Maine grunted as Sasha injected the shard into his neck socket. “So, in simple terms, this thing tells me when my brain’s about to melt?”


    “Pretty much,” Sasha confirmed, stepping back.


    Maine had already told her he didn’t need it, but ever since that Ripperdoc went missing, she’d been obsessively cautious—double-checking every gig, revising every plan, making sure everything went not just smoothly, but safely. She’d gotten so paranoid that people were starting to call her a doughgirl for it, which, considering how reckless she used to be, was a hell of a shift. It was like she suddenly started doubting everything around her.


    It was so not Sasha.


    “This obsession of yours is getting on my nerves,” Maine finally muttered. Not that he could really blame her.


    Cyberpsychosis cases were spiking, and while the meds Dr. Vomi had given him were working, Sasha still insisted on extra precautions.


    “Safety first,” she shot back.


    “Says the chick who almost got flatlined by corpo drones,” Pilar snarked from across the room, barely looking up from his phone. A second later, he grinned. “Oh, nice loot.”


    “Yeah, fuck you too,” Sasha huffed, puffing out her cheeks in protest. She turned to Dorio and held up another small device—shaped like a cat, for some reason. “Here, this one’s for you. It’ll warn you if Maine’s levels go haywire.”


    Dorio raised an eyebrow, turning the tiny gadget over in her fingers. “And what exactly counts as ‘haywire’?”


    “You’ll know,” Sasha replied, giving Maine a pointed look before stepping back with a grin. “Anyway! I got some gigs lined up, and one of them promised me a sweet ride as payment! Been working on a paint job for a while—can’t wait to test it out.”


    Maine smirked. “Lemme guess. Cat-themed?”


    “No…?”


    Maine snorted. “Yeah, alright. Get outta here, Sasha. Don’t let us hold you back.”


    “Just take care of yourself,” she warned one last time before skipping out, humming a little tune.


    The moment the door shut, Maine exhaled and leaned back. “Finally… She’s been like this ever since that Vomi woman chipped the Sandevistan.”


    “Well, Vomi’s an old choom,” Dorio reminded him. “Remember that day in the van?”


    Yeah. That had been depressing.


    “I just think Sasha values her opinion more than your ego,” Dorio added with a smirk.


    Maine rolled his eyes and pushed himself off the recliner. “Whatever. Now we can talk real biz.” He grabbed a beer from the fridge, popped the cap, and took a swig. “We got a new gig lined up. But we won’t need the whole crew for this one.”


    “So that’s why it’s just us three?” Pilar asked, still glued to his phone. “Oh, missed that one.”


    “I’m here, dumbass.”


    Rebecca punched Pilar’s arm hard enough to make him wince.


    Maine ignored them. “I think this time, you might actually be useful,” he said offhandedly.


    Rebecca blinked. Then her eyes lit up. “Wait—for real?!” She practically bounced out of her seat. “Does this mean I finally get to flatline some gonks?!”


    Maine smirked, but there was something way too smug about it.


    “Yeah, about that… I don’t think you’re gonna like it.”


    Rebecca’s excitement immediately crashed. Her eyes narrowed. “Riiiiight… What’s the catch?”


    Dorio crossed her arms. “This one’s not a simple gig,” she said, keeping things casual—too casual. “Client’s dealing with human trafficking, and the gangsters running it? Real fucking smart.”


    Pilar finally tore his eyes away from his phone. “Okay, but how smart? Smart as in ‘efficient at their job’ or smart as in ‘somehow never leave a single breadcrumb even when they fuck up’?”


    “Both.” Maine leaned back against the wall, expression unreadable. “And to be precise, they’re not just traffickers. They’re chrome scavengers—kidnapping people, ripping out their cyberware, then selling it on the Black Market.”


    “Ain’t that Scav shit?” Rebecca frowned. “Why’s a new gang doing something Scavs already got covered?”


    “Scavs take anyone,” Dorio clarified, pulling out a tablet. “These guys? Very specific targets.” She swiped through several photos. “Check it out.”


    Rebecca lazily flipped through them, unimpressed. “Boring… boring… also boring…” Then she paused. “…Wait. Why are they all suits?”


    “That’s the kicker,” Maine nodded. “They only go after corpos. But that’s not all.”


    Dorio swiped again. “All of them work for Petrochem.” She kept scrolling through more profiles. “HR department, financial analysis, software development… Each one has some level of insight into Petrochem’s operations here in Night City.”


    Rebecca’s expression scrunched up. “Jeez. Ain’t this a bit too big for us? This screams corporate infiltration.”


    Pilar hummed in agreement. “Yeah, I don’t see how this isn’t some corpo feud. For all we know, it’s some other megacorp screwing with Petro’s supply chain.”


    Rebecca crossed her arms, frowning. “And why did you say we don’t need the whole crew for this? This is huge! Feels like you’re setting me up to fail before I even start.”


    Maine didn’t react. He stayed just as calm as ever. “Here’s the thing. The client says Petrochem has never reported a breach in their systems. But think about that for a second.”


    He gestured loosely with his beer bottle. “Petro’s a giant. They make a fortune daily. Their security budget is insane. Yet somehow, these people are getting hit, and nothing’s being done about it?”


    Rebecca scowled. “All I’m hearing are problems, Maine.” She threw up her hands. “Are you seriously giving me a shot—finally—and it’s on some bullshit impossible gig?!”


    “Hard doesn’t mean impossible.” Maine shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world.


    “Maine!” Rebecca practically growled.


    Dorio placed a massive hand on Rebecca’s head, effortlessly keeping her in place. “Hey, quick question—do you like dresses?”


    Rebecca blinked. “…What?”


    “You know, dresses.”


    She gestured aggressively at herself. “Do I look like someone who wears a dress?”


    To be fair, her usual “outfit” consisted of underwear, shoes, and maybe one of Pilar’s oversized jackets if she needed to avoid public indecency charges. Her whole thing was about not covering up.


    “Well,” Dorio ruffled her hair like she was a stubborn kid, “you’re gonna have to wear one.”


    “What?! Why?!”


    Maine, clearly enjoying himself way too much, barely held back a chuckle. “Because you’ve got a special interview with Petrochem, that’s why.”


    Rebecca’s face contorted with sheer disbelief. “I am not wearing a dress, and I am not playing corpo suit!”


    <hr>


    She was, in fact, going to wear a dress and playing corpo suit.


    Standing in an elevator that took forever to reach her floor, Rebecca scowled at her reflection in the shiny metal doors. This plan was stupid. The dumbest gonk-ass plan Maine had ever come up with. But she also couldn’t think of anything better—and she hated that even more.


    It was unfair! Now, she had to sit through an "interview" that had already been pre-rigged to be “flawless.” And of all people, she was the one being interviewed? What a joke.


    Maybe if she survived this, she’d start poisoning Maine’s meds. Just a little. Just enough to make him miserable.


    …Thoughts for later.


    The elevator doors finally slid open. A Petrochem employee was already waiting to escort her to the meeting room.


    The plan itself was simple: Rebecca was posing as a new intern, brought in under the guise of helping Petrochem figure out why they hadn’t been attacked yet. The fabricated reason? Unstable chemicals. If Petrochem had managed to create an artificial fuel source that worked as efficiently as gasoline, then keeping the formula stable was crucial. And with the company practically swimming in eddies, it wasn’t hard to fake an urgent hire.


    Her real role? Bait.


    Once she got "kidnapped," the crew would track the custom signal hidden in her chrome. All thanks to Sasha''s paranoia, since she made one signal for everyone in the crew. That would lead them straight to the operation’s headquarters, allowing them to wipe it out before things got really out of hand.


    A reckless, insane plan.


    Just crazy enough for Rebecca to accept.


    Begrudgingly, but she accepted.


    “Come this way, please,” the employee said, his polished shoes clicking against the pristine corporate floors.


    Rebecca didn’t bother responding. She didn’t need to. The interview was just a formality—a way to officially register her in Petrochem’s system so whoever was targeting the company would have access to her data and mark her as their next target. Of course, the records had to be backdated; if her file was too new, it would be obvious bait.


    Inside the meeting room, the employee sat down, tapped away at a tablet, then slid it across the table to her.


    Rebecca skimmed through it. The instructions outlined the best possible responses for the questions she’d be asked, tailored to match her fake profile. Her grip tightened on the device.


    "They actually think I need a step-by-step script to sound convincing?"


    “Welcome, Mrs. Rebecca—”


    “Just Rebecca,” she interrupted, her voice carrying the same polished corporate tone David had taught her back at the Jacked and Coke.


    The employee gave a curt nod. “Understood. Petrochem is one of the most—if not the most—important corporations in the world. Given that, you understand how vital your role here is, correct?”


    “I’m aware,” she replied, stifling a yawn.


    “Then let’s begin.”


    He tapped his fingers against the table, then launched into the first question.


    Then another.


    And another.


    It was all basic interview fodder—strengths, weaknesses, motivations. Rebecca read directly from the tablet, word for word, but refused to deliver the answers with any enthusiasm. If they wanted the perfect corporate candidate, polished to a shine, she wasn’t giving it to them. Instead, she played along with malicious compliance.


    Unbeknownst to her, that actually made the interview more convincing. Someone valuable enough to be rushed into a last-minute hiring process wouldn''t waste time on bullshit formalities. She was impatient, disengaged—like someone too important for this whole charade.


    “Can we move on? Please?” she finally asked, irritation clear in her voice.


    The employee hesitated. That wasn’t in the script. But he nodded anyway. “As you wish, Mrs. Rebecca.”


    He powered down the tablet and handed her a temporary access pass for her agent. “This will allow you to navigate your assigned sector with minimal restrictions. I’ll take you to your office.”


    Rebecca didn’t bother hiding her scowl. It actually worked in her favor—some of the other Petrochem employees shot her wary glances but quickly looked away when she met their eyes. The sheer discomfort she radiated made this whole thing slightly less annoying.


    “I must stress the importance of discretion,” the employee said suddenly. “The plan will fail if you deviate from your role. We cannot afford any mistakes. Is that clear?”


    “Crystal.”


    “Good.” He stopped in front of a door marked Unstable Chemicals Sector. “You’ll also need to sign an NDA. All research conducted here is strictly confidential until it’s ready for release.”


    Rebecca barely acknowledged him. She was too busy scanning the area, trying to piece together exactly what this division was working on—or at least, what she could decipher from the glimpses she caught.


    The first one was clear enough. It was a chamber labeled “Smart Fog.” According to the description, it contained a nanobot-based drone designed to pacify rioters by making them docile. However, prolonged exposure to it had some disturbing side effects—hallucinations, paranoia, and loss of motor functions. In some cases, people never “woke up” at all, or so the researchers claimed.


    The second one was less straightforward, but Rebecca could piece it together. It involved a bacteria engineered to break down trash and release a specific gas that could be used as fuel. But the chamber was marked “BIOHAZARD,” which suggested that this bacteria didn’t just consume waste. Maybe they’d accidentally created a bioweapon, or perhaps they were trying to weaponize it—Rebecca’s money was on the latter.


    The last one, however, was a total mystery. She couldn’t make sense of it at all.


    Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators!


    The last chamber had no obvious indicators of what was inside. No tags, no warnings—just a reinforced glass window showing a metallic pod with various tubes snaking in and out of it. Unlike the other projects, this one wasn’t running tests. It was just… sitting there.


    Rebecca narrowed her eyes, trying to make sense of it. Whatever was in that pod, someone didn’t want it labeled. That either meant it was too classified for even internal documentation, or no one really understood what they were dealing with yet.


    “Something caught your attention?” the employee asked, noticing her hesitation.


    “Just curious,” she replied, forcing herself to sound uninterested. “Not often you see a research project without a name.”


    The employee gave a tight smile. “Some things are best left unspoken.”


    Rebecca let it go, at least for now. This wasn’t the time to dig deeper—not yet. The plan was still in motion, and she had a kidnapping to schedule.


    “This is your office,” the employee said, gesturing toward a spacious room. A sleek desk sat in the center, complete with a terminal, a panoramic view of the city, and—most importantly—a personal drink cabinet. “Temporarily, of course. Make sure to appear busy so we have records of your activity. We’ll let you know when you can slack off.”


    “Nova,” Rebecca muttered, finally perking up.


    Specifically at the sight of the tequila bottle in the cabinet.


    “Please refrain from using slang inside the facility,” the employee said, his patience already wearing thin. “You need to stay in character. We’ve arranged it so you won’t have to interact with others, but at least act the part.”


    She sighed. “I know how to fake working, corpo. No need to get all bent outta shape.”


    “Whatever you say.” He turned to leave but paused at the door. “Make sure your associates are ready.”


    “Yeah, yeah.”


    As soon as the door shut, Rebecca grabbed the bottle, poured herself a drink, and downed it in one go. She was going to need a little alcohol to deal with today’s absolute bullshit.


    She approached the terminal, scanning the basic work-related files assigned to her sector—then promptly ignored them. Instead, she poked around the corporate applications. To her surprise, one of them was a civilization management game. With nothing better to do, and no intention of actually working, she decided to indulge.


    It was painfully boring. Every decision had consequences. And she hated consequences. Where was the fun in overanalyzing every tiny choice? Where were the explosions? The high-speed cars? The guns? Where the hell were the customizable LMGs?!


    Frustrated, she shut the game down and started searching for videos instead—drunken disasters at parties, people puking their guts out after the supposed best night of their lives. It put a small smirk on her face. Watching people completely wreck themselves just to get a moment of peace…


    A moment of peace.


    That thought made her pause.


    Pilar had always been a gonk, focused on the now instead of the future. She wasn’t much different—but at least she wanted something more than what they had now. When he first said he joined a crew, she’d called bullshit. No one would seriously take Pilar for gigs. But then Maine and Dorio had shown up at their doorstep, proving her wrong. If he could get in, why couldn’t she?


    And that was the problem. She couldn’t, no matter how hard she tried.


    Pilar got his cut of the deals. She got… nothing. Just a tagalong. A background character. The crew’s annoying little midget. A joke.


    That wasn’t a way to live.


    But what could she do? No matter how much energy, enthusiasm—overenthusiasm—she threw into things, it always seemed to rub people the wrong way. She wasn’t really wanted; she was tolerated. And now, this gig? Maybe it was just the first time Maine actually found a use for her. Because when it came down to it, she had never even been in a proper gunfight before.


    How was she supposed to take that? Too many layers. Too many angles.


    And thinking was hard.


    So she sighed, pulled up the task list on the terminal, and got to work.


    <hr>


    The employees did what they always did whenever a new supervisor, inspector, or any other high-ranking outsider showed up—gossip.


    “So, what do you think about the new supervisor?” one of them asked, barely looking up from his work but sparing a glance toward the office in question.


    “The midget? She looks pissed off all the time, from what I’ve seen,” another responded while handling a set of vials for analysis.


    “All fifteen seconds you saw her,” someone else snorted. “But yeah, I get what you mean. Corporate Plaza doesn’t hire incompetents, but their obsession with protocol slows everything down.”


    “Such as?”


    “Well, imagine if we got hired to do the exact same work at another corp,” he explained, gesturing toward the lab. “Instead of letting us get straight to it, they’d make us go through the same stupid onboarding steps we did when we first started.”


    “Yeah… that would suck,” the first guy admitted. Then, after a pause, “Still, there’s something off about her. I don’t know what, but I feel it.”


    “Every corpo has something off about them, for Christ’s sake,” another employee scoffed, scribbling notes on a chemical mixture.


    “Speaking of, how’s the test going?”


    “Stable enough. Could be pumped, but it’s not viable as fuel yet,” he replied, pressing a button. A prototype engine hummed to life, burning a strange liquid fuel inside.


    “I remember when CHOOH2 first launched. It was kinda like this, but less… watery,” he mused, watching the engine. “This formula needs what—twenty percent fewer resources to produce?”


    “Thirty,” the other corrected, flashing a datapad. “We just need to make sure it combusts properly and works with enough engines to finalize the project.”


    In the corner, someone else was listening. He wasn''t interested in the fuel discussion—only the first half of the conversation.


    Hiring someone last minute wasn’t unusual. But from what he''d gathered, it was weird for someone that important to be missing from company records.


    He left the lab, nodding to a few coworkers as they passed, turning down several corridors until he reached a door labeled Technical Area. Making sure he was alone, he stepped inside, went straight to a terminal, and jacked in.


    He bypassed the security protocols easily—but they didn’t breach anything.


    “Rebecca.”


    He muttered her name under their breath, scanning through the data. She had been hired at the last minute.


    But negotiations had been going on for a while.


    Her profile was hilarious.


    It read like something out of a badly written novel, like someone had tried way too hard to make her sound impressive. Half the projects listed didn’t even exist—at least, not in any sector he ever heard of. One entry claimed she had worked on a potential neural implant to combat brain cancer. A noble idea, sure, considering it was still a major problem.


    But she was hired as a Chemical Manager, not a medical miracle worker.


    Sure, both fields involved science, but that didn’t mean they dealt with the same shit.


    Still, Rebecca’s attitude was what really stood out. Her credentials said one thing, but her behavior said another. She was either someone who played the PR game well in public while treating everyone beneath her like dirt, or she was just a pretty face used to reel in sponsors.


    But why the hell would Petrochem need someone like that? They already controlled one of the most profitable industries in history. No clue. Then again, corporations rarely made sense—sometimes on purpose.


    He pulled out a phone and dialed a number.


    “It’s me.”


    “Good.” A distorted voice responded. “What do you have?”


    “Someone new just arrived—one of the few places we haven’t mapped yet,” they said, glancing down the corridor to make sure no one was around. “Unstable Chemicals sector. Could help us figure out where to hit them hardest.”


    “Is it safe to act?”


    “Right now? No. The target, Rebecca, just got here. I’ll send you the data, but we need to wait a little.” They tapped at the terminal, downloading the file onto a shard.


    “Excellent.” A pause. Then the voice hummed approvingly. “Keep working. We still need another sector scouted.”


    “Wait—what about my—”


    “Your family will be released when you’ve held up your end of the deal.” The voice cut in, sharp and irritated. “Act natural. And don’t fuck this up.”


    The call ended abruptly, leaving him alone with his thoughts.


    “Ugh… fuck me.”


    No time to waste.


    He returned to his post at the lab entrance, standing watch as the tests dragged on. Guard duty was one of those jobs people either took for granted or overhyped. It was always one of two things—something happens, or nothing happens. Usually, it was the latter. But the second you started to relax, maybe even doze off, that’s when the alarms blared, a shootout erupted, or some idiot caused an accident that shattered the peace.


    Still, the job had its perks—some of which could be exploited.


    In his case, he had access to employee profiles. Standard security procedure. He had to verify that anyone entering was actually supposed to be there. Beyond that, though? It wasn’t exactly useful to him.


    For other people, though…


    “Hey, you.”


    A voice snapped him back to reality.


    He glanced around, looking for whoever called him, but saw no one. He scratched his head in confusion—


    “You gonk—I mean, you idiot.”


    This time, the voice was sharper, more annoyed.


    He looked down.


    Rebecca stood there, glaring up at him.


    “Uh… yes, ma’am?”


    “Inform the researchers I want a report on every project. I need to evaluate progress and set priorities.” She didn’t bother repeating herself, already turning toward her office.


    The door shut behind her.


    The guard muttered under his breath.


    “Corporate bitch…”


    <hr>


    One Week Later


    Alright, she had to admit—ordering people around was incredibly gratifying. Barking orders and watching people scramble to do their jobs? Nova.


    Too bad it wouldn’t last.


    Rebecca was only putting in enough effort to seem competent. The longer no one made a move, the more boring—and stressful—things got. She wasn’t exactly a great actor, and patience? Not her strong suit. Every agonizingly long day of this week was wearing her thin.


    Case in point—


    “Am I speaking fucking Greek?! Or Japanese?! Why the hell would you put those chemicals anywhere near the project?! Do you want to blow up the entire sector, you braindead fuck?!”


    One of the lab techs had just placed white phosphorus dangerously close to a cluster of unstable compounds. Rebecca might not have been an expert on chemicals, but she did know explosives.


    And white phosphorus? That was not something you handled lightly.


    “I-I’m sorry, ma’am, we just thought—”


    “You thought?! You thought mixing those would do what? Build a fucking thermobaric?! You have a brain—use it!”


    Oh, the irony.


    She took a breath. “I don’t even have to explain what would’ve happened if I didn’t catch this in time, do I?”


    The employee swallowed hard. “It won’t happen again. I’ll make sure of it.” He gave a stiff bow.


    Corporate etiquette. Even the employees had to debase themselves with it. It made her skin crawl.


    She scowled. “Yeah, no. You are cordially invited to fuck off.”


    With a snap of her fingers, two guards arrived.


    The guards wasted no time. One grabbed the employee by the arm while the other stepped behind him, ready to escort him out.


    “Wait! Please, I—”


    Rebecca held up a hand, silencing him with a glare. “No excuses. No second chances. I’m not risking a fireball because you forgot how to read labels.”


    The guy paled. He knew arguing wouldn’t help—not in a place like this. The guards dragged him away without another word, his footsteps fading down the hall.


    She exhaled through her nose. “Fucking finally.”


    The remaining researchers stood frozen, eyes darting between her and the door.


    Rebecca leaned against the nearest counter, arms crossed. “Anyone else wanna experiment with workplace safety?”


    No one spoke.


    “Thought so.”


    She pushed off the counter and strode back toward her office. If nothing else, that outburst had been cathartic. Maybe this corpo gig wasn’t all bad—just mostly.


    Her agent buzzed for a while before she finally answered.


    “Yeah?”


    “Sup, sis.” Pilar’s voice came through. “Maine thinks the gangsters are making a move, so do your best to look, uh… kidnapable.”


    “That’s not even a word, you gonk.”


    “Eh, whatever,” he chuckled. “Just be careful. Make sure you’re not completely defenseless.”


    “I know, I know,” Rebecca sighed. “But how safe can I be when I’m in this position?”


    It was a shit deal. The role was crucial for the gig, but it also meant this was all she was good for—bait. An insult disguised as a job. The only reason she agreed was because it might be her one shot at proving herself. That, and Pilar had talked her into it. Not that it made it any less bullshit.


    Never mind the absurdity of one sibling convincing the other to purposely put themselves in danger.


    “Relax,” Pilar said. “If they wanted to flatline you, they’d have done it already.”


    “Preem,” she muttered, deadpan. “The sooner I’m out of here, the better.”


    “Oh? Thought you were enjoying being a corpo.”


    “Fuck. You.”


    A knock on the door made her end the call. She tapped the control panel to open it—nothing happened.


    At first.


    The door finally slid open, revealing a man standing there.


    “Mrs. Rebecca?” He stepped inside. “There’s some business that needs your attention.”


    She frowned. Great. Probably something about the gig. That always seemed to happen right after a call ended, but this wasn’t a damn movie.


    With a sigh, she stood up, her heels clicking against the floor. She hated those heels. “Yeah? What is it?”


    “HR wants to see you,” he said, bowing slightly. “It’s about the incident earlier.”


    “The idiot with the white phosphorus?”


    She grimaced. Right. She didn’t actually have the authority to fire someone. She wasn’t really an employee, which meant this could complicate the gig.


    Consequences. Always ruining the fun.


    “Fine, I’ll go see them.” She moved past him—


    SPARK.


    Pain. Every cybernetic in her body fried in an instant, the surge seizing up her muscles and sending a brutal jolt straight to her organs. She barely had a second to process what was happening before her vision went black.


    “Target secured,” the man muttered into his radio. A brief response crackled back in confirmation.


    The lights across the entire office floor cut out. The sudden darkness gave him all the cover he needed. He hoisted Rebecca over his shoulder and slipped away unnoticed.


    <hr>


    “Oof, she’s not gonna like that when she wakes up,” Pilar muttered, watching her vitals drop into unconsciousness. “But hey, tracker’s still working. Sasha’s a fucking genius.”


    Falco snorted from the driver’s seat. “Doubt anyone enjoys getting Short Circuited. Nasty quick hack.”


    “Stay focused,” Dorio warned. “We need to be ready when we reach the location. Last thing we need is for this to go south.”


    “Believe me,” Maine rumbled, checking his weapons, “the last thing I want is for her to get flatlined.”


    “Yeah, well, it’s my sister’s safety we’re talking about,” Pilar muttered, a rare seriousness in his tone.


    “Oh, now you care about her safety?” Dorio scoffed, shaking her head. “Like that was ever a consideration before.”


    “Hey, I know damn well why we don’t bring her along,” Pilar shot back. “But she keeps thinking we’re derezzing her, and we didn’t exactly have a long list of people willing to pull this off.” He sighed, rubbing his temple. “I mean, Lucy could’ve joined in, but—”


    “We agreed to keep her out of corpo gigs,” Maine cut in, his tone sharp. “If you’re really worried about Rebecca, quit talking and load your iron.”


    Pilar opened his mouth to argue but stopped himself. Maine rarely took that tone unless someone was in real danger. It was the same back when Sasha nearly got flatlined during the Securicine Case—he’d taken charge, given orders, done whatever it took to keep her safe.


    So instead of arguing, Pilar grabbed his Carnage shotgun and started loading shells.


    “What’s the locator say?” Falco asked, keeping his eyes on the road but not the GPS itself.


    Dorio checked the tracker. “They’re using a different route than we expected. Trying to blend in as regular civilians.”


    “No, that’s not it,” Maine muttered, leaning over to get a look at the map. “There’s an abandoned tunnel that was supposed to be repaired, but the corpo handling it went bankrupt. Another front took over, but they never actually did anything with it. Maybe a netrunner put it under someone’s name without them knowing. Point is, that tunnel leads straight to Pacifica.”


    “Pacifica?” Pilar’s brow furrowed. “Voodoo Boys turf? Why the hell are they heading there?”


    “Besides the black market?” Maine adjusted his sunglasses. “Pacifica’s one of the only places where you can get out of the country by sea without drawing too much attention. Netrunners come in huge numbers from there, so if the theory about these gangsters stealing Petrochem data is right, they’re gonna try to squeeze Rebecca for whatever she knows.”


    Falco exhaled through his nose. “And since she never actually worked for Petro…” He didn’t bother finishing the sentence.


    The implications were enough.


    “Alright, then,” Pilar said, cocking the shotgun. “We make damn sure they don’t get anything.”


    <hr>


    David Martinez


    “So, this is Pacifica?”


    I had expected the place to be a constant warzone—soon-to-be cyberpsychos running rampant, people klepping iron just to make sure they didn’t get flatlined—but to my surprise, it was… calm. Well, as calm as Pacifica could be. Task Force Neuron had set up on a small rooftop, waiting for the vehicle we needed to hit. When Seven called us in, I figured it was about Nina Kraviz and the whole eddies situation, but apparently, that was still on hold.


    “Not what you were expecting, huh?” Seven smirked. “Savages tend to be more polite than civilized people—mostly ‘cause they don’t know if the person they’re mouthing off to has a gun and the willingness to use it.”


    “Yeah, yeah, preem philosophy and all, but what exactly are we doing here?” Jessy crossed her arms.


    “That’s what you get for skipping the damn debrief.” Seven shot her a glare.


    Anderson took over, keeping things to the point. “Long story short, the government thinks there’s a group using chrome smuggling as a front for something bigger.”


    Jessy frowned. “A front? Who the hell klepps chrome as a front?”


    I sighed, already piecing it together. “They mainly target Petrochem supervisors, right? So the theory is, they’re actually after data—corporate intel, classified projects, whatever they can sell. The chrome business keeps their threat level low. No one panics over some chrome smugglers, but corporate spies? That’s a whole different beast.”


    “This client’s reached out to a lot of people, too. We weren’t even their first choice,” Seven added, peering down at the streets below. “And let’s be real—when a corp as big as Petrochem asks for help, the government doesn’t say no.”


    “Huh. Smart move.” Jessy nodded. “That means they aren’t just some low-tier gang. They pose as one, but if they’re pulling this off without leaving a trace, they have to be trained.”


    “Not exactly ‘without a trace,’ but… close enough.” I muttered.


    Because there was a way to track them. Something stupid. Something almost too simple—something people ignored in a world drowning in high-tech surveillance.


    But it was there. And it was enough.


    Anderson gave me a side glance, catching on to my tone. "You thinking what I''m thinking?"


    "Depends," I said, still watching the streets. "How are they moving their chrome?"


    Seven pulled up a holo-display, showing routes crisscrossing the city. "Smugglers don’t usually keep a clean trail, but these guys? They’ve been careful. The shipments always change routes, the drivers never use the same vehicle twice, and there’s no digital footprint linking them to anything shady."


    "But they''re still using vehicles," I pointed out.


    Jessy frowned. "Yeah, so?"


    I smirked. "Night City’s got automated traffic monitoring, right? Those cameras aren’t just for flashing red-light runners—they log vehicle types, plates, and timestamps. Now, normally, smugglers spoof their plates, but the thing is…"


    Seven grinned, getting it. "…they can''t spoof wear and tear."


    "Bingo," I said, tapping my temple. "Street dust, minor scratches, the way the suspension sinks under different loads—cameras pick up on all that. Even if the system doesn’t flag them, if you track the subtle differences, you can match up a vehicle’s real ID across multiple appearances."


    Anderson let out an impressed whistle. "Damn. That’s some netrunner-level thinking, Martinez."


    Jessy sighed. "Great, so now we just need every traffic feed in the city. That’ll be a real easy hack."


    Seven shook his head. "No need. There''s an old access point near the border to Pacifica—Militech left it behind when they bailed. If we get there before these guys vanish, I can pull what we need."


    I clenched my fists, adrenaline kicking in. "Alright then. Let’s get to work."