After Arthur and the others had completely left the scene, Jim finally let out a long sigh of relief and signaled his team to resume the mission.
The senior medical technician walked beside him and said in a serious tone, "Captain Jim, I'll be submitting a detailed report about today's incident to our superiors."
Jim clicked his tongue. "You think I don't know that already?"
"You're not in the right mindset to be on active duty," the technician added.
Jim scoffed. Even without a report, what happened today wouldn't stay buried for long.
"You've got no idea who that guy was," Jim muttered, voice low. "The last time I ran into him, I lost my entire team. Every. Single. One."
"That guy's a cyberpsycho. Even if we had a full squad, we'd be nothing more than cannon fodder."
The senior technician frowned but remained composed. "I understand your point. But customers are customers. That's what the suits upstairs keep drilling into us."
"They pay top eurodollars not just to live, but to make sure we die in their place if it comes down to it."
Jim's eye twitched.
"I get it. Really, I do. But today? I saved lives—ours."
"I believe you," the tech replied, "but that won't matter. Someone has to take the blame. And, Captain Jim, that someone is going to be you."
He gave a slight bow. "Arigato, Captain. I'll never forget your sacrifice."
Jim glared at him.
If you're gonna throw me under the bus, at least don't sound so damn noble doing it.
Without saying more, Jim raised his hand and led the team to the target's floor.
As they stepped into the hallway, the walls bore fresh, red patterns—like they'd been repainted with blood.
Jim holstered his weapon. "Mission log: Client is deceased. No vital signs. Head exploded like a water balloon under a truck."
The technician, Shiro Oda, knelt beside the body and immediately started chest compressions.
Jim narrowed his eyes. "Hey! We're supposed to confirm death, not feel up corpses."
Shiro didn't even blink. "I'm performing CPR. We never give up on patients."
"The patient has no head!"
"Even a sliver of hope is still hope!" Shiro barked back.
Jim rolled his eyes. "Night City is tolerant, sure. But this? This is next-level perversion."
Still, he let the man work. If someone walked in now, at least they'd say the team tried.
---
Outside the hotel, Arthur approached the spot where his car had been parked... and stopped in his tracks.
A Trauma Team AV sat in its place—smoke pouring from the underside, oil leaking across the pavement.
A crushed disc of twisted metal was all that remained of his ride.
Arthur stared. Then sighed.
"...You've got to be kidding me."
He checked his pockets. No rocket launcher.
"Forget it," he muttered. "I'm not in the mood for vehicular revenge today."
"Hey, it's just a car," Saul said, clapping him on the back. "When we get back, I'll get you a new one!"
Arthur glared at him. "That wasn't even my car. I borrowed it from someone in your tribe."
Saul blinked. "Oh..."
They both looked down at the mess, then around the parking lot.
Plenty of cars. None of them theirs.
Arthur was already contemplating which gang he could borrow a car from when a sleek, mid-range vehicle rolled up to the curb.
The passenger window dropped.
Behind the wheel sat a muscle-bound brick of a man, the kind who looked like he drank protein powder mixed with motor oil.
Animal Gang. Easy to spot. It wasn't the muscles—they were everywhere in Night City. It was the aura. Pure testosterone.
"Get in," the man grunted. "Rogue sent me."
Arthur didn't hesitate. He yanked open the door and slid into the front seat. Saul and the survivor followed, piling into the back.
"Emerick! Still rocking the gorilla frame, I see," Arthur said, fastening his seatbelt. "Seriously though, man, ease up on the hormones."
"And tell that old lady boss of yours to stop using me like her personal errand boy."
Emerick said nothing.
He drove in silence, guiding the car out of the hotel parking lot and into the city streets.
Arthur leaned back, relaxed. "So what's this about? Rogue wants to hire someone? What happened, a job fall through and now she needs my golden touch?"
Emerick shrugged. "All I know is there's a job. Something only you can handle."
Arthur nodded. "Classic Rogue. Hasn't changed a bit."
The car merged into traffic, neon lights dancing across the windshield.
Night City was still the same—beautiful, brutal, and completely unforgiving.
But Arthur had survived it again.
And toni
ght?
Tonight, he'd earned his cigarette.
----------------------------------
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