stomach like fire, fueling his growing frustration. His mind churned through the possibilities, tracing lines of retaliation and escalation. The Pack’s dismantling had been necessary, he reminded himself. Breaking their alliance with Kang Tao had weakened the megacorp’s foothold in Pacifica. It had given SovOil – and by extension, the Soviet Union – a critical edge. But that same act had lit the match for this ruthless backlash.

Kang Tao was hitting back. And their reach was proving disturbingly effective.

Mikhail turned back to Nadezhda, his expression hardening. “What are SovOil’s analysts saying? Any theories? How the hell are they pulling off this…cybernetic annihilation?”

“Only speculation,” Nadezhda admitted. “Some suggest an advanced netrunner unit, possibly using some proprietary Kang Tao tech.”

Mikhail clenched his jaw. The campaign against The Pack had drained his resources, and now the real battle was beginning. He poured himself another measure of vodka, ready to down it, when he caught a flicker of hesitation in Nadezhda’s stance.

“What is it?”

For a fraction of a second, she hesitated. “We’re running out of mercs. Solos don’t want the job. Word’s spreading across Night City that something big is happening. And it’s scaring people.”

“Scaring people?” Mikhail scoffed. “Night City’s brimming with psychos who’d sell their grandmothers for a payday.”

“Not anymore,” Nadezhda replied bluntly. “Not for this. SovOil’s started reaching out to other fixers, trying to fill the gaps. But no one’s talking. They all claim ignorance about what is going on.”

Mikhail’s brow furrowed. “They know something,” he said firmly. “Fixers always know. They don’t survive in this city by being in the dark.”

Nadezhda nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line. “I agree. Some of them might know something, but they are staying quiet. When we press them about who’s killing our mercs, they all say the same thing.”

“What?”

She hesitated, the fainted crease appearing on her brow. “They all shrug their shoulders and say nobody is targeting them, and that they don’t want to get involved.”

“Cowards,” Mikhail spat as he started pacing the room.

Nadezhda’s eyes followed him. “We could push harder. Force someone to talk.”

Before Mikhail could answer, a knock at the door sounded. Both froze, their gazes snapping to each other. Nadezhda moved first, fluid and practiced, her hands instinctively flexing as she prepared to unleash her mantis blades on the interruption.

She cracked the door open, her body poised for action, but what greeted her was far from what she expected: a gold-embossed man in a bartender’s uniform. He held a frosted bottle of vodka, his smile polished and professional.

“Compliments of the management,” he said smoothly, holding up the bottle like an offering of goodwill.

Nadezhda’s sharp eyes narrowed slightly. Something about the timing felt wrong, off-kilter. Still, she stepped back and let him in, her body never fully relaxing. The man entered the suite with the same measured ease as any other hotel staff.

“Leave it,” Mikhail barked, waving a dismissive hand without looking at him. He was already striding toward the bathroom, his frustration boiling over.

Inside, he turned the faucet on full blast, letting the icy water run over his hands before splashing it onto his face. The cold bit at his skin, grounding him, if only for a moment. He gripped the sink and leaned into the mirror. His reflection stared back at him and he gave a weary sigh.

He couldn’t let the frustration consume him. Not here. Not now.

A dull thud from the other room shattered his thoughts. He tensed, water still dripping from his fingers.

“What now?” he muttered, drying his hands and stepping out of the bathroom.

He froze mid-stride and his heart stuttered as he took in the grotesque tableau set out before him.

Nadezhda lay crumpled on the floor, her body contorted in a bizarre arc. Her back was arched so violently that it looked like her spine might snap, and her fingers clawed at the air, their movements spasmodic and unnatural, each finger splayed out as though trying to escape her own hand. Her mouth hung open in a silent scream, and her eyes – once sharp and calculating and impossibly blue – were blackened pits, her optical implants melted beyond recognition.

Mikhail’s stomach churned violently, bile rising in his throat. He stumbled forward, dropping to his knees beside her, his hands hovering uselessly. He didn’t know what to do. Was she alive? Could she even feel this?

Her body convulsed again, every muscle pulling so tight it seemed her skeleton might shatter under the strain. His mind raced, the grim descriptions from SovOil’s reports flashing through his thoughts: every piece of cyberware fried. Overheated in the body. Torture and death dealt by some invisible, brutal force.

Panic clawed at him, but before he could act, movement at the edge of his vision snapped his attention away.

He turned sharply to see the bartender. The man stood unnervingly still, framed by the dim light of the suite. Mikhail’s first thought was confusion; hadn’t the bartender already left?

But as he looked closer, that confusion morphed into dread. The bartender’s face was wrong – eerily blank, devoid of anything resembling human emotion. There was no satisfaction, no malice, no humanity. There was no anger, no fear, no rage. Nothing. Just a hollow neutrality, as if he were nothing more than a puppet on invisible strings.

The bartender tilted his head slightly, an almost curious motion, and then raised his hand. A glint of light caught Mikhail’s eyes just as something shot forward – a thin, glowing wire unfurling like a serpent.

It struck fast, searing hot as it sliced into his neck.

Mikhail’s last thoughts, as the wire dug into his neck, weren’t of SovOil or weapons deals or his dreams of living in Night City. They were of the cold, mechanical thing standing over him and staring down at him with eyes that couldn’t be called human.

&&&

The bartender stood motionless, his gaze fixed on the lifeless forms of Mikhail Akulov and Nadezhda Tiurina. The once-pristine carpet beneath them was stained dark, marred with splashes of blood. Mikhail’s body lay sprawled, head severed cleanly, while Nadezhda’s twisted figure remained locked in its final grotesque contortion. The scene was chaos painted in blood and flesh, yet the bartender’s expression didn’t waver. He tilted his head slightly, studying the pattern of the blood sprayed with detached curiosity. A small bit of hit had marked his vest, a blotch of red marring the fine fabric.

His eyes dropped to the stain as if it were an insult. Slowly, methodically, he began to unbutton the vest. Each movement was deliberate, almost ceremonial. One free of it, he folded it neatly and draped it over the back of a chair. He paused briefly, inspecting his hands for any additional blood splatters, then removed his shirt, revealing smooth, golden skin beneath.

Without sparing another glance at the bodies, he moved to the bathroom.

The luxurious space was untouched by the violence that had overtaken the suite. He turned on the shower, the water bursting forth in a hot, steaming cascade. He stripped off the rest of his clothes and stepped into the stream of water, letting it sluice away any trace of blood. He washed himself thoroughly, a ritual that was precise and unhurried, scrubbing away any trace of the violence that had taken place earlier.

Steam clung to him as he exited the shower, droplets trailing down his frame. He grabbed a hotel towel, drying himself with brisk efficiency before discarding it in a corner bin. He padded back into the main room, steam trailing faintly from his skin. The bodies were still there, of course. He stepped over them without hesitation, as casually as one might navigate around discarded luggage. His destination was Mikhail’s suitcase that sat in the corner. Kneeling, he flipped open the polished synth-leather case, revealing a collection of neatly folded clothing: tailored shirts, pressed trousers, socks arranged with almost military precision. He selected a dark suit, slightly larger than his own frame but serviceable.

He dressed quickly, slipping into the trousers and buttoning the crisp shirt. The fabric was cool against his skin, and though the fit wasn’t perfect, it would do. Finally, he donned the jacket, smoothing out the shoulders with a practiced touch before moving to the room’s standing mirror.

As he adjusted the knot of his tie, his reflection began to ripple and distort, like a surface disturbed by a sudden gust. The golden-skinned bartender, so polished and pristine moments before, seemed to dissolve, his features melting as if erased by an unseen hand. Flesh shifted and reformed, cheekbones sharpened, the nose narrowed into an aquiline arc. His eyes darkened, losing their bland neutrality and adopting a sharp, predatory intensity. In only a few seconds, the transformation was complete. Staring back from the mirror wasn’t the bartender, but the face of Jago Sbernic, a former Scav who had “escaped” from Night City during the blackout.

He adjusted the cuffs of his newly acquired suit and gave his reflection one final glance, ensuring there was no trace of his former guise. Satisfied, he moved to the sleek desk where Mikhail’s laptop waited. The device was secured behind layers of encryption, but those barriers were easily broken. Most everything with NET architecture was these days. Once inside, he sifted through its contents with clinical detachment, scanning emails, files, and notes that painted a vivid picture of Mikhail Akulov’s web of operations.

Subject lines jumped out at him: ‘Update on Arasaka Negotiation,’ ‘SovOil Pacifica Strategy,’ ‘Private Correspondence – Secretary General.’ It was the last one that most drew his attention. He opened it and skimmed its contents. It wasn’t curiosity that drove him, but the necessity of ensuring no detail was overlooked. When satisfied, he inserted his personal link into the laptop and started copying all the files.

Once the files were secure, he navigated to a travel booking site, still using Mikhail’s laptop. A ticket was purchased under one of Mikhail’s aliases for a flight out of Night City, destination: Moscow. That was where the Secretary General was. Payment came from an untraceable financial account, long dormant and utterly clean. The transaction completed without a hitch.

In a matter of hours, when the flight landed in Moscow, his face would change again. Perhaps he’d wear the guise of the sloppy, red-shirted drunk from the bar downstairs. Perhaps another identity entirely. It didn’t matter. His true face wasn’t something he’d worn since…it didn’t matter.

He rose smoothly, straightening his tie in the mirror one last time. His reflection was now that of a man utterly ordinary, unremarkable in every way. No hint of emotion flicked across his face as he considered the chain of events about to unfold. By the time Arasaka realized what had happened in this hotel room, their focus would be elsewhere – consumed by the chaos surrounding Saburo Arasaka’s death and the theft of the bio-chip.

Lingering questions hung in the air, but they weren’t relevant. Was the Voodoo Boys’ network truly broken? Who had orchestrated the relic heist if it was? Would the story unravel the same way it had dozens of times before?

He didn’t care. None of it mattered. By the time anyone pieced together what had occurred, he’d be just another face lost in the crowd of a new city, another ghost fading into obscurity.

Because in the grand machinery of power, who would bother to worry about a nobody?