《System Override: A Cyberpunk 2077 Corpo SI》 Chapter 1 - A Diploma and a Leash
-Diary Log 3/22/2046- Dear Diary, Reincarnation is such an odd thing. Being an adult in a child''s body is a fever dream, but what is more of a fever dream is the world I now inhabit. Cyberpunk 2077 was a game in my old life, a twisted dystopia, a festering cesspool of corporate decay and technological corruption where hope is nothing more than a hollow, discarded promise, yet this is the reality I get to live with. I''ve been in this world for 3 years, and right now, I¡¯m sitting in the corporate daycare, a sterile room designed with bright digital murals and programmed smiles to keep our little ones pacified. Around me, other kids laugh and play as if nothing ever goes wrong, their eyes filled with the kind of wonder that I can¡¯t quite muster anymore. They¡¯re the children my age who believe in fairy tales and superheroes. Me? I¡¯m stuck pretending, wearing a smile that doesn¡¯t reach the tired depths of my eyes. Today, the caretakers read us a story about heroes triumphing over adversity, a tale meant to inspire and mold us into obedient citizens of this neon nightmare. Every so-called ¡°brave act¡± they described echoed the corporate battles I¡¯ve come to see all too clearly. It¡¯s like the story was tailor-made for this world, where every emotion and act of rebellion is just another line in a profit report. My parents drift in and out of my day like shadows, more concerned with corporate benefits and maintaining appearances than taking care of me. They drop me off here with a quick nod and a promise that the company¡¯s daycare will do all the parenting for them. I¡¯m grateful for the safety and the routine, but it feels like I¡¯m just another asset, a convenient cost to be outsourced when they¡¯re too busy climbing the corporate ladder. But tonight, in this quiet moment before nap time, I¡¯m writing these words as a small act of rebellion. I¡¯m holding on to the hope that one day, I¡¯ll break free from the confines of this dystopia. Until tomorrow, Ellia -Log End-
-Night City 2064- I shut off the data entry and looked at myself in the changing room mirror. ¡®I was so stupid as a child,¡¯ I thought as I tied my thick, dark hair into a ponytail. I allowed the naive dreams of becoming a night city legend, an afterlife merc with a crew, to flow through my head before snapping back to reality. I then sign and pull on my graduation robe, a crisp, oversized garment that feels as sterile as the corridors of this city. The fabric, embroidered with the university¡¯s insignia, seems to mock my inner rebellion. It¡¯s as if the school believes that dressing me in this uniform can erase the scars of disillusionment, that I can somehow be reset with a cap and a gown. I adjust the graduation cap on my head, its weight an ironic echo of the expectations placed upon me. Downstairs in the dorm hall, the muted sounds of celebration mix with the constant hum of neon from outside. I hear the chatter about internships and prospects, a parade of hopeful voices marching into the same predetermined future. As I go through the quiet corridors, I almost wish I could remain invisible, just another face in the crowd. Almost. ¡°Elliaaa!!!!¡± I turn to see Clover waiting by the entrance of the building with her irrepressible grin. ¡°Ellia!¡± she calls out again, her voice a burst of color in the grayscale morning. ¡°You¡¯re finally ready for the big day!¡± There¡¯s a brightness in her eyes that seems to defy the darkness I see everywhere. I allow my face to relax into a smile. Clover and I have been in each other¡¯s lives for as long as I can remember, but not because of some natural, chance friendship. Our connection was carefully constructed, the result of our fathers working in the same corporate sector, moving in the same Biotechnica inner circles. From a young age, we were encouraged, expected really, to get along. Playdates were scheduled with the same precision as investor meetings, our families subtly ensuring that we built the kind of bond that would benefit both sides in the long run. After all, in corpo life, friendship isn¡¯t just about companionship; it¡¯s about alliances, future connections, and mutual leverage. Clover never seemed to question it. She embraced the world we were born into with the same effortless charm that makes her impossible to dislike. Unlike me, she doesn¡¯t see the system as a cage. To her, it¡¯s an opportunity. She¡¯s always been good at this game, at knowing the right things to say, the right people to talk to. She belongs here in a way I never quite have. But despite everything, the artificiality of how we met, the corporate strings tying us together, her warmth has always felt genuine. And in a world where relationships are built on profit margins and carefully managed reputations, maybe that¡¯s the closest thing to real friendship we can have. Clover¡¯s cheerfulness is both infuriating and oddly comforting. I sometimes wonder if her optimism is as manufactured as the digital dreams that fill this city, perhaps a byproduct of being raised in a gilded box courtesy of exec parents at Biotechnica, where every whim is catered to and every problem neatly solved. Meanwhile, my fate appears just as preordained, with my dad holding a decently high position as head of some R&D department. I, too, am staring down the barrel of the same relentless corpo treatment they¡¯ve long accepted. If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement. ¡°Ellia, you look amazing today!¡± she chirps her cheer, a stark contrast to the resignation that has long since settled into my bones. I manage a tired smile that doesn¡¯t quite reach my eyes. ¡°Thanks, Clove. Ready for the ceremony?¡± Clover¡¯s laughter rings out, filled with a hopeful innocence I can¡¯t afford. ¡°Absolutely! Today¡¯s our day to shine, to celebrate new beginnings!¡± She doesn¡¯t seem to sense the endless cycle that awaits us. As we walk toward the shuttle that will take us to the main auditorium, I watch Clover chatter about internships, dreams, and the future with a brightness I once shared in another life. Now, every word she utters only deepens the contrast between her blissful ignorance and my resigned reality. I climb aboard the AV and take a seat by the window. The city outside blurs into neon streaks, a ceaseless reminder of a world where every glimmer of light is just a well-designed facade. I momentarily lean back and close my eyes, not to dream of escape but simply to brace myself for the ritual ahead. Once on stage, I will accept another certificate, another validation of a system that claimed my hope years ago. Clover chattered beside me, her optimism undimmed. I listen with detached politeness, my thoughts adrift in the certainty that this is just another beginning of the same endless cycle. As the shuttle doors slide open and we step into the bright, indifferent light of the auditorium, I let go of any lingering pretense of hope. Freedom was a naive fantasy, and I am well acquainted with the harsh truth of Night City. My thoughts slowed as the AV came to a stop. The auditorium was an immaculate display of corporate influence disguised as tradition. Cold. Pristine. A seamless blend of old-world academia and modern excess. Above us, holographic banners floated with glowing university insignias, rotating alongside curated advertisements for ¡°exciting career opportunities¡± at the city¡¯s biggest megacorporations. The speeches droned on, each word a hollow platitude about ambition and innovation. The dean, an aging man with tired eyes and a voice trained to sound inspiring, spoke about ¡°reshaping the future¡± and ¡°embracing limitless potential.¡± I sat in the sea of graduates, staring up at his polished smile, knowing full well that ¡°potential¡± in Night City was nothing more than a resource to be harvested, refined, and eventually discarded. Clover, of course, drank in every word, clapping at the right moments, nodding along like she wasn¡¯t already pre-approved for some high-paying research position at Biotechnica. She had the luxury of believing in the system. I envied her for it, but only a little. When they finally called my name, I walked onto the stage with a practiced expression, not too serious or indifferent. The camera drones hovered nearby, capturing my face for whatever corporate data collection purposes they deemed necessary. I shook the dean¡¯s hand, accepted the diploma, and turned toward the sea of spectators. Rows of parents and families filled the seats, clapping as their children crossed the stage. Some cheered. Some even cried. I scanned the crowd out of habit with my optics, knowing what I would find. Or rather, what I wouldn¡¯t. My parents were absent, and I had not expected them to be here. The ceremony continued, a blur of names and faces, until, finally, it was over. The graduates erupted into cheers as caps were thrown into the air, a fleeting moment of celebration before reality came crashing down. Clover grabbed my hand, spinning me in excitement. ¡°We did it! You and me! We¡¯re free!¡± I forced a small laugh. ¡°Yeah. Free.¡± As we made our way outside, surrounded by crowds of families and friends taking pictures, my holo buzzed. I already knew who it was before I even looked. I stepped away from the noise and accepted the call. My father¡¯s face appeared, all sharp angles and exhaustion, framed by the sterile glow of an office. He wasn¡¯t at home. He wasn¡¯t at the ceremony. He was at work, as always. ¡°Ellia,¡± he said, not bothering with congratulations. ¡°You¡¯ll be starting at Biotechnica next week. Entry-level cybersecurity. Your mother and I pulled some strings to get you in.¡± A statement. Not a discussion. I exhaled slowly, and he took my silence as a confirmation. ¡°Your mother and I are satisfied with your performance in NCU,¡± My dad continued, ¡°You¡¯ll have a good job. Stable. Benefits. You¡¯ll have a future there.¡± A future. The word felt like a noose. I glanced back at the courtyard, where Clover and her other friends laughed and took pictures with their families. The air smelled like street food from the vendors parked outside the university gates. The city stretched beyond them, neon lights flickering against the dusk sky, promising everything and nothing simultaneously. For a moment, I let my intrusive thoughts run wild. I could refuse. I could walk away, toss my diploma into the nearest gutter, and take my chances in the underbelly, where the city''s discarded lives battled for every scrap of dignity, chaos reigned, and hope was as rare as a clean breath. And yet, as much as I hated the suffocating grip of Night City¡¯s corporate life, a part of me couldn¡¯t help but feel silently relieved that I wasn¡¯t born into that cesspool. People fought daily to survive in the maze of broken dreams and endless struggle. I might be chained to a future I never chose, but at least my beginnings weren¡¯t written in the harsh ink of the underbelly. It wasn¡¯t freedom; it was just a twisted kind of privilege, but it offered a slight advantage in a city that consumed the weak. I swallowed the lump in my throat. ¡°Fine.¡± My father nodded, satisfied. ¡°I¡¯ll send you the details.¡± The call ended. I stood there momentarily, staring at my reflection in the dark glass of a university building. The cap and gown. The hopeful smile I was supposed to wear. The future that had already been decided for me. ¡°Ellia!¡± Clover called, waving me over. ¡°Come on! We¡¯re getting drinks to celebrate!¡± I took one last breath and turned away from my reflection. For tonight, I could pretend. Chapter 2 - Rigged from the Start
-Diary Log 4/10/2051- Dear Diary, Getting into Biotechnica¡¯s Gifted Students Research Program wasn¡¯t a surprise, and it wasn¡¯t something to celebrate. It was just another inevitable step on the neatly paved path for me. The program itself is exclusive and one of the best in the city. It has a less than 3% acceptance rate and is filled with genetically enhanced prodigies, corpo heirs, and the occasional outlier with a unique advantage. That last category is where I fit in. They didn¡¯t pick me because I¡¯m a genius. They picked me because I think like an adult trapped in a child¡¯s body. Because I see patterns in systems before they form, I solve problems I shouldn¡¯t be able to solve. And in a city like Night City, where innovation and exploitation walk hand in hand, that makes me valuable. I told my parents over dinner. It was one of the rare times I saw them in person, no holocalls, no rushed conversations with their assistants relaying their words, just the three of us sitting at the same table. The rudimentary house AI had carefully curated a nutrient-balanced and efficiently prepared meal. I told them I had gotten in. My father barely glanced up from his stock reports, nodding before returning to scrolling. My mother acknowledged it the same way she might acknowledge the weather. "It was expected," she said before sipping her drink. No congratulations. No acknowledgment of effort. No recognition that this was supposed to be a defining moment. I should have expected it. I did expect it. I don¡¯t know why it still stung. Other kids in my program will go home to proud parents, to celebrations, to framed acceptance letters on their walls. Me? I¡¯ll go home to silence, to another checkmark on the long list of accomplishments that don¡¯t matter to the people who should care. It¡¯s fine. This is just how things are. I start next week. A future engineered by Biotechnica, another step toward becoming exactly what they expect me to be. I should feel proud. I tell myself I am. Until tomorrow, Ellia -Log End-
-Night City 2064- I settle into the sterile biomed chair, the faint odor of disinfectant and metal tang filling my lungs. The overhead lights are painfully white, casting sharp shadows across the polished floor. It¡¯s a stark contrast to the neon-soaked chaos of Night City outside, but that¡¯s how Biotechnica likes it: spotless, controlled, and undeniably corporate. A soft click signals the start of the calibration process. My new cyberdeck interface hums against the base of my skull, and I resist the urge to shiver at the cold press of metal. Dr. Alric Veran, the ripperdoc assigned to me, taps a series of commands on a floating holo-panel. He¡¯s all precise motions and dispassionate efficiency, a far cry from the black-market docs you might find in Watson or Westbrook. Every inch of him screams official. Corporate. ¡°You¡¯re receiving premium-grade gear,¡± he says, voice flat. ¡°Biotech ¦² mk4 deck. Your father insisted.¡± Insisted. That¡¯s corpo-speak for commanded, no questions asked. I glance at the reflection on a nearby chrome cabinet. I see a young woman with dark hair pulled tight behind her head, eyes slightly narrowed from the bright lights overhead. No matter how clean they scrub these rooms, I can¡¯t shake the feeling that the filth of corporate politics lingers behind all the glimmering surfaces and the fancy biotech branding. Alric continues, unbothered by my silence. ¡°The Camillo RAM Manager will optimize your processing capacity and resource allocation. Self-ICE is standard for internal security. Wouldn¡¯t want anyone hacking oure latest investment, would we?¡± The corner of my mouth twitches. They¡¯re not even subtle about it. Sometimes, I miss the days in that daycare, when I at least had the illusion of freedom. Now I¡¯m strapped into a chair, letting them implant a state-of-the-art cyberdeck because it suits my father¡¯s interests in Biotechnica. Doesn¡¯t matter if it¡¯s the best hardware in Night City. It¡¯s also the perfect leash; Biotechnica can shut it off anytime. ¡°You¡¯ll feel a mild static as the neural link updates,¡± Alric mutters, flipping another switch. I nod, and an electric tingle floods the back of my skull. Screens fill my vision in a dizzying rush: vitals, system diagnostics, all sorts of data streaming directly into my optics. I focus on a point on the wall, fighting the wave of nausea that threatens to rise. A quick test of the new HUD: I blink, scanning the room in bright overlays. Medical charts, oxygen levels, the slight quiver of Alric¡¯s eyelid. The data flows so smoothly, it¡¯s unsettling. For a moment, I¡¯m tempted to marvel at the sheer power of this tech. But that wonder only lasts a heartbeat. I remember why I¡¯m here, why I¡¯m even allowed these upgrades. My father¡¯s voice echoes in my head: Make use of it. A thinly veiled command. Fail, and I¡¯m nothing more than wasted resources. Succeed, and I tighten the golden leash around my neck. ¡°So far, so good,¡± Alric says, stepping away. ¡°Your father will expect results.¡± His words hang in the sanitized air. I give the smallest nod, eyes trained on the mirrored surfaces reflecting my image back at me. In this shining, flawless room, I¡¯m reminded yet again that in Night City, even the cleanest spaces are still dirty with corporate control. 2 hours later The shuttle ride to Biotechnica HQ ends far too quickly. One moment, I¡¯m watching the neon sprawl of Night City flash by in a dizzy blur through tinted windows. The next, the doors hiss open onto a polished lobby that reeks of cold efficiency. Towering glass walls reflect a sleek future, all curved lines and corporate logos carefully placed to scream innovation without a hint of warmth. I step onto a floor so immaculate I can see my reflection beneath my feet, the hum of state-of-the-art security systems permeating the air. Other fresh-faced recruits file in around me, each wearing the telltale mix of anticipation and nerves. We¡¯re funneled toward a row of high-tech scanning stations: tall, arched frameworks pulsing with dull blue light. As I draw closer, the faint buzz at the base of my skull heightens, my new cyberdeck syncing automatically with the scanners. A Corpo Tech Officer waits on the other side, expression neutral. No greeting, no smile, just a curt nod for each candidate. When it¡¯s my turn, I step forward, and the scanner envelops me in an electric haze. The hum intensifies, data flickering across a holo-display overhead. I catch glimpses of my loadout: Biotech Mk4 Cyberdeck, Camillo RAM Manager, Self-ICE. Everything is top-tier, courtesy of my father¡¯s directives. ¡°Premium-grade. Approved,¡± the officer states, barely glancing up from the readout. Another nod, and I¡¯m waved through, just like that, my fate decided by a color-coded checklist in a corporate database. A few steps further, and the tension eases from my shoulders, though not by much. The corridor ahead leads deeper into Biotechnica¡¯s domain, where everything is bright lights and polished smiles hiding the sharp edges underneath. I move along, hyper-aware of every quiet footstep echoing off the glossy walls. The hush in this place is unsettling, broken only by the occasional beep from a passing employee¡¯s badge or the sterile hiss of automated doors. Despite the pristine setting, I can¡¯t forget the feeling of a leash tugging at my neck. This building might look impressive, but it¡¯s still a cage built to keep it¡¯s employees tethered, scanning everyone''s every move. And despite the swirl of new faces and cutting-edge tech, I already know how this story goes: follow the rules, serve the corporation, be grateful for the shiny toys, and don¡¯t ask questions. Approved. It¡¯s such a neat, hollow word. In Night City, there¡¯s no such thing as unconditional acceptance. There¡¯s always a trade-off, always a price. With each step toward the heart of Biotechnica, I feel the invisible threads tighten around me, weaving me deeper into the corporate tapestry. The hallway stretches on, pristine and endless. A few strides down the hallway, I see a cluster of new hires waiting at another checkpoint. The Corpo Lady overseeing it wears a practiced smirk, the kind that says she¡¯s about to make someone¡¯s life difficult just because she can. I catch sight of a person in the line, fingers drumming restlessly against his forearm as he shifts his weight. He looks out of place among the polished suits. His stance is casual, a slight tilt to his shoulders that screams ¡°I don¡¯t bend easy.¡± While everyone else sports at least a slick jacket or suit, he¡¯s wearing a patchwork vest, a little frayed at the edges. Real street-kid energy, all defiance and raw skill, like he knows he¡¯s walking on corpo turf and refuses to pretend otherwise. When it¡¯s his turn, the Corpo Lady¡¯s sneer deepens. ¡°Name,¡± she says without looking up from her terminal. ¡°Rafe,¡± he replies, chin lifting. ¡°Rafe Santos.¡± She taps a key on the console, her gaze flicking over his cyberware readout. A faint frown creases her forehead before she scoffs. ¡°You realize that relic of a cyberdeck isn¡¯t up to corporate standards, correct?¡± He shoots back a grin. ¡°Relic? This baby¡¯s runnin¡¯ circles ¡®round half the chrome junk you suits churn out.¡± He taps his temple, where the port for his Raven Microcyber Mk1 is embedded beneath his skin. ¡°Been modding it since I was a kid, choom. It¡¯s better than whatever pre-fab crap you¡¯d install in me.¡± ¡°Street mods,¡± she says with a curl of her lip. ¡°Unreliable at best. If you can¡¯t meet Biotechnica¡¯s baseline requirements, we have no reason to let you through.¡± One of the senior examiners steps in before the argument heats further. ¡°Let him test. If his gear fries, then he only proves us right.¡± He waves dismissively. ¡°No skin off our back.¡± I watch Rafe¡¯s jaw tighten, and for a second, I think he¡¯s about to mouth off again. Instead, he forces a tense smile. ¡°Real fair. Bet you¡¯d love seein¡¯ me flatline so you can say ¡®I told you so.¡¯ Typical corpo move, huh?¡± The Corpo Lady¡¯s eyes narrow, but she doesn¡¯t rise to the bait. She just nods curtly, entering a final note on her device. ¡°Next,¡± she says, dismissing him with the flick of a hand. Rafe steps aside, his grin fading. I catch him running a quick systems check on his deck, muttering curses under his breath. Most folks here don¡¯t bother to hide their disdain. They see him as a cocky kid with a rig that doesn¡¯t measure up to corporate shine. But from the look in his eyes, he knows exactly what he¡¯s doing. Sure, it¡¯s not a piece of polished, brand-new chrome, but it¡¯s his. Personalized. It wasn¡¯t handed to him in some sterile Biotechnica lab like mine was. He notices me watching and tips his head in a nod, half-challenge, half-greeting. ¡°You with the fancy deck, yeah? Don¡¯t let ¡®em freeze your soul, corpo girl.¡± I roll my eyes a bit, but there¡¯s no malice in it. ¡°Wouldn¡¯t dream of it.¡± I hold his gaze for a moment, then glance back at my own top-tier implants. This place might have the best gear, but it comes with strings. Rafe, for all his street talk and battered tech, stands on a sharper edge of freedom than I do. It¡¯s twisted. It¡¯s unfair. And it¡¯s all very Night City. By the time I reach the test room, the hum of data streams and flickering holo-displays fill the air with a faint crackle of digital energy. High-end netrunning chairs, arranged in neat rows, gleam under the soft neon glow overhead. Each seat is wired to a node that pulses with corporate precision, a Biotechnica logo flashing insistently on every screen. Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. I settle into one of the chairs, feeling a gentle click as my neural link engages with the system. My optics flare for a split second, the Biotech ¦² Mk4 automatically calibrating to its new environment. The process is so seamless I barely have time to think about the code surging through my mind. Top-tier gear, courtesy of a father who believes in throwing money and influence at everything he wants. Across the room, I spot Rafe fumbling for a moment with the jack at the back of his neck. His outdated framework clearly fights the state-of-the-art system. For a second, the lights on his rig flicker in protest, and I see him grit his teeth as he forces a manual override. While I¡¯m gliding through the system interface like water flowing downhill, Rafe¡¯s deck seems determined to swim upstream. It¡¯s clunky and mismatched, but he¡¯s pushing it, coaxing and wrestling with every line of code until it cooperates. There¡¯s a quiet stubbornness in the way he sets his jaw, a defiance that says he¡¯ll make this work on his own terms. ¡°Alright, listen up,¡± an examiner announces, striding to the front of the room. He taps a few keys on a sleek control panel, and a massive holo-map appears above us, detailing an intricate network of Biotechnica¡¯s servers. ¡°Your task is simple. Defend these servers against a live intrusion. No second chances. You either hold the line or get burned.¡± I can practically taste the tension rising from the candidates. Some glance around nervously, while others radiate confidence like they¡¯ve been waiting for this moment all their lives. I feel my heart rate pick up, but my biomonitor chirps once, then settles me back to a steady rhythm, feeding calming agents directly into my bloodstream. The feeling of having every biological process monitored and adjusted in real-time was oddly comforting, in a creepy sort of way. Rafe¡¯s rig finally syncs, and I catch a triumphant glint in his eye. He notices me looking and flashes a grin that doesn¡¯t hide the strain. ¡°Street tech ain¡¯t givin¡¯ up yet,¡± he mutters to no one in particular. ¡°Commencing simulation,¡± the examiner states, and a wave of digital static washes over my HUD. I feel a surge of adrenaline, though it¡¯s quickly tempered by Biotechnica¡¯s carefully engineered controls. The test begins. In that moment, I can¡¯t help thinking that while my path has been smoothed by corporate backing, Rafe is forging his own, hacking through every obstacle. I wonder which one of us really has the upper hand. Then the system floods my vision with glowing command prompts, and the battle for Biotechnica¡¯s servers begins. The data stream hits me like a cold wave, and suddenly I¡¯m immersed in a shifting digital landscape that looks nothing like the pristine room around me. Arrays of glowing code lines arc across a black void, each line pulsing like veins feeding life into the virtual environment. This is Biotechnica¡¯s server framework, meticulously engineered to be resilient against the city¡¯s most notorious netrunners. My HUD flickers with fresh alerts, bringing up icons labeled ICE, daemons, and watcher programs that wander the network like guard dogs. Standard ICE is the first layer, flickering in my peripheral vision. It¡¯s the basic firewall: scanning packets, checking credentials, and auto-booting anything that doesn¡¯t match the authorized signature. Most netrunners would brute force or slip past with a well-coded bypass, but we¡¯re on defense, so I focus on reinforcing access permissions and flagging suspicious data clusters. If anything tries to force its way in, the ICE will swarm it, creating glitches and error loops that slow the attack. The real threat is the black ICE that lurks deeper in the system, waiting for a confirmed hostile intruder. A few pulses of code from my end, and I can see each black ICE instance ping on my overlay like sharks cruising the depths. They¡¯re lethal constructs designed to do more than kick you from the net. Black ICE can fry a runner¡¯s synapses, sometimes leaving them braindead in the real world. Biotechnica spares no expense, so these are top-of-the-line Reapers, coded to hijack the neural link of anyone they detect. They loiter in the gloom between server clusters, ready to pounce the moment an unauthorized presence slips by the weaker defenses. Just as I finish scanning, the intrusion begins. A snaking line of corrupted code worms its way along the edges of my vision, trying to stay below the threshold of detection. I throw up a quick barrier, a system-level override designed to flush out suspicious packets, and watch the corrupted data surge with renewed purpose. That means there¡¯s a daemon behind it, a specialized AI script that adapts to your defenses in real time. Sure enough, a new icon appears on my HUD: a shifting, snarling construct that changes shape each time I try to lock onto it. I tap into the Camillo RAM Manager, offloading some of the defensive subroutines to keep them running smoothly. My deck hums, pumping data at dizzying speeds. Over on the side, I catch glimpses of Rafe¡¯s feed. He¡¯s wrestling with a hound-class daemon that¡¯s gnawing at his thread lines. The old Raven Microcyber Mk1 struggles to keep pace, but Rafe¡¯s skill shows through. He tosses out a series of well-timed quickhacks, each one manually typed rather than pre-coded. It¡¯s messy, it¡¯s loud, and it¡¯s definitely not corpo-approved protocol, but it works. Little by little, he¡¯s driving the daemon back. Meanwhile, I feel the weight of Biotechnica¡¯s resources behind me. My Self-ICE automatically generates pulse scripts that knock out lesser infiltration attempts. The black ICE constructs circle like sharks, waiting for the right moment to strike. For a heartbeat, I wonder how it must feel for Rafe to battle with raw grit while I have a full deck of corporate tools at my disposal. Then the corrupted data spikes again, shifting the entire network into a frenzy of color and static. No time to hesitate. I dive deeper, merging with the system to repel the intrusion, a perfect cog in the Biotechnica machine. This might be a test, but it feels real enough to leave scars if I slip up. And in Night City, scars aren¡¯t easily forgotten. I finish my run before anyone else, and the system¡¯s virtual environment dissolves around me. The other candidates are still locked into their netrunning chairs, eyes unfocused as they fend off the last waves of hostile data. The hush of the real world settles over me, punctuated by the faint hiss of ventilators and the electric hum of Biotechnica¡¯s servers. With nothing left to do, I idle, letting my new Biotech Mk4 drift across nearby frequencies with some custom code that I made. Most channels are tight and encrypted, but a single thread, faint and not guarded very well, flutters just at the edge of my awareness. Caution flickers in my mind. If I push too far, they¡¯ll pick up on me. But the curiosity is too strong. I nudge the deck¡¯s intrusion protocols forward. A thin layer of custom stealth ice helps me blend in with the background noise. The connection opens, a rush of static followed by two voices speaking in casual, almost bored tones. They¡¯re examiners. It¡¯s obvious by the clipped, no-nonsense way they speak, the same way they ordered us to sync into the test a few minutes ago. ¡°Eric¡¯s locked in for top,¡± one of them says. ¡°Check the board. His old man¡¯s footin¡¯ half the bill for next quarter¡¯s upgrades.¡± A soft grunt of acknowledgment. ¡°Got it. Anyone else a problem?¡± I hold my breath as one of them rattles off a sequence of keystrokes. I imagine a holo-display popping up, showing names, ranks, affiliations. ¡°We¡¯re good¡­ except for that street kid. Rafe Santos. He¡¯s bumping his numbers up more than expected.¡± ¡°Background?¡± ¡°Zip. Came in on a basic scholarship, no big corp sponsor, no family name to back him. Just some cobbled-together Raven deck.¡± They make a sound that passes for a laugh. ¡°Great. Another self-taught hero. If he threatens Eric¡¯s slot, we¡¯ll adjust the daemons.¡± A moment of silence. I feel a spike of panic when a faint pulse of data sweeps across the channel, like a scanning tendril probing for unauthorized ears. I ease off, reigning in the flow of information, forcing myself to be a ghost in the static. They continue, oblivious. ¡°Not risking another meltdown like last time. Keep an eye on him.¡± ¡°Sure. He¡¯s got zero connections, so it¡¯s no skin off us.¡± Their conversation drops off into mundane chatter, voices too low to make out. I pull out of the feed, blood pounding in my veins. My head spins with the reality of it, how they can so casually decide a person¡¯s fate with a few words and a shrug. Rafe, who¡¯s probably oblivious, will never see it coming. His own skill makes him a threat, and in a place like Biotechnica, that¡¯s reason enough to sabotage him. I blink back into the real world, trying to steady my breath. No alarms blare, no one¡¯s face turns in my direction. The only sign of my eavesdropping is the tightness in my chest and the uneasy weight of my new cyberdeck. Everyone else remains immersed in the simulation, or quietly awaiting the final scores. I don¡¯t know whether to feel relief that I wasn¡¯t caught or frustration that I¡¯m caught in a system that¡¯s rigged from the start. The test will end soon. And I already know the results were decided before anyone jacked in. I pull out of the feed, blinking under the garish light of Biotechnica¡¯s testing room. A few other candidates stir, detaching from their netrunning chairs. Most seem too drained to talk, but a small group of corpo kids, led by Eric, stands near the exit, posture as polished as their top-shelf gear. Rafe unjacks last and he curses under his breath, fiddling with a loose cable. The burn marks on his neck show exactly how rough his run must have been, yet he still looks confident, like he has nothing to prove. As if on cue, the simulation timer beeps overhead, signaling the end of the test. Candidates blink awake, detaching neural jacks and rubbing sore temples. Before long, a hush blankets the room as a holo-screen flickers to life, listing final rankings. My gaze jumps to the top. Eric is there, big bold letters in that corporate gold. My own name hovers close by, thanks to my father¡¯s backing and this high-end deck. I scan further down, searching for Rafe¡¯s placement, certain he must have scored near the upper tier. But his name never appears. A perplexed frown crosses his face, and he rushes to the projected leaderboard, eyes raking over it as if he simply missed it. Yet it is not there. A few passing recruits sneer, all too happy to see ¡°some street kid¡± knocked out. They file toward the exit, already talking about next-stage interviews, scholarships, or parental connections. Rafe lingers by the list, jaw tight. He mutters something under his breath, and for a moment, his fists clench as if he might punch the holo-screen. Then he exhales sharply and pivots away. An examiner in a pristine suit strides to the front, delivering a perfunctory message about ¡°Those who did not qualify can reapply next cycle¡± and ¡°Thank you for your interest in Biotechnica.¡± The words ring hollow, a corporate courtesy masking what everyone in the room knows is a rigged system. Rafe storms out without a word, tension rippling through his shoulders. I stand a few paces away, silent. Part of me wants to speak up, to say this was all a farce, but I can practically hear my father¡¯s voice in my head: Do not poke a sleeping giant, Ellia. Especially not one wearing a Biotechnica badge. When I finally step into the hallway, I spot Eric and a few corporate recruits talking about their next moves. None of them spare a second thought for Rafe. I slip past them, uneasy guilt pooling in my stomach. Night City hums at the edge of the Biotechnica campus, where the neon glow of endless billboards pierces the dusk. I follow the signs toward the metro station, cutting through a web of foot traffic and flickering advertisements. The city never sleeps, never takes a moment to breathe. This is the rhythm of life here: churn people in, spit them out. By the time I reach the station, I see Rafe standing by the entrance, hunched under a cracked streetlamp that flickers in time with the giant ad screens above. He runs a hand over the neural port at his temple, where that battered Raven deck rests unseen beneath the skin. ¡°Still breathing after that corp test, I see,¡± he mutters as I approach. His words roll off his tongue in that street-slick drawl unique to Night City. ¡°Figured they¡¯d have you locked in some VIP lounge, sipping synth-wine with the other rich kids.¡± An odd knot twists in my chest. Part of me knows I should not be talking to him. Another part, maybe the part that remembers a more honest world, compels me forward. ¡°Synthehol isn¡¯t really my style,¡± I say quietly. ¡°Besides, I like the fresh air.¡± He snorts. ¡°Fresh? Right, guess that filter in your corpoware keeps out the stench.¡± He turns, giving me a skeptical look. ¡°You lose a bet, or something?¡± Heat threatens my cheeks. I cannot blame him for doubting me. ¡°No bet,¡± I manage. ¡°Just saw you leave, figured you could use someone to talk to.¡± Rafe¡¯s lips press together. ¡°Serious?¡± I shrug, the weight of my father¡¯s position and this top-tier gear pressing against my every impulse. ¡°Look, I know you got screwed back there. I heard enough to know it wasn¡¯t fair.¡± He tenses at that. I do not go into the details, mentioning how they rigged it would only make him angrier. Instead, I pull up my holo interface, tapping out a quick data share. His optics flicker as he receives my contact. ¡°You are a corpo,¡± he says, his tone guarded. ¡°Why give a damn about me?¡± My breath hitches. I don''thave a good answer, only a fleeting sense that if I do nothing, it makes me complicit. ¡°Because¡­ maybe there is a way we both come out of this better,¡± I say, voice barely audible above the hum of passing traffic. ¡°Maybe you will want to try again, or maybe you will do something else, I do not know. But if you ever need a second set of eyes on something, call me.¡± For a second, he looks like he wants to snap back at me. Then he just nods, slow and wary. ¡°Alright, choom. No promises, though.¡± ¡°That is fair,¡± I reply. ¡°But¡­ it is there if you need it.¡± He exhales, shoving his hands into his pockets. ¡°Probably better off going merc. At least out there, people don''t pretend it is fair. They just pay up front.¡± His eyes linger on me for a moment, flicking over the faint glow of my optics. ¡°Guess I will see you around. Or not.¡± He merges into the station crowd, the neon lights painting his silhouette in shifting colors. A pang of sadness nags at me as I watch him go. Part of me wants to chase him down, shout that he deserves better, but I already sense how fruitless that would be. Night City¡¯s not built for fairness. I turn away and glance at a towering billboard overhead, cycling through ads for the latest cyberware enhancements. The city throbs with possibility and betrayal in equal measure. My father¡¯s influence shields me from the worst of it, but it also binds me to a system that picks winners and losers before the game even starts. I slip my hands into my pockets, stepping aside to avoid a cluster of tourists gawking at the city lights. Maybe someday Rafe and I will cross paths again. If that day comes, I hope I am ready to do more than just offer hollow sympathy. But for tonight, all I have is this small gesture, a whisper of empathy in a world that drowns such kindness without a second thought. Chapter 3 - Scorched Circuits
-Diary Log 8/23/2055- Dear Diary, Today was one of those days that just left me feeling completely used up¡ªliterally and emotionally. I was in a netrunning simulation, trying to push myself further than ever before. I was so focused on mastering the digital maze, that I barely noticed the heat building up in my cyberdeck. Next thing I know, it overheated and I felt this sudden, intense pain shoot through my neural link. It was like my whole world just shut down in a burst of red alerts and searing discomfort. I slumped back in my chair, my head pounding and my heart racing from the shock. And there, just like always, my dad was watching. I could see him in the corridor, his expression as cold and calculating as ever. He didn¡¯t even blink¡ªhe just nodded at the ripperdoc standing nearby, like he was checking off another box on his never-ending list. No ¡°are you okay?¡± or any concern at all. Just a curt nod, as if I were nothing more than a replaceable piece of equipment. The ripperdoc got right to work, and I felt the sting of the implant replacement. It was clinical, quick, and so impersonal that it made my insides twist with anger. In that moment, I couldn¡¯t help but think: he sees me not as his daughter, but as just an asset to be maintained and exploited. My pain, my struggle¡ªit¡¯s all just collateral damage in his grand corporate plan. Even after the new implant was in place and the simulation restarted, I couldn¡¯t shake the bitter feeling in my gut. Every time I jacked back in, I felt like I was proving something to him, to the system, and maybe even to myself. But deep down, I know it¡¯s not about my skills at all; it¡¯s about making sure I keep working like a perfect, obedient tool. I¡¯m only 16, and sometimes it feels like I¡¯m already more machine than human. I wish he¡¯d see me as a person who¡¯s hurting, not just as a number or a resource in his endless pursuit of efficiency and profit. It hurts so much knowing that to him, I¡¯m nothing more than an asset¡ªa tool to be used until I¡¯m worn out. I¡¯m exhausted, both from the simulation and from feeling so empty. I just hope that someday, I can break free from this cycle. For now, I have to keep running, keep proving that I can handle it, even when it feels like I¡¯m losing a part of myself with every test. Until next time, Ellia -Log End-
-Night City 2064- I step into my modest apartment, letting the neon glow of Night City filter through the window in muted hues. The space is sparse, with functional furniture and a few personal trinkets, but it is mine: a small haven away from the relentless pace of the corporate world. I drop my bag by the door and let out a long, quiet sigh as I sink into my favorite, worn armchair. Why do I even keep reading my diary? A soft chime on my comm alerted me to an incoming call. The holo-screen flickered to life, and there was Clover, radiant and perennially upbeat, her expression polished with optimism. "Hey, Ellia!" she chirped. "How''s your evening going?" I managed a small smile, though my eyes betrayed a hint of weariness. "Oh, you know, same old day at the grind. What about you?" Her eyes sparkled as she launched into her update. "I just finished the first phase briefing, and everything is rolling out perfectly! Our execs have put together a flawless plan. It¡¯s all so seamless. Isn¡¯t it amazing how organized everything is?" I tilted my head, curiosity and skepticism mingling in my tone. "Seamless, sure, but sometimes it all feels a bit too scripted. Don¡¯t you ever wonder if we¡¯re just following orders without a say in it?" Clover laughed lightly, dismissing the notion with practiced ease. "Ellia, you always see the dark side first! My parents, being top execs, taught me that structure is what makes progress possible. The first phase isn¡¯t just about ticking boxes; it¡¯s about showing we can excel within the system. They say discipline is the key to success, and honestly, I find comfort in that predictability." I glanced out the window at the shifting neon skyline, my thoughts drifting between the security of routine and the restless whisper of something more. "I get that, but sometimes I can¡¯t help but feel like there¡¯s more to life than just following a script. I wish I could choose my own path, you know?" Her tone softened, though her smile never wavered. "I understand, really. But sometimes, having a clear plan, even if it¡¯s set by someone else, can be a kind of freedom in itself. We know what¡¯s expected, and that clarity lets us focus on doing our best. The first phase is our chance to shine in a system that values excellence. And hey, it might even be fun once you let go of the doubt." I sighed, a gentle mix of resignation and wistfulness. "Maybe you¡¯re right. I suppose there¡¯s a comfort in knowing exactly what to do, even if it means playing by someone else¡¯s rules." "Exactly!" Clover beamed. "Why not enjoy the ride for a bit? Trust in the process. Who knows, maybe tomorrow you¡¯ll see the beauty in all this structure, and maybe even find a little joy in it." For a few moments, the only sound was the distant hum of the city outside, a neon heartbeat reminding me of both possibility and confinement. "Alright," I finally said, my voice soft yet carrying a note of tentative resolve. "I¡¯ll try to see it your way for now. It might be nice not to fight every step." "Perfect!" Clover replied, her smile brightening the holo-screen. "Let¡¯s chat more tomorrow. For tonight, just relax and take it easy, okay?" "Thanks, Clover. Talk soon," I replied, ending the call with a soft click. Alone in the quiet of my apartment, I stared out at the shimmering city. Between the pull of structured routine and the whisper of uncharted possibilities, the night stretched out before me, a delicate balance between security and the unknown, each neon-lit moment hinting at a choice just beyond reach.
The first thing I saw when I woke was the faint glow of my cyberdeck interface hovering just above my vision, a phantom reminder that it was 05:30?AM and that Phase Two: Combat Assessment awaited. I didn¡¯t move immediately. Instead, I stared at the ceiling, my mind slow to catch up with reality. The familiar weight of another day pressed down on me, but this wasn¡¯t just any day. This was the real test. Unlike the corporate theatrics of Phase One, this one demanded something tangible. Something real. I sat up and swung my legs over the side of the bed, rubbing my temples before calling up my quickhack interface. Time to tune. A digital overlay spread out before me, listing my arsenal in sharp, sterile lines of code. I scrolled through the list, checking parameters and adjusting values. PING ¨C A basic utility. Locate the enemy, map the network, and expose vulnerabilities. Not glamorous, but essential. I modified the range, giving myself a wider net to catch every target. CONTAGION ¨C A virus that spreads like wildfire, infecting one robot and forcing it to pass its corruption along. A slow burn, a creeping death. I increased its replication rate, ensuring it would jump from machine to machine even faster. And then there was my newest addition. SUICIDE ¨C The ultimate override. The moment I activated it, the target would turn its weapon on itself, obliterating its own processors, severing its own connections, a complete erasure of will. I had been custom-refining SUICIDE for weeks, testing it in private simulations. There was something raw about it, something that felt too close to what I wasn¡¯t supposed to admit. But I liked it. It wasn¡¯t just about efficiency; it was about control. My fingers moved through the interface, making the final calibrations. By the time I finished, my hands were steady, my mind sharp. I¡¯d known about this quickhack from the game, and it had cost a pretty penny from my allowance to buy the base model, but now it was mine. Two hours later, I found myself standing with the other candidates in a stark, sterile briefing room. The hum of Biotechnica¡¯s systems thrummed beneath our feet, and a single overhead light cast sharp shadows that only amplified the tension in the air. The walls were pristine untouched, as if they were meant to enforce a controlled environment. I leaned against the back wall with my arms crossed, watching as the others filtered in. Some looked eager, their postures stiff with forced confidence. Others tried to hide their nerves, eyes darting toward the observation panels lining the upper room. The watchers were always watching. A sharp click of boots silenced the murmurs as a Biotechnica proctor entered, a middle-aged woman in an immaculate white coat, her expression unreadable. ¡°Phase Two: Combat Assessment,¡± she announced crisply. ¡°This exercise is designed to evaluate tactical adaptability, cybernetic integration, and quickhack proficiency under simulated combat conditions.¡± A few of us straightened up, the ones who had likely spent years perfecting our quickhacks in corporate labs, eager to showcase our talents. I, however, remained still, letting her words settle over me. ¡°There are three key rules,¡± she continued. ¡°One, no physical combat. Your skills will be measured solely on quickhacks. Any attempt at hand-to-hand combat will result in immediate disqualification.¡± I noticed a tall, broad-shouldered man shift uncomfortably. His sculpted biceps betrayed his reliance on brute backup plans, now rendered useless. ¡°Two,¡± she went on, ¡°your performance will be monitored and graded in real time. You will be evaluated on efficiency, control, and execution. Sloppy work is as bad as failure.¡± I fought back a scoff. They didn¡¯t want raw skill; they wanted precision, predictability, and compliance. ¡°And finally, three,¡± her gaze swept over us, cold and unwavering, ¡°you are expected to treat this as a real engagement. Show hesitation, and you will fail. Show incompetence, and you will fail. Your opponents will not hold back, and neither should you.¡± This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. Silence fell. I watched as some candidates tensed, their breathing shifting in subtle ways. Some seemed to see it as a challenge, a chance to prove themselves; others paled at the implications. This wasn¡¯t a simulation where experimentation came without consequence; this was an evaluation, a carefully curated display of who could be molded into something useful. With a press on her holo-display, the proctor triggered a low hiss as a hidden door slid open behind her, revealing the entrance to the testing chamber. ¡°Step inside. Begin when prompted.¡± We hesitated only for a moment before filing into our testing rooms. I was the last to move. I wasn¡¯t nervous. I was ready. Inside the testing room, I stood alone at its center. A massive glass panel separated me from the observers above, Biotechnica executives, corporate proctors, and technical analysts all gathered to watch. Their expressions were blank, their eyes cold. To them, I was just another asset, another candidate proving my viability in a controlled environment. The room was sterile and minimal, featuring only polished floors and reinforced walls. My only company was the row of robots at the far end of the arena: six humanoid combat models, each sleek and deadly, their reinforced frames mimicking synthetic muscle, their optics glowing a steady red. They were programmed to fight, adapt, and withstand whatever I threw at them. I flexed my fingers, feeling the cool metal of my cyberdeck hum against the back of my neck. The rules were clear: no weapons, no physical combat, quickhacks only. That was fine. I didn¡¯t need a gun. Then the overhead speakers crackled to life: "Begin." In an instant, the robots moved as one. I barely twitched as the first two sprinted forward, their mechanical limbs carrying them at inhuman speeds. I didn¡¯t panic. I didn¡¯t hesitate. PING. My optics flared as the battlefield mapped itself in real-time, network threads spreading like a web, each robot glowing in my vision, their connections pulsing with artificial life. I saw everything. The first robot raised its weapon, preparing a simulated round. It never got the chance. CONTAGION. The virus struck instantly, latching onto its system like a parasite. The robot staggered, twitching violently as its coding warped, forcing it to turn its weapon on its closest ally. Simulated rounds sprayed through the second unit, sending it stumbling back as its synthetic body absorbed the hits. I smirked. "More." The virus leaped from one machine to another, spreading like wildfire through their shared network. The third robot twisted unnaturally, its limbs seizing as it tried to resist, but there was no escape. In a heartbeat, the first robot collapsed, its systems fried, its body convulsing on the floor. I didn¡¯t stop. One of the remaining robots lunged at me, its red optics locking onto my position. I could feel its gaze, the cold calculation of its programming, the decision to eliminate me as efficiently as possible. It wasn¡¯t real, but the anger inside me was. My fingers twitched. SUICIDE. The robot jerked mid-stride. For a moment, it almost hesitated. Then, as if controlled by an unseen force, it dropped''s it''s weapon, raised it''s hands to it''s head and twisted it''s head off. I exhaled slowly. My heart pounded, not from exertion but from the thrill of absolute control. The feeling crawled under my skin: they had no will, no choice. They obeyed my commands, not their own. Another robot attempted to reboot, its optics flickering as it tried to purge the virus from its system. I tilted my head. SUICIDE. This machine grabbed its own arm and twisted. The sound of tearing synthetic fibers filled the room as it began ripping itself apart, servos screeching, metal tendons snapping under the force. One by one, it dismantled its own body until nothing remained but a hollow shell of what it once was. A shiver ran down my spine, not from fear but from a dark satisfaction. Then, the final robot attempted to retreat, its corrupted system recognizing me as an existential threat. "More." I reached out with my cyberdeck, my thoughts weaving through the network until my will became absolute. The machine froze. In a single motion, it knelt, its servos locked, head bowed in surrender. I inhaled slowly and stepped forward. The proctors were silent; the observers above didn¡¯t speak or move. The test should have been over, but no one had called it. They were watching. I stared at the machine, a creation designed to fight, to kill. Now, it knelt before me, completely at my mercy. For a moment, I wondered what would happen if I pushed further if I made it beg if I made it suffer. A flicker of something dark passed through my mind, something I didn¡¯t want to name. My pulse thundered in my ears. Then, just as quickly, I severed the connection. The machine collapsed where it knelt, lifeless. The PA system crackled again. "Phase Two complete. Candidate, exit the arena." I straightened, rolling my shoulders as I left without glancing at the observers above; I didn¡¯t need to see their faces to know what they were thinking. I had passed. I had won. But as I stepped out of the testing room, I couldn¡¯t shake the feeling that something inside me had shifted. I¡¯d spent my life trapped, following orders, living in a world where control was an illusion. For the first time, I had tasted what it was like to own something truly. And now, I wasn¡¯t sure I wanted to let that feeling go. After leaving the combat arena, my mind still thrumming with the rush of power and the unsettling aftertaste of control, I found myself drifting into the sterile corridors of Biotechnica HQ. The neon grit of Night City seemed to fade into a wash of corporate white as I stepped into a waiting area, my pulse gradually slowing from its earlier frenzy. I couldn¡¯t shake the lingering edge of that heady feeling, though I knew the next stage was less about raw capability and more about fitting into the carefully curated corporate image. Before I knew it, I was ushered into a modest, overly polished interview room. Everything gleamed with corporate sterility¡ªspotless surfaces and flashy holo-screens cycling through the company¡¯s achievements. Yet, in stark contrast to the pristine surroundings, the man behind the minimalist desk seemed utterly unimpressed. He wore a carefully neutral expression that bordered on boredom, as though this entire meeting was a foregone conclusion. He barely glanced up from his datapad when I entered. ¡°Miss Ellia, right?¡± he said, his tone flat. ¡°Welcome. Have a seat.¡± His stare was vacant, detached, as if I was just another task to check off his schedule. I settled into the chair and offered a polite nod. ¡°Thank you.¡± I attempted a cordial smile, but it was met with little more than an indifferent shrug. His demeanor felt almost dismissive, and I couldn¡¯t help noticing how he typed away on the datapad without actually reading my file. ¡°So,¡± he began, monotone and perfunctory, ¡°I see you did well in the combat assessment. Congratulations.¡± His gaze drifted idly over the glowing interface, as though he was more fascinated by the flickering data than anything I might say. I raised an eyebrow, leaning forward slightly. ¡°Yes, I suppose I did. Is that all you wanted to discuss?¡± He gave a half-hearted nod. ¡°Pretty much. Honestly, this interview is more a formality than anything else,¡± he said, barely concealing the faintest smirk. ¡°You aced the test, your background speaks for itself, and¡­ well, we both know your father¡¯s pull here.¡± He shrugged again, tapping aimlessly at the screen. ¡°It¡¯s rare to see someone with your, uh, connections go through the normal hoops, but protocol¡¯s protocol.¡± The casual mention of my father¡¯s influence was nothing new to me, yet his tone made it sting differently. ¡°You don¡¯t really seem all that interested in my performance,¡± I observed, letting an edge of annoyance seep through my voice. He stopped typing and glanced up for the first time. ¡°Look, Miss Ellia, I¡¯m sure your skills are excellent. But let¡¯s not pretend this is a genuine evaluation, right? You¡¯ll be joining the whatever cybersecurity division your dad wants you to regardless.¡± His eyes flicked back to the datapad as he resumed scrolling. ¡°It¡¯s not that I don¡¯t care about your abilities¡ªI¡¯m sure you¡¯re top-notch¡ªit¡¯s just that my final recommendation here is more or less predetermined.¡± Leaning back, I folded my arms, letting a wry smile tug at my lips. ¡°It¡¯s nice to see corporate honesty for once.¡± He gave a small snort of agreement, eyes still glued to the datapad. ¡°Yeah, well¡­ we do our best.¡± Clicking a few times, he then let the device rest against the desk and slid it away. ¡°Anyway, they want you in the cyberdefense team. Something about your proficiency with advanced quickhacks, and obviously the family name doesn¡¯t hurt.¡± He paused, letting silence sit between us for a moment before continuing. ¡°Any questions?¡± I held his gaze, searching for any genuine expression. There was a jaded weariness there, a corporate cynicism that seemed to say, We all know how this game is played. ¡°Not particularly. I assume I¡¯ll receive the standard orientation and immediate access to the systems?¡± He nodded slowly. ¡°Yep. Paperwork¡¯s already moving. You¡¯ll be set up with advanced clearances. If you¡¯re worried about responsibilities or any¡ª¡± he waved his hand vaguely, ¡°¡ªspecial training, that¡¯s all in the pipeline. You¡¯ll probably bypass the normal probation period, too.¡± He shrugged as if it were the most natural thing in the world. I stood, smoothing out my jacket. ¡°Then I guess that settles it.¡± He rose as well, offering a listless handshake that felt more obligatory than genuine. ¡°Congrats. I¡¯m sure you¡¯ll do fine.¡± His voice echoed the same finality, as though everything was already wrapped up and decided. No tension, no real interest¡ªjust procedure. As I left, the surreal feeling hung around me like a stale perfume. The entire process felt choreographed, a hollow performance that only confirmed what everyone already knew: my future here was sealed before I even walked in. And as I stepped into the corridor, I couldn¡¯t help but wonder if this was the norm in Night City¡¯s corporate halls, where success was often just another checkbox, especially when the right strings were pulled behind the scenes. "Congratulations, Ellia, you passed the tests with flying colors," my father''s measured tone began, cool and inflexible as always. His holographic image materialized in front of me, every pixel exuding authority and the clinical detachment of a man who ruled by corporate decree. "I just left the interview," I replied, my voice steady despite the swirling conflicting emotions inside me. The absurdity of that encounter still echoed in my mind, a corporate farce that left little room for genuine conversation. He inclined his head slightly, his eyes, though distant, seeming to burn with an unsettling mixture of pride and calculation. "Good. That was merely the preliminary rite of passage. Now, listen closely, your real assignment begins." His words carried the weight of a decree, a reminder that every step I took was being monitored, measured, and catalogued by the corporate machine. "I¡¯m assigning you to the cybersec division," he continued without preamble, his tone both cold and commanding. "You will oversee my latest project. There is a traitor within the team, someone whose actions have already begun to compromise our operations. I cannot trust anyone else to root out this betrayal. You, Ellia, are the one person I know I can rely on completely." His voice shifted, a trace of something almost imperceptible in its softness, something akin to paternal concern layered over the ruthless imperatives of corporate survival. "Over the past week, I have monitored every network activity, every anomalous log, and yes, even your extra scans during the tests did not escape my notice. They left data footprints that I have traced, and I believe you have the acumen and the resolve necessary for this mission." The air in the room seemed to thicken as he laid out the grim details. "The traitor has been siphoning critical data, leaking information, altering access codes, even manipulating internal communications to undermine our efforts. I have isolated several discrepancies that point to deliberate sabotage. Your role is to comb through these surveillance logs, monitor real-time alerts, and, if necessary, neutralize any threat with precision. I¡¯m granting you full access to our override systems, priority channels, and direct lines to our security team." A cold laugh escaped him, a laugh devoid of warmth, echoing the pervasive corruption that infested every corner of our corporate overlord¡¯s empire. "This is the reality of Biotechnica, Ellia. It¡¯s not just about advanced technology or innovative breakthroughs. It¡¯s about maintaining absolute control over every facet of our operations. Loyalty is a currency, and trust, real trust, is a rarity. In this organization, every individual is a tool, a disposable asset to be leveraged for profit and power. I expect nothing less than ruthless efficiency from you." He paused, his gaze intensifying as if he were peering directly into my soul through the digital veneer. "Remember, I monitor your every move. I know your strengths, your decisions, and even your missteps. Failure is not an option, disappointment, unacceptable. You must ensure that nothing disrupts our project. The integrity of our systems, and indeed the very future of this corporation, depends on your ability to root out corruption at its core." His image began to waver slightly, the hologram flickering as if burdened by the gravity of its own message. "Ellia, this isn¡¯t just another job, it¡¯s the fulcrum upon which our future balance rests. You are my eyes in this labyrinth of deceit." The connection snapped off abruptly, leaving me alone in the sterile silence of the corridor. The weight of his words pressed down on me, a stark reminder that in Night City, every victory was tainted by the pervasive, insidious influence of the corpo machine. And as I exhaled slowly, I knew that my next steps would be defined not only by my own abilities but also by the relentless, unyielding grasp of a system that cared little for the individual, and everything for profit and power. Chapter 4 - A Ghost in the System
-Diary Log 11/07/2057- Dear diary, I learned something about ghosts today. Not the kind that haunts abandoned buildings or whispers through the cracks of old memories. No, these ghosts live in the Net, in the gaps between data streams, in the spaces where information should be but isn¡¯t. They leave just enough of a trail for you to know they were there but never enough to catch them. Back then, I wasn¡¯t looking for ghosts. I was just a kid playing around where I shouldn¡¯t have been, slicing through encrypted archives on a private server because I wanted to see if I could. It was reckless, stupid, exactly the kind of thing that should have gotten me caught. But I wasn¡¯t alone. Someone else had been there first. I didn¡¯t notice them at first. Not until my access logs started changing on their own. At first, I thought it was a glitch. Then I realized the timestamps were rewriting themselves in real time, erasing my footprints before I could even make them. My pulse spiked. My breath went shallow. I¡¯d spent enough time poking around systems to know what this meant¡ªsomeone was watching me. I was about to jack out when a message blinked onto my screen. "Too slow, kid." Three words. No signature, no traceable sender, just a whisper in the code before the entire archive scrubbed itself clean. The files I had been digging through were gone. The access logs were erased. It was as if I had never been there at all. I spent weeks afterward trying to retrace my steps, scouring old logs, digging through backchannels for any clue as to who it had been. But there was nothing left. Just a blank space where data should have been. That was the first time I realized that in the world of netrunners, the real pros don¡¯t just hide. They rewrite reality as they move through it. And if you see them at all, it¡¯s only because they wanted you to. I hope one day, I will become that good. Until next time, Ellia
-Night City 2064- I arrived under the shroud of a rain-drenched evening, the slick pavement reflecting the neon glare of Night City as I made my way into the corporate headquarters. Tonight, I wasn¡¯t just another employee. I was working for my father, and his expectations weighed heavily on every step I took. Outwardly, I had to appear as a na?ve new hire, inexperienced and eager to learn, even though beneath that fa?ade, I was already playing a dangerous double game. The corridors were dimly lit and lined with rain-streaked glass while fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting long, shifting shadows on the cold, polished floors. Every echo of my footsteps reminded me of the isolation inherent in this place: a sleek, modern labyrinth built for efficiency where every move was silently monitored. As I navigated the hallways, my mind churned with conflicted emotions. My father¡¯s directive was clear: blend in with the cybersecurity team and appear untested, all while secretly carrying out two critical missions. On the one hand, I was to integrate with the cybersec team, a close-knit unit of four. There was Toby, the methodical analyst who never misses a detail; Malik, a brilliant technician with a quiet, brooding presence; Samantha, whose enthusiasm masked a deep-seated wariness; and Devon, a resourceful operator known for his uncanny ability to improvise under pressure. They all thought I was just another rookie here to learn the ropes. But that was only half the plan. My true assignment was far more perilous: to infiltrate the research division, an eight-person team led by my father himself, and root out a traitor. So far, I have narrowed the suspects down to four. Darius Chen¡¯s repeated unauthorized access logs were the first red flag. Helena Ruiz¡¯s data anomalies made her an enigma, always a few steps out of sync. Liam Foster¡¯s secretive off-hours activity painted a picture of deliberate evasion, and Marisol Gomez¡¯s irregular communications with external contacts left too many questions unanswered. As I passed through the security checkpoint, a swift, almost mechanical scan of my credentials, I couldn¡¯t help but think how easily I could be mistaken for a simple, inexperienced hire. That was exactly what my father wanted. I adjusted the strap on my backpack, concealing a secure data drive loaded with tools and backups, and steeled myself for what lay ahead. At that moment, as the rain tapped softly against the glass and the hum of the facility filled the silence, I resolved to master my dual role. I was here to blend in, to be the obedient asset they all expected, but underneath it all; I was determined to peel back the layers of corporate deceit and expose the corruption festering within our ranks. With one final deep breath, I stepped forward into the unknown, every sense alert to the subtle dance of loyalty and betrayal. Tonight, beneath the polished veneer of this high-tech fortress, the quiet infiltration had begun. The cybersec office was unlike the rest of Biotechnica¡¯s corporate floors. It did not have sleek glass paneling or neatly curated d¨¦cor, no decorative plants, and no AI assistants waiting to answer pointless questions. It was a functional space, built for work and nothing else. The room smelled faintly of old coffee, heated circuitry, and the ever-present chill of recycled air. The low hum of cooling fans and servers filled the silence, the only real sound besides the constant clicking of keys. Against the back wall, two netrunning rigs pulsed with the soft glow of idle holo-interfaces, their sleek frames almost ominous in the dim lighting. Unlike the terminals at the desks, these were high-end corporate-grade setups, built for deep dives into the Net. Not the kind of gear you¡¯d find in an average security office. I wasn¡¯t sure if that was reassuring or unsettling. As I stepped in, the team barely acknowledged my presence. They weren¡¯t being rude¡ªit was just how people like us operated. When you worked in cybersecurity, you got used to processing multiple layers of information at once. New hires weren¡¯t a threat. Network breaches were. The first to acknowledge me was Toby, the one who had probably built half the system they were running. He had the kind of face that never betrayed emotion¡ªsharp, efficient, measured. His brown hair was cropped short, his clothes were neat but not stylish, and his eyes held the kind of weight that came from too many hours staring at screens, too many threats caught just before they turned into disasters. "You must be Ellia," he said, his tone neutral. Not cold, not welcoming¡ªjust stating a fact. I nodded. "That¡¯s me. First day." He motioned toward a vacant desk, its terminal already booted up and waiting. "Take a seat. We¡¯ll get started." I slid into the chair, placing my hands over the keyboard, letting the weight of the system settle in front of me. The screen flickered to life, unfolding encrypted pathways, firewall diagnostics, live traffic logs streaming across the interface like an endless river of code. The others were still working, but I could feel them watching. Malik sat in the farthest corner, his workstation a sea of shifting data streams. He had dark skin and the posture of someone who didn¡¯t move unless absolutely necessary. His fingers flew across his keyboard in short, calculated bursts, never wasting a motion. He didn¡¯t glance at me, but I had no doubt he had already processed my presence and moved on. Across from him, Samantha was perched on the edge of her chair, arms crossed, her dark curls pulled into a messy but deliberate knot at the base of her neck. She had an expression that was both neutral and assessing, like she was waiting to see whether I was worth paying attention to. And then there was Devon, the youngest-looking of the group, his sharp features softened by an easy grin. He was the only one who actually looked like he enjoyed being here. "New blood, huh?" he said, rolling his chair slightly in my direction. "Hope you like staring at logs for hours." I smirked. "That¡¯s what I signed up for." Devon leaned back, tipping his chair onto two legs. "Good attitude. Most people crack by week two." Toby cut in before Devon could continue. "Alright, focus. We¡¯re starting now." Devon gave me a mock salute and spun his chair back around. Toby wasted no time pulling up a real-time traffic feed, the network¡¯s security architecture laid out in glowing, pulsing grids. "Your first task is simple¡ªthreat monitoring. Look for inconsistencies. Traffic that doesn¡¯t belong. If something seems off, flag it." I nodded, scanning through the interface. "Got it." Samantha glanced over from her own station. "Biggest mistake rookies make? Thinking intrusions look obvious. They don¡¯t. If someone¡¯s inside, they know how to hide." "Don¡¯t chase ghosts," Malik added without looking up. "Unless you¡¯re sure they exist." I let their words settle in as I got to work. The system was clean, polished, precise¡ªone of the best security architectures I¡¯d seen. A fortress. Which meant if someone was getting through, they weren¡¯t brute-forcing their way in. They were already inside. I worked in silence, getting used to the patterns, the normal rhythms of network activity. Every system had a flow, a rhythm. I just had to learn this one. Then, about thirty minutes in, I noticed it. A login request from a high-clearance terminal at an unusual hour. The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. A data packet that didn¡¯t match its encryption signature. A system process that looped back on itself like it had been altered post-access. It wasn¡¯t a red flag¡­yet. But it wasn¡¯t normal. I exhaled, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. "You see something?" Toby¡¯s voice was calm, but there was a trace of expectation in it. I glanced up, keeping my expression neutral. He was testing me. I knew that now. I tilted my head, choosing my words carefully. "It¡¯s small, but some logs don¡¯t match timestamps. The cleanup is too precise. Feels¡­ artificial." For a second, the room was silent. Then Samantha smirked. Devon let out a low whistle. Malik made a quiet sound that might have been approval. Toby nodded once, pulling up a secondary log. With a few keystrokes, he overlaid the flagged anomaly with a second set of data. The moment the two feeds merged, I saw that the system tag labeled the event as an internal test. It hadn¡¯t been real. I blinked. "This was a test?" Samantha stretched, still smirking. "Not bad, rookie." Malik finally spoke, his voice low and even. "Fastest one to spot it so far." Devon groaned, shaking his head. "Well, there goes my bet." I turned to him, raising an eyebrow. "Bet?" Devon grinned. "I said you wouldn¡¯t find it until lunch." I leaned back, processing. They had planted it. A fake breach, deliberately placed in the logs to see how fast I¡¯d pick it up. Toby crossed his arms. "We run drills like this for every new hire. Keeps people sharp. If you¡¯d flagged the wrong thing, I¡¯d know you were guessing." "So¡­ did I pass?" "You didn¡¯t fail," he said simply. But there was a small flicker of approval in his expression. Samantha shot me a glance. "For now." I exhaled slowly and turned back to my screen. They had tested me, and I had passed. But that was just this job. My other job, the one my father had assigned me, was still waiting. Somewhere inside Biotechnica¡¯s research division, someone was leaking information. And unlike the test I had just passed, this breach was real. I tapped a few keys, setting up a secondary tracker, watching for repeat anomalies. If someone was covering their tracks, I¡¯d find them.
With the test behind me, I settled deeper into my chair, letting my fingers hover over the keyboard as the system hummed around me. The others had gone back to their work, the quiet atmosphere of the room resuming its steady rhythm. The netrunning rigs in the back of the office remained idle, their faint glow casting a soft blue tint against the walls. For now. But my work wasn¡¯t done yet. I flicked through the open system pathways, moving beyond my assigned security monitoring to what I had really come here to do¡ªpulling up the research division¡¯s personnel files. My father¡¯s directive was clear: Find the leak. Someone within his team had been siphoning data, slipping information out of the company, careful enough to avoid detection by even the most advanced security measures. If they were getting through Biotechnica¡¯s fortress-like defenses, it meant they weren¡¯t just hacking in from the outside. They were already inside. I keyed into the database, pulling up the employee roster for my father¡¯s division. The eight-person research team appeared on my screen, their personnel files stacked neatly in front of me.
The Research Team Dr. Darius Chen ¨C Senior Researcher Meticulous. Highly respected. The kind of scientist who double-checked everything five times before approving a single test. If he was selling information, he was doing it in a way that no one would ever trace. Helena Ruiz ¨C Biochemical Engineer Smart. Analytical. But her file had data inconsistencies. Her project logs sometimes mismatched with actual timestamps, creating gaps in recorded work hours. That didn¡¯t necessarily mean she was guilty¡ªscientists got sloppy with admin work all the time. But if someone was manipulating records, she¡¯d know how to do it. Liam Foster ¨C Systems Biologist The kind of person who was quiet in meetings but never seemed completely present. His access logs showed a pattern of late-night entries into the lab, always outside regular hours, always after the main systems had gone into automated lockdown mode. Marisol Gomez ¨C Experimental Chemist She had a flagged comms history. Multiple outgoing messages to unlisted external contacts. That alone wasn¡¯t a smoking gun¡ªcorporate scientists talked to outside vendors all the time. But what stood out was the frequency. More often than the others. More than would be considered routine.
I leaned back slightly, rolling my shoulders. Four names. Four potential leaks. But suspicion wasn¡¯t proof. I needed more than just anomalies; I needed connections. I pulled up the live security feed of my father¡¯s boardroom, watching as the meeting began. The glass-walled conference room was just as cold and clinical as the rest of Biotechnica¡¯s architecture, with nothing but polished steel, dark reflective surfaces, and sleek, minimalist design. There were no windows. It was an enclosed, high-security environment where secrets were meant to stay. My father sat at the head of the table, straight-backed, expression unreadable. He had always carried himself that way¡ªlike someone who never needed to raise his voice to command attention. Around him, the researchers took their seats, the dull hum of the holo-table flickering to life as confidential documents and projected models hovered in the air. I activated the audio feed. The voices filtered through my earpiece in a steady stream of corporate professionalism. ¡°We¡¯ll begin with the latest stability trials,¡± my father¡¯s voice came through first, calm and clipped as always. ¡°Dr. Ruiz, your report.¡± Helena Ruiz sat forward, bringing up a set of molecular analysis charts. ¡°Preliminary testing has yielded consistent results, but we¡¯re still refining the absorption rates. We had to adjust the compound ratios to prevent degradation under extreme conditions. The latest sample shows a thirty-eight percent efficiency increase, but¡­¡± I tuned out the specifics. I wasn¡¯t here to evaluate research progress. I was here to see who looked nervous. The security feed split into multiple angles, with different room views, each camera capturing the researchers in real-time. Helena was calm and composed. She spoke with the ease of someone who knew exactly what she was doing. No hesitation. If she was guilty, she was a damn good liar. Liam Foster, on the other hand, kept fidgeting. His fingers tapped lightly against the table, a rhythmic, subconscious movement. His eyes weren¡¯t fully focused on the holo-displays, more on his own lap, where I was willing to bet he had a personal interface device running under the table. Marisol Gomez barely spoke, nodding at the appropriate intervals, but her holo-pad blinked twice in the span of a few minutes. Incoming messages. She was reading something. Darius Chen was harder to read. He kept his hands folded in front of him, his posture relaxed, expression unreadable. But his gaze flicked toward my father too often. Not in a normal, attentive way. Like he was waiting for something. I exhaled, fingers hovering over my keyboard. I didn¡¯t have proof yet. Just details. Pieces of a larger puzzle I had to put together. But if I kept watching, if I kept digging deeper into their records, eventually, one of them would slip. And I¡¯d be there when they did. I kept my gaze locked on the security feed, tracking each subtle movement, each flicker of hesitation, each glance that lasted just a fraction of a second too long. Liam Foster¡¯s restless fingers drummed against the table in an uneven rhythm. His eyes flicked to the corner of his holo-pad, his pupils dilating slightly. I tapped into his terminal¡¯s activity log from my end¡ªno active programs open, no messages sent, but a hidden process running in the background. Something cloaked. Marisol Gomez was next. She barely moved, but the flicker of a notification on her holo-pad had been fast. Too fast for casual conversation. Was she expecting something? Darius Chen was harder to pin down. He looked composed, but the way his gaze trailed over my father¡¯s movements made me uneasy. Like he was waiting for a tell. Helena Ruiz, though? Clean. Controlled. Almost too perfect. I exhaled slowly, my fingers hovering over my keyboard, debating my next move. This wasn¡¯t enough to call anyone out. Not yet. But I needed more data. I switched from passive observation to active tracking. A few silent keystrokes and I had accessed the internal data logs for each researcher. Every file they had touched, every restricted folder they had accessed, every external connection they had established within the last six months. My screen filled with overlapping timestamps, security authorizations, and encrypted activity trails. I narrowed my focus to off-hour access patterns. If someone was leaking data, they wouldn¡¯t be doing it in broad daylight with full company surveillance. The first irregularity surfaced fast. Liam Foster. His name appeared eight times in restricted access logs¡ªall between midnight and 3 AM. Most of his entries were flagged as ¡®Routine File Verification.¡¯ Which was a lie. Biotechnica didn¡¯t schedule manual verification processes in the middle of the night. It was all handled by the system¡¯s automated integrity scans. If he was logging in manually at those hours, it was because he didn¡¯t want anyone else knowing exactly what he was doing. I checked where he had been going. His access logs led to the central project directory, but something wasn¡¯t right. Normally, when an employee accessed a research database, the system recorded which files they opened and for how long. A full access path. But Liam¡¯s trail had gaps. He logged in, stayed for an average of fifteen minutes, then logged out without leaving any indication of which files he had actually looked at. That meant one thing. He was using an external device. I tapped into the security protocols governing data transfer activity. No flagged alerts. No unauthorized exports. But that didn¡¯t mean he wasn¡¯t doing it. If he was good, he would have hidden the transfer under a legitimate process¡ªone that blended seamlessly with normal system behavior. I was still running the deeper scan when something on the security feed caught my attention. Marisol shifted in her seat. Subtle, barely noticeable. But her holo-pad lit up again. A message? I switched tracks. Who was she talking to? I dug into her outgoing communication history. The system logs scrambled for a moment, data processing sluggish. That wasn¡¯t normal. Someone was running an encryption cycle over her records. Someone didn¡¯t want me looking. Someone was running an encryption cycle over her records. Someone didn¡¯t want me looking. I froze, fingers hovering over the keyboard, pulse steady but focused. This wasn¡¯t a firewall or an automated security measure¡ªthis was active. Someone knew I was checking these logs and was trying to bury the data in real time. The encryption was fast, almost surgical. Not sloppy, not rushed. A professional was doing this. I had two options: force my way through and risk setting off every security alarm in Biotechnica, or shadow the process and let them think I hadn¡¯t noticed. I took the second route. Keeping my keystrokes light, I ran a ghost trace¡ªa passive program designed to mimic standard system monitoring while secretly logging the encryption cycle¡¯s origin. If I couldn''t see what they were hiding, I''d at least see where it was coming from. The encryption finished in under five seconds. Too fast. I inhaled slowly, a ghost in the system. A name flickered in the background processes before vanishing: Access Override Request: Unknown User [Songbird] Chapter 5 - Songbird
-Diary Log 4/11/2052- Dear Diary I¡¯m beginning to notice that the edges of my memories are fraying, details from my previous life and the game that once meant everything are slowly fading away. It feels like each day, more of that past slips into obscurity, leaving me with only vague impressions of people, places, and experiences. Last night, I rummaged through my old files and realized I was losing access to moments I once cherished. In an effort to reconnect with those lost memories, I repaired an old 2030 laptop, a clunky relic that I had found lying in the trash. I spent hours carefully repairing it, restoring its battered circuits and coaxing its grainy display back to life. This old machine might seem outdated by today¡¯s standards, but it¡¯s become my personal archive, a reminder of who I was and the world I once knew. All the details I remember from the game are on that laptop, and for now, it¡¯s my only link to the past, a fragile bridge to memories I fear is slipping away. See you tomorrow, Ellia -Log end-
-Night City 2064- The air in my father¡¯s office was sterile, scrubbed of any scent, any hint of organic decay, as if the room itself rejected the messy chaos of life. Biotechnica¡¯s obsession with order wasn¡¯t confined to pristine labs; it seeped into every polished surface and rigid protocol, a silent edict that even our souls were subject to control. I stepped inside, the automated security scans, a barrage of heat signatures, biometric verifications, and micro-expression analyses, reminding me once again that I was never truly alone in this fortress of corporate precision. Every step echoed the relentless hum of machinery, a constant reminder that even in silence, the system was always watching. At the far end of the expansive, minimalist space, Ian McCallister, my father, remained engrossed in the cold glow of his holo-screens. The blue light carved harsh shadows along the sharp angles of his face, etching lines of exhaustion and duty that he¡¯d long since learned to hide. He barely glanced up as I approached. ¡°You have something for me?¡± he asked, his tone clipped and businesslike,a voice that brooked no nonsense. I placed a small data-shard on his immaculate desk with deliberate care. ¡°The research team isn¡¯t compromised,¡± I said, my voice steady despite the turbulence inside. ¡°They¡¯re dirty,cutting corners, inflating results, committing minor fraud to keep the higher-ups smiling. Nothing big enough to justify a full-blown breach.¡± My father looks through the data shard and pauses. ¡°And?¡± I leaned against the chair across from him, arms folded as if to guard the uneasy truth I¡¯d uncovered. ¡°Someone who calls themselves songbird has been digging through our files.¡± At that single word, I saw a subtle shift in his posture, and then he leaned back and cursed. ¡°You already knew,¡± I said flatly, the words hanging between us like an accusation. He exhaled slowly, the sound measured and heavy. ¡°We¡¯ve been tracking that name. We have a full cybersec team monitoring this project, and she somehow still slipped through,¡± he admitted. I crossed my arms tighter. ¡°So you know who Songbird is?¡± Ignoring my question, he finally drew the shard toward him and began a full security decryption. ¡°How much did you find?¡± I shook my head. ¡°Not much. They were covering their tracks too well. I only got the name because I happened to be in the right place at the right time.¡± Turning back to his display, he continued, ¡°Songbird isn¡¯t just some rogue netrunner. They emerged out of nowhere this year and immediately began to disrupt our operations.¡± I stiffened. ¡°How big of a problem?¡± He tapped a command, and a list of project designations filled the screen. Most were indecipherable codes, but one pattern stood stark: multiple military projects had been delayed beyond 2069. Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings. ¡°Every time we near the finalization of a military contract, our data¡­ just vanishes,¡± he said, his voice low and measured. ¡°No breach alerts. No external access logs¡ªnothing remains but empty data fields.¡± I stared at the list, disbelief mingling with dread. ¡°How is that even possible?¡± ¡°That¡¯s the problem,¡± he replied. ¡°There¡¯s no pattern, no consistent method. And it¡¯s not just us¡ªour contacts in Arasaka, Zetatech, and Kang Tao in the free states have all reported the same phenomenon. Their high-priority R&D projects disappear from their systems, leaving only broken progress reports and ghostly echoes of what was meant to be.¡± A chill crept up my spine. ¡°And the only common thread?¡± He paused, letting the silence emphasize his next words. ¡°The name Songbird.¡± I let out a slow, measured exhale, my fingers tightening against my arms. ¡°So why haven¡¯t you stopped them?¡± He sighed, his gaze darkening as he met mine once more. ¡°Do you think we haven¡¯t tried?¡± His tone was weary, laced with a resignation that made my stomach twist. ¡°We¡¯ve thrown every resource at it¡ªtop security specialists, forensic netrunners, internal spies. Every time we close in, the trail evaporates. It¡¯s like trying to catch a shadow.¡± I leaned forward, studying the shifting list on his screen. ¡°And no leads beyond the name?¡± His eyes narrowed. ¡°No lead, but a pattern.¡± I tilted my head. ¡°What?¡± ¡°Militech.¡± I blinked. ¡°Come again?¡± My father tapped the screen again, pulling up a separate list. This one detailed Militech¡¯s ongoing projects, each with its pristine status indicator. Not a single delay. Not a single compromised file. ¡°They¡¯ve been completely unaffected,¡± he stated evenly. ¡°Every other major military-tech corporation has had their R&D progress crippled by this anomaly. But Militech? Not one project shows a disruption. Nightcorp also seems to remain unhacked, but if they got hacked, we¡¯ve got an even bigger problem on our hands.¡± I exhaled slowly, the implications settling like a weight. ¡°So either Songbird is working for Militech¡± ¡°Or Militech somehow has better cybersecurity than all of us, which is extremely unlikely,¡± he finished his tone void of any pretense of alarm. A long silence stretched between us, heavy with unspoken truths. This wasn¡¯t merely corporate espionage¡ªit was a glitch in the very fabric of the military-industrial complex, a prelude to something far larger. I took a step back, my mind racing. ¡°So what do we do?¡± He leaned back in his chair, his eyes locked on the endless streams of data. ¡°You stay where you are,¡± he said simply, as though my presence in cybersec was the linchpin in a puzzle I had yet to fully comprehend. And for the first time, I realized: Songbird wasn¡¯t just wiping data. She was delaying something. Waiting. Something big was going to happen in 2069.
The neon gloom of Night City softened as I retreated into the quiet isolation of my apartment. I slid open the battered drawer where I¡¯d hidden my old 2030 laptop. Its scuffed casing and dim, flickering screen were constant reminders of a past life¡ªa time when I clung desperately to every scrap of digital memory. ¡°Songbird,¡± I murmured to myself. I knew that name well. I powered on the deck in complete isolation; it wasn¡¯t connected to any network, and its solitary SSD stored all the fragments I remembered from the game. The familiar, grainy interface loaded slowly as I began scrolling through a dossier filled with names I vaguely recalled¡ªV, Jackie, Rebecca, Lucy, Maine, Mokoto, and others. I paused to run some names through the Biotechnica database on my main laptop. ¡°Who the fuck is Mokoto Kusanagi?¡± I muttered. The Biotechnica intelligence database I had access to due to my job revealed she was a three-year-old child of some Tiger Claw edgerunners. ¡°She wouldn¡¯t even be an adult by the time 2077 rolled around,¡± I thought, then shrugged and continued. Eventually, my cursor landed on a file labeled ¡°So Mi.¡± Opening it, I was drawn into a meticulously compiled dossier detailing Song So Mi¡ªalias Songbird¡ªa major character from Cyberpunk 2077 DLC: Phantom Liberty. According to the data I¡¯d written, Song So Mi was a brilliant netrunner and intelligence analyst for NUSA, serving as President Myers¡¯ right hand. What grabbed me most was her signature technique: in the game, she was notorious for using the Blackwall to hack robots and take down targets¡ªliterally dismantling defenses and eliminating foes with ruthless precision. In that moment, I understood how she was erasing data so cleanly. She was using the Blackwall. I ran a series of diagnostic scripts on my main rig, watching lines of code cascade across the screen as I pieced together the evidence. The patterns were deliberate¡ªevery byte of sensitive information vanished as if it had never existed. It wasn¡¯t merely a defensive trick; she had mastered using the Blackwall offensively, ensuring that every hack left no trace behind. A bitter irony tugged at me as I recalled how much I¡¯d forgotten since being reborn into this corporate nightmare. Songbird was just a character in Cyberpunk 2077. It had been 25 years, and I¡¯d lost many details that once defined who I was. Yet the enigma of Song So Mi stirred something deep within¡ªa reminder that the game was slowly bleeding into reality. Suddenly, I paused. My father had mentioned that every project was delayed past 2069. Why was that year so important? My heart pounded as I dug deeper into the DLC files. Dogtown? Pacifica¡ªthe tourist resort under construction? Then it dawned on me: in the game, Pacifica was a wasteland because of the Unification War¡ªthe conflict between the New United States and the Free States of North America. Well, shit. Chapter 6 - Unseen Access
-Diary Log 4/29/2050- Dear Diary, Today, I got lost in Biotechnica Tower. It wasn¡¯t dramatic¡ªno panicked searches, no alarms blaring. I had wandered away during one of my father¡¯s meetings, slipping through the maze of polished floors and glass walls, thinking I knew my way back. But the deeper I went, the more everything blurred together. Every hallway looked the same, every office was locked, and no one walking past even glanced at me. I wasn¡¯t scared, just¡­ invisible. Eventually, I found an empty conference room, climbed into one of the oversized chairs, and waited. Someone would come. Someone always did. As I sat there, I heard two employees walking past, their conversation drifting in from the hall. They mentioned my father in passing, talked about work, then something about me¡ªnothing important, just an observation. I don¡¯t remember the exact words, only the feeling behind them. I wasn¡¯t a missing kid. I was just another part of the building, another name in a file, another minor detail that didn¡¯t matter in the grand scheme of things. It wasn¡¯t cruelty. It was indifference. When my father¡¯s assistant finally found me, she didn¡¯t ask if I was okay. She just took my hand and led me back like I had been exactly where I was supposed to be all along. I never told my father. Maybe because I knew it didn¡¯t really matter. Maybe because, even then, I understood that getting lost in Biotechnica Tower wasn¡¯t the same as being missing. It was just¡­ being overlooked. See you tomorrow, Ellia -Log end-
- 2064- One month Later - You would think that the knowledge of war on the horizon would change well something. In reality, I couldn¡¯t really do much. So Mi being directly under the NUSA means that she¡¯s untouchable. I could contact Netwatch and tell them about So Mi breaching the blackwall, but that would just cause another massive corporate war, so what did I do? I just kept my head down and followed orders like a good corpo. I never liked the hum of Biotechnica¡¯s main lobby. Most visitors found it reassuring, a gentle thrum of well-maintained servers and advanced filtration systems, but to me it was a reminder that this building was always listening¡ªalways watching. From the time I was a child wandering the daycare halls to my current role as a mid-level cybersecurity lead, I¡¯d known there were no secrets here. Only illusions of privacy, illusions of choice. That morning, I arrived earlier than usual. Officially, I wanted to prep a presentation for the weekly threat analysis meeting. Unofficially, I just needed a moment of quiet to think about the logs I¡¯d stumbled on the night before. Someone had been poking around restricted R&D servers using credentials that traced back to me. Obviously, it wasn¡¯t me, so I spent half the night verifying that my account hadn¡¯t been outright hacked. But the data suggested a more deliberate trick: a partial clone of my ID, used sporadically at weird hours when I was nowhere near a terminal. It left behind minimal footprints. If I hadn¡¯t cross-correlated the timestamps with door logs, I might have missed it completely. Stepping past the glass security gates, I greeted the bored guard at the desk with a polite nod. She scarcely looked up from her console. The elevator ride to the 66th floor took half a minute, and as I rose, the hum changed pitch¡ªlike the building recognized me, adjusting to my presence. Maybe that was just my imagination, but in a place as high-tech as Biotechnica HQ, it felt too real. I left the elevator and walked into a wide corridor lined with polished floors that gleamed under the overhead lights. Workers hustled in from other wings, some wearing crisp suits, others in casual corporate attire. Over by a row of tinted windows, Toby from my team was balancing a coffee cup and a cluster of data-slates, trying not to drop either. He looked up, spotted me, and grinned. ¡°Ellia! Saved you a seat in the conference room. Also, saved the only tolerable coffee,¡± he said, hoisting a sealed cup my way. ¡°You¡¯re a lifesaver.¡± I took it gratefully. The coffee¡ªsome synthetic hazelnut blend¡ªsmelled sharp enough to jolt me awake. ¡°You¡¯re here early, too.¡± Toby shrugged. ¡°Had a weird feeling about those logs we found. The infiltration attempts. Something kept bugging me, so I wanted to run a fresh diagnostic.¡± His hazel eyes flicked around to ensure no one else was eavesdropping. ¡°It¡¯s big, right?¡± ¡°Potentially,¡± I admitted. ¡°If the infiltrator¡¯s forging my credentials, they either want to set me up or just hide behind my name. Neither option¡¯s great.¡± He exhaled, nodding for me to follow him toward the conference room. ¡°Samantha¡¯s already inside, got her forensics rig going. We can double-check everything before we update the director.¡± A small weight lifted from my chest. Toby and Samantha had proven reliable, and as far as I knew, they had no hidden ties or vendettas. In a place like Biotechnica, trust was rare currency. Sometimes, the only reason no one stabbed you in the back was that they were too busy with their own ambitions. Toby and Samantha, though, seemed genuinely invested in the job¡ªmaybe even in me, in the sense that they treated me as a colleague, not just ¡°Ian McCallister¡¯s daughter.¡± As we entered the conference room, a set of holo-screens lit up automatically, sensing the presence of my ID badge. Samantha, a no-nonsense analyst in her early forties, was seated at the polished steel table, tapping away on a wrist-mounted deck. She glanced up, saw Toby and me, then gave a curt nod. ¡°Good, you¡¯re both here,¡± she said. ¡°I¡¯ve run cross-checks overnight on the infiltration logs. It¡¯s definitely someone inside the building. The activity never pings from an external IP. The internal clearance used is partial, but piggybacks on your legit privileges, Ellia.¡± I gritted my teeth. ¡°I¡¯ve changed my passcodes three times this week. Next step is revoking everything and requesting brand-new clearance from the board. But that¡¯d raise questions and probably tip off the culprit.¡± Samantha frowned. ¡°True. We want to keep them in the dark until we know who they are.¡± Toby took the seat beside me. ¡°Or who they¡¯re working for. Could be a rival faction. We all know the R&D spats going on behind closed doors.¡± He wasn¡¯t wrong. My father¡¯s name carried weight in Biotechnica. He helmed critical research branches, meaning that if someone wanted to sabotage or blackmail him, they might come after me or my credentials. A flicker of unease passed through me. My father had warned me: Careful, Ellia. Rivalries here aren¡¯t a game. I¡¯d always rolled my eyes at that, but now it felt uncomfortably relevant. We spent the next half hour analyzing lines of code. Samantha identified a recurring pattern: a user session that began exactly four minutes after I logged out each evening. The infiltrator likely waited for me to leave, then hopped on some internal relay with the cloned fragment of my ID. Toby cross-referenced building camera logs, but strangely, there were blind spots in the relevant corridors. As if someone had deliberately cut the feed or replaced it with looped footage. ¡°High-level infiltration,¡± Samantha muttered, tapping her stylus on the table. ¡°This isn¡¯t just a bored coworker. They have resources.¡± Toby rubbed his temples, eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. ¡°We should escalate this to Director DuPont, or even your father. But do we have enough to name names?¡± I pursed my lips. ¡°No direct proof of an individual. If we go to Alexa with half-formed accusations, she might bury it. Or worse, the infiltrator catches wind and goes underground.¡± ¡°So we watch them,¡± Samantha said. ¡°Set a trap, track them in real time the next time they log in.¡± I nodded, feeling the tension in my jaw ease slightly. ¡°Yes. Let¡¯s do that. If we can catch them in the act, we¡¯ll have leverage.¡± We hashed out the specifics: Toby would code a disguised honey-pot file. If the infiltrator tried accessing it, it would quietly ping back to a secure channel Samantha and I controlled, giving us the location and system ID of the intruder in real time. It wasn¡¯t foolproof, but it was better than blindly chasing ghost footprints. Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more. ¡°All right,¡± Samantha said, closing her holo-interface. ¡°We present the usual threat analysis in the weekly meeting, keep this off the official record for now. Agreed?¡± Toby and I concurred. With that decided, we filed out of the conference room, the day¡¯s routine overshadowing our secret plan. I told myself we were on the right track. A small voice in the back of my head, though, kept whispering: ¡°If they¡¯re brazen enough to forge your ID, they¡¯ll have no qualms stepping up their tactics once cornered.¡±
At precisely ten o¡¯clock, we joined the weekly threat analysis briefing on the 70th floor. Director Alexa DuPont, a tall, immaculately dressed woman with piercing eyes, stood at the head of the table. Her posture exuded confidence. Around her, half a dozen departmental leads took their seats, exchanging polite nods and forced smiles. The large tinted windows provided a panoramic view of Night City¡¯s sprawl¡ªskyscrapers glowing in the morning sun, heavy air traffic weaving between them like metal bees. One by one, the leads presented their updates. A mild attempt at infiltration last night¡ªblocked by standard firewalls. A suspected competitor rummaging in public patent records. Routine stuff. I waited my turn, aware that Toby, Samantha, and I had chosen not to mention the deeper infiltration yet. Not until our trap was set. When Director DuPont finally gestured for me to speak, I delivered a succinct summary: ¡°We¡¯ve identified small anomalies in user sessions, but nothing conclusive. Our team is monitoring. As of now, no major security breaches to report.¡± She arched an eyebrow, as if weighing the truth behind my words. ¡°Keep an eye on it,¡± she said evenly. ¡°We need to maintain a flawless record this quarter. The board is particularly sensitive to any sign of internal sabotage.¡± I offered a bland smile, trying not to show how uneasy that statement made me. Were we the ones sensitive? If only she knew I was single-handedly chasing someone forging my ID. Or perhaps she did know, and was testing my reaction. Biotechnica¡¯s culture thrived on half-truths. The meeting concluded with the usual pleasantries, and we all dispersed. I sensed Toby¡¯s gaze flick toward me as we exited. He, Samantha, and I shared a silent understanding: we¡¯d keep playing the official game while investigating under the radar. I could only hope we¡¯d have enough time to unmask the infiltrator before they turned the tables.
Late that afternoon, my father summoned me to his office on the 72nd floor. The corridor leading there was lined with biometric scanners, each pass requiring retinal checks or voice confirmations. My father¡¯s domain was a fortress within a fortress. He oversaw a range of R&D projects that kept Biotechnica on the cutting edge of biotech and neural interface research. Tech that was far more advanced than the typical employee gear. When I entered, he was standing by a large holo-display showing swirling protein structures and chemical readouts¡ªlikely part of a new project. He barely glanced my way. ¡°Ellia, you¡¯re here. Good.¡± I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. He rarely said hello or asked how I was doing. That wasn¡¯t his way. ¡°You asked for me?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± He tapped a command on the console, and the holo-display vanished. Then he turned, arms folded, dark hair combed back in perfect corporate style. ¡°I¡¯ve heard rumors that you¡¯re chasing a security risk in the building. Something about your credentials being cloned?¡± I blinked. So he¡¯d caught wind of it. ¡°Yes, I found evidence of unauthorized usage. I didn¡¯t want to raise an alarm until we had proof of who was behind it.¡± He studied me with an expression I could only describe as calculated neutrality. ¡°Good. Keep it that way. The moment you make it public, the culprit might bolt or, worse, take drastic steps.¡± A sliver of bitterness twisted in my chest. Of course he expects me to handle it quietly, to keep Biotechnica¡¯s pristine image intact. ¡°I have a plan,¡± I said, keeping my voice steady. ¡°We¡¯re setting a trap. Just be prepared if I find out it involves high-level people.¡± His gaze flickered. ¡°If it does, you bring that information directly to me. No one else.¡± ¡°So you can bury it?¡± The words slipped out before I could stop them. He narrowed his eyes, a faint twitch of displeasure. ¡°I can manage it. There¡¯s a difference, Ellia. Sometimes, direct confrontation isn¡¯t the answer.¡± I swallowed back further retorts. He wasn¡¯t entirely wrong; corporate politics rarely favored direct calls for justice. ¡°Fine,¡± I conceded. ¡°I¡¯ll let you know what I find.¡± ¡°Good,¡± he said and turned away. I exhaled, turned on my heel, and left without another word. My father¡¯s concern was as close to paternal warmth as he ever got, but it did little to soothe the uneasy knot in my stomach. For all his warnings about cornered rats, I couldn¡¯t help suspecting he was as dangerous as any other faction head in the building. If push came to shove, how far would he go to protect his research¡ªand how far to protect me?
The rest of the day was routine, though my mind wouldn¡¯t let go of the infiltration puzzle. After my normal shift, Toby and Samantha parted ways. Toby had an evening shift, and Samantha needed to pick up her kids. I told them I¡¯d handle final checks on the new honey-pot script. By eight o¡¯clock, the floor was nearly deserted, the overhead lights dimming to night mode. I stayed at my desk, scanning for anomalies. Every so often, I sipped from a fresh coffee cup, ignoring my jittery nerves. If the culprit was bold, maybe they¡¯d strike again tonight. At nine-thirty, just as I was about to pack up, a silent alert flashed across my monitor. The honey-pot file had been accessed. My heart leapt. The script showed a location on the 62nd floor¡ªa seldom-used lab storeroom. I pulled up camera feeds, but the entire corridor was blacked out, no signal. Whoever¡¯s in there planned this. They either jammed or looped the video feed. I typed a quick message to Toby and Samantha: The trap¡¯s sprung. 62nd floor. I¡¯m going to investigate. Then, half thinking it was a bad idea to go alone, I rushed for the elevator anyway. The rational part of my brain said to call security, but they might be compromised. That same rational part said I was being reckless, that I had no clue if the infiltrator was armed. But a stronger urge¡ªmaybe part pride, part anger¡ªpushed me forward. This was personal. They¡¯d used my credentials, threatened my job and my reputation. I wanted to see who they were before corporate forces swooped in to hush it up. The elevator ride down felt agonizingly slow. My palm was sweaty on the stun baton I¡¯d grabbed from the desk¡¯s emergency kit. The baton could deliver a nonlethal shock if I got close enough. Not exactly standard procedure, but infiltration attempts were never standard. When I stepped onto the 62nd floor, the corridor lighting was dim, as if half the overhead panels were offline. A faint hum filled the air¡ªthe same building hum I¡¯d known my entire life, but more oppressive in the silence. Ahead, the lab storeroom door sat partially ajar. Light spilled out in a slant. I crept forward, baton in hand, heart pounding so loudly it drowned out rational thought. I reminded myself: They don¡¯t know I¡¯m coming. I might surprise them. But as I neared the door, I heard a low voice inside, muttering curses. Then, a soft beep of a terminal being accessed. I peeked around the doorway. A single figure wearing a hooded jacket stood at a console, hunched over a data terminal. They had a high-end portable deck plugged into a side panel, presumably copying or transferring data. In the gloom, I couldn¡¯t see their face clearly. But I glimpsed one detail: an employee ID pinned on the jacket, half-obscured by the hood. I inhaled, mustered courage, and stepped inside. I started to upload an optic reboot quick hack, but a strong ICE purged my hack. The figure whipped around. In that split second, I saw their face¡ªa man I recognized from finance, though I couldn¡¯t recall his name. His eyes widened, panic flaring. Then he lunged for me. I lashed out with the baton, but he dodged, snagging my wrist in a painful grip. A surge of adrenaline coursed through me. I jammed the baton into his ribs. Sparks danced, and he spasmed, yelping as he stumbled back. I readied a quick hack, but he kicked out, knocking me off balance. My shoulder clipped the edge of a metal shelf. Pain flared, but I refused to let go of the baton. I tried to pivot, but he shoved me from behind, and I fell to the floor. The baton skittered away, clattering near a half-open crate. He stood over me, panting. ¡°You should¡¯ve stayed ignorant, little princess,¡± he hissed. ¡°Now it¡¯s too late.¡± A swirl of panic and anger filled me. He called me princess. That single word told me he¡¯d singled me out because of my father. I braced to roll away, or at least shield my head, but he suddenly froze. Beyond the door, footsteps sounded¡ªmultiple sets, hurried. Toby¡¯s voice: ¡°Ellia! You in here?¡± My would-be attacker cursed, grabbed his portable deck, and bolted for a side exit. By the time Toby and Samantha burst into the storeroom, the guy was gone. I coughed, easing myself onto an elbow. They rushed over, eyes wide. ¡°You¡¯re bleeding,¡± Samantha said, noticing a cut on my forearm. ¡°We got here as fast as we could after seeing your message.¡± I gritted my teeth, ignoring the stinging wound. ¡°He¡­he was copying data.¡± I pointed to the console. ¡°We know who it is now, though. He wore an ID from finance.¡± Toby ran to the terminal, scanning it. ¡°Damn. He wiped it. Might be a partial memory left.¡± Samantha offered me a hand. I took it, letting her help me up. My body ached from the tackle. ¡°We can salvage something from the system logs,¡± she said. ¡°But we¡¯ll have to do it quick. He¡¯s probably wiping everything behind him.¡± I nodded, feeling a shaky laugh escape. ¡°He said I should¡¯ve stayed ignorant. That could mean there¡¯s something bigger behind this.¡± We secured the area, called building security, and reported the attempted theft. An uneasy sense of victory swirled in me. We¡¯d confronted the infiltrator. Even if we hadn¡¯t caught him, at least we had confirmation. But I couldn¡¯t shake the fear that he wouldn¡¯t stop. That ¡°bigger behind this¡± might come for me in a more direct way. Chapter 7 - Imposter
Diary Log 12/12/2046¨C Dear Diary, I still remember that one bright afternoon when Clover, with her unyielding energy, tried again to pull me into her world. While all the other kids ran around, she approached me with a shy, determined smile and a handful of colored pencils, asking if I¡¯d like to join her in drawing on the big white wall outside. I, burdened by thoughts too heavy for this child¡¯s body, simply shook my head and muttered something about being busy, retreating into the quiet corner of my own thoughts as usual. Clover didn¡¯t give up. Every day that week, she would find me alone, gently insisting that I come play or just share a moment of laughter with her. I kept my distance, my responses clipped and distant¡ªalways the outsider, always wrapped in an invisible shield of cynicism. But Clover, with her endless curiosity and unfiltered kindness, kept trying. She left little notes and doodles, softly urging me to join in her games of pretend and to see that there was more to life than cold calculations and corporate strategies. Today, as we sat together during snack time, Clover finally broke through. With a quiet sincerity, she reached over and took my hand, saying, ¡°You don¡¯t have to act like a big girl all the time,you should play with me today!¡± Something in her small, honest gesture melted the walls I¡¯d built around myself. In that fleeting, precious moment, I allowed a genuine smile to crack through, and for a brief while, I let myself be drawn into her world of simple, pure joy. That¡¯s all for today, Ellia -Log end¨C
-Night City 2064- The next day, Alexa DuPont called me into her office again. Her message was brief: ¡°Come at once.¡± So I took the elevator to the 70th floor, nursing a budding headache from too many late nights. The corridor outside her domain was quiet except for the faint hiss of the ventilation system. I knocked, and her door slid open with a pneumatic sigh. She stood near her desk, glowering at a holographic display showing a rotating 3D model of our building¡¯s security layout. Tall and regal in a sharply tailored suit, she looked every bit the seasoned director who¡¯d climbed the corporate ladder by stepping over anyone slower. ¡°Sit,¡± Alexa said curtly. I obeyed despite the ache of my shoulder. ¡°There¡¯s talk in the boardrooms about a potential security meltdown. Word is, someone on your team nearly caught a thief in the act¡ªthen lost him.¡± My jaw clenched. ¡° We forced him out. He couldn¡¯t finish stealing data.¡± ¡°That¡¯s not the board¡¯s perspective.¡± She tapped a stylus against the desk. ¡°They see an infiltration that¡¯s gone public, with you front and center. Now they¡¯re pressuring me to contain this. So explain, clearly, how we stand.¡± I took a measured breath. ¡°We identified the culprit as Grant Flowers, though that might be an alias. We suspect he¡¯s aligned with a bigger group because forging my credentials and tampering with security feeds suggests extensive resources. He escaped, but we have partial data from the console. Toby¡¯s working on cracking it for more leads.¡± Alexa¡¯s lips pursed. ¡°And your father, how does he figure into this? He¡¯s not exactly patient with security slip-ups.¡± ¡°I haven¡¯t given him a full briefing,¡± I admitted, carefully. ¡°He¡¯s aware we found an infiltrator, not the details.¡± She studied me for a long moment, something unreadable in her eyes. Then she folded her arms, shifting her weight. ¡°Fine. Keep investigating quietly. But do not escalate to the board or your father unless absolutely necessary. I want this handled, and then I want it buried. If the board sniffs out a fiasco, heads will roll¡ªand not just the saboteur¡¯s.¡± ¡°Understood,¡± I said through tight lips. I rose from the chair, turned to leave, then paused. ¡°Is there anything else?¡± Alexa exhaled, some of her tension draining. ¡°Just be careful, Ellia. People who sabotage from within usually have no qualms hurting anyone in their path.¡± Her expression softened momentarily. ¡°You said this infiltration was tied to a man named Grant Flowers,¡± Alexa continued, lowering her voice. ¡°We¡¯ve just received a medical examiner¡¯s report. The real Grant Flowers has been dead for over two weeks, but we never got the report until now.¡± My throat went dry. ¡°Dead for two weeks? Then who¡ª?¡± ¡°An imposter,¡± Alexa said flatly. ¡°We suspect an edge runner a high-level infiltration netrunner, skilled enough to fool even our HR logs. He went by the nickname ¡®Changeling,¡¯ or so the data suggests. That means our intruder wasn¡¯t some rookie.¡± She exhaled, eyes narrowing. ¡°He slipped past ID scanners and mimicked a dead man¡¯s biometrics.¡± You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story. A chill settled over me. ¡°So the man I nearly caught in the act¡ªhe wasn¡¯t even the real Grant Flowers. He¡¯s just¡­ occupying his identity. That explains why his ice was so strong.¡± ¡°The profile we have on him says that he goes through a physical surgery before every job in order to steal someone identity.¡± She glanced at me, her tone clipped. ¡°We¡¯ll keep this under wraps, but I want you to track him down. Once we find him, I¡¯ll sent a squad to eliminate him.¡± I swallowed hard. ¡°I¡¯ll coordinate with Toby and Samantha, see if we can uncover more about him and track his location.¡± ¡°Do it fast,¡± Alexa murmured, stepping aside so I could leave. ¡°And Ellia¡ªwatch your back.¡± I forced a nod, my pulse racing as I headed back to my floor. A stolen identity. A dead finance guy. An edgerunner who walked the halls in broad daylight. The sense of danger pressed in heavier than ever.
The following morning, my phone lit up with Clover¡¯s characteristic burst of energy¡ªa message that made even the gray light seem a bit brighter. ¡°Guess what? I¡¯m officially on the Biotechnica Plant Revival Team! Let¡¯s celebrate!¡± It was the kind of text that filled the screen with promise and possibility, a reminder that for Clover, every day was an adventure waiting to unfold. Clover, ever the irrepressible optimist, wore her joy like a badge. She believed in the future Biotechnica promised¡ªa future where even the city¡¯s concrete could be softened by a touch of green. Meanwhile, I couldn¡¯t help but feel a pang of envy at how easily she embraced that vision. While my thoughts were weighed down by complexities and hard truths, Clover¡¯s unfiltered hope made her shine in a way I sometimes found both comforting and maddening. That evening, I met her at a cozy sushi place nestled among the glittering high-rises. Fake koi fish swam in a neon-lit pond by the entrance. Clover gave me a quick hug, practically bouncing on her toes in excitement. ¡°I can¡¯t believe it!¡± she gushed, leading me to a corner booth. ¡°Biotechnica¡¯s letting me work on reviving extinct plants and maybe even reforesting segments of the desert outside Night City. Isn¡¯t that amazing?¡± I slid into the seat across from her, forcing a smile. ¡°Congrats. It¡¯s definitely¡­ big.¡± She beamed as she scanned the menu on her holo-display. ¡°You¡¯re not as thrilled as I expected.¡± She gave me a playful nudge. ¡°Everything okay?¡± My thoughts flickered to Changeling and the infiltration fiasco. ¡°Work¡¯s just complicated,¡± I said gently. ¡°But I¡¯m happy for you, Clover. This is exactly what you wanted.¡± She nodded, bright-eyed. ¡°And you know, it¡¯s all thanks to my parents pulling a few strings. But that¡¯s how things are here, right? We use what we¡¯ve got to help the world. Once we figure out the gene-sequencing for these extinct species, we could turn parts of Night City green again. No more smog-choked skies¡ªimagine it!¡± I tried to match her enthusiasm. ¡°That¡¯d be nice. A city that isn¡¯t just neon and concrete. I hope you get there.¡± Clover leaned forward, her expression earnest. ¡°We will. Biotechnica sees the potential. And, well, you¡¯re the best example of how corp life can be pretty good if you know what you¡¯re doing. You¡¯ve got a stable job, your father¡¯s clout¡ª¡± ¡°Yeah,¡± I cut in, softly. ¡°Not all it¡¯s cracked up to be sometimes.¡± She tilted her head, innocence shining in her eyes. ¡°But you still have more freedom than most folks in Night City, right? That has to count for something.¡± I debated how to answer. Clover¡¯s worldview was so different from mine. She¡¯d never been dragged into the brutal side of corporate intrigues. To her, Biotechnica was a benevolent parent, a provider of opportunities. I couldn¡¯t bring myself to tarnish her excitement, so I just said, ¡°Sure. Freedom. It¡¯s¡­ complicated.¡± For a moment, an awkward silence hovered. Then Clover broke it with a warm laugh. ¡°Complicated means you¡¯re important. That¡¯s how I see it. Come on, let¡¯s just enjoy tonight. Tell me about your next career steps.¡± She listened intently as I mumbled something about cybersecurity expansions, leaving out the infiltration crisis. I let her chatter fill the booth, a wave of enthusiastic chatter about planting seeds in test labs and ¡°making history by resurrecting the past.¡± Despite my wariness, I felt a quiet relief. The world might be rotten at times, but at least Clover believed in a better tomorrow. Sometimes, that was enough to keep me going. We finished dinner with sake and a round of mochi. Clover insisted on taking a selfie, all smiles and victory signs. Then she hugged me goodnight, hopped into her own private AV, and soared off into the glowing skyline. I stood on the curb, watching the street-level crowds surge between neon-lit storefronts. My mind drifted back to the infiltration. Changeling¡ªan edgerunner who¡¯d stolen a dead man¡¯s face. Where was he now? Was he even done? The jammed tension in my neck hadn¡¯t subsided. I checked my phone, tapping for a Delamain taxi. The AI chauffeur system rarely took more than a few minutes. While I waited at the designated pickup zone, I let my gaze wander across Night City¡¯s towering architecture. The neon signs flickered, hawking quick-fix implants and questionable nightlife. A group of corporate suits bustled past, ignoring me as they argued about stock margins. Another throng of tourists snapped photos of the city¡¯s garish billboards. Just a typical Night City evening. Until a dark van pulled up to the curb. I frowned. It wasn¡¯t Delamain¡¯s sleek white taxi¡ªthe van was matte black, and its windows were tinted well beyond regulation. Alarm bells went off in my head as I glanced at my phone, but there was no notification from Delamain. My pulse quickened as I began to turn to run away. Suddenly, a sudden surge rippled through my neural interface. Without warning, my HUD blinked red. I felt it before I saw it¡ªa digital assault invading my system. In an instant, a cold, efficient quickhack hit me, targeting my personal ICE. My protective firewalls collapsed into a cascade of fragmented code, leaving my mind momentarily open and vulnerable. The next thing I knew, a sharp, virtual shock pulsed through my synapses like an electric jolt. I felt my thoughts scatter as a system collapse took hold, and the world went black¡ªknocked out cold in a fraction of a second as if a digital guillotine had severed my connection to reality. Chapter 8 - Control
-Diary Log 3/22/2052- Dear Diary, Tonight, as I sit here in the dim glow of my monitor, I¡¯m knee-deep in customizing my favorite quickhack from a game in another life, Contagion. I spent most of the evening poring over every line, testing small changes here and there to see how it reacts. It''s kind of like solving a puzzle where every piece matters. There were moments when I had to restart the code because something didn¡¯t work, and I even had to debug a tricky segment that was causing unexpected errors. I guess that''s part of the fun¡ªeach setback is just another challenge to overcome. I really enjoy the process of tweaking and testing, watching the hack evolve bit by bit into something uniquely mine. It¡¯s funny making something so deadly for fun in my free time, but father seems to approve this one more than my other projects. I¡¯m not thinking about grand ideas or anything outside of getting the code just right. Tonight, it''s all about focus, patience, and the satisfaction of watching my work come to life. I felt in control. See you tomorrow, Ellia -Log end-
-Night City 2064- I awaken with a pounding headache and a metallic tang in my mouth. My wrists were tied behind me, ankles bound. The room reeked of stale dampness and rusted metal. Grayish concrete walls surrounded me, lit by a single flickering overhead lamp. Breathing shallowly through my nose, I forced my eyes to focus. I was in a small empty storage room, out the door there were crates piled in corners and a broken forklift near one wall. It looked like some abandoned warehouse¡ªNight City had plenty of those. I tested the ropes on my wrists. Too tight. Each time I twisted, rough fibers cut into my skin. Footsteps echoed from behind a half-collapsed wall. My heart pounded. Stay calm. I angled my head to see who approached. One of the men was Changeling, who wore the face of ¡°Grant Flowers.¡± He gave me a smug, sideways grin, arms folded. ¡°Fancy seeing you again, Miss McCallister,¡± he said. His tone carried a mocking lilt. ¡°Seems we couldn¡¯t avoid each other after all.¡± I glared, struggling to sound braver than I felt. ¡°What do you want?¡± He exchanged a look with his masked ally. ¡°Straight to the point, huh? We want a certain piece of data your father holds dear¡ªProject Seraph. He¡¯s been¡­ stubborn.¡± The masked ally nodded but remained silent. Changeling circled around me, eyes narrowed. ¡°We tried infiltration, subtlety. You didn¡¯t play ball. So we decided on direct leverage.¡± I tried to activate my cyberdeck, but a jolt went through my head from something on my attached to my head. Changeling laughed, ¡°That my dear is a voltage regulator. It will prevent you from using that cyberdeck of yours. Pretty good gear your have though.¡± A chill ran through me as I tried to change the subject. ¡°You think he¡¯ll hand it over just because you have me?¡± Changeling¡¯s smirk faded. ¡°Eventually, yes. But it won¡¯t just be him. We have a buyer who¡¯s ready to pay top eurodollars for Seraph¡¯s specs. That means we need your father¡¯s direct cooperation, or at least enough keys to unlock the final encryption. We figure holding you might speed up the process. Shame your ID doesn¡¯t access any of your father¡¯s assets, this could¡¯ve been so much easier.¡± I let out a slow breath, heart slamming in my chest. This was beyond petty sabotage. They had me as a hostage to extort my father¡ªand possibly force him to yield on his prized R&D. ¡°He¡¯ll never give you anything,¡± I spat, more out of defiance than certainty. Changeling shrugged. ¡°We¡¯ll see. We have ways to persuade him. But first, you¡¯ll help us. Your corpo clearance is not enough. We need your real biometric data to access your family accounts.¡± He crouched near me, pulling out a portable scanning device. Before I could jerk away, he pressed it against my left palm. The device beeped, a green line passing over my skin. I bit back a curse as it stung. ¡°Stop squirming,¡± he muttered. ¡°We just need some baseline prints. Next step is verifying your retinas.¡± ¡°You¡¯re insane,¡± I hissed, trying to twist free. The ropes cut deeper. He rolled his eyes. ¡°Save your breath. This is business, not personal.¡± I almost laughed at that. Not personal? You abducted me. But the words died on my tongue. A masked ally rummaged through crates, returning with a battered old comm system. He fiddled with the controls, presumably contacting someone. Changeling rose. ¡°We¡¯ll be in touch, Miss McCallister. Don¡¯t try anything stupid.¡± They stepped away, leaving me alone in the gloom. My mind raced, flipping from fear to anger and back again. They wanted my biometrics, but for the highest-level encryption, they¡¯d also need real-time login sequences. Maybe they thought they could force me to comply, or simply tear the codes from me. A wave of nausea hit. Why was I never in control? In that suffocating moment, my thoughts splintered into chaos. I remembered every time I had fought to reclaim even a fraction of my agency, each victory now reduced to ashes by this merciless violation In that moment of searing clarity both from my fatherand now Changeling. I tried to think about my situation, I had Trauma Team Platinum coverage¡ªbut what did that even mean when the world around me was dissolving into digital madness? My subdermal transmitter, a tiny promise of salvation, pulsed within me, ready to send out an SOS if I bled out. But my HUD was a disjointed smear of static¡ªa single, blinking ¡°No external link¡± message mocking me. They¡¯d jammed my signal, trapped me in this hellish cocoon with a vicious radio frequency net-scrambler. The rescue was impossible until I could disable the jammer. My heart hammered like a deranged drum as I took a ragged breath. Focus, I screamed inwardly, though my mind was splintering into fractured code and fevered impulses. My father¡¯s rescue was a myth; if these bastards discovered my secret transmitter, they¡¯d carve me open and rip it from me. I had to act¡ªnow¡ªbefore the void swallowed me whole. I scanned the bleak warehouse: a derelict stage of a broken forklift, piles of rusted crates, and ghostly catwalks overhead. Tangled cables slithered along the walls like the veins of some monstrous machine. Somewhere in that tangled mess lay the jammer¡ªthe malignant heartbeat keeping me locked away from salvation. I mapped out the plan in shattered fragments: free myself, hunt down that damned jammer, and obliterate it so my signal could finally scream into the night. Desperation fused with insanity as I slammed my cyberdeck into overdrive, pushing its processors past the edge of reason disabling all the regulators. I forced my mind to feed it raw, unfiltered chaos¡ªa barrage of commands, surging through every circuit. The overload hit like a tidal wave; my deck roared as it drove the voltage regulator beyond its limits. With a scream of sparks, the regulator seared and spluttered, its metal flesh melting under the torrent of my manic will. The regulator¡¯s dying sparks danced like fireflies in a storm, and in that moment, I tasted freedom in its pure, unbridled, and terrifying form. I was¡­ free. No¨Cnot free. A lie. I was a *trap*¡ªa *wound*... a device malfunctioning. Burned. *Sizzling*. Head->explode. Piece by piece, piece by *fracture*. Can¡¯t¡­ Screens¡ªstatic, pulse, pulse. Heartbeat. Drip. I am¡­ Free? No, not... I¡¯d be lost. Broken terminal. I don''t know. A scream of light. Twisting. The edges seared into me. *Voltages* remember. I...I remember I remember a flash, a screaming buzzer. Chained to the glitching web. Opaque. Don¡¯t know, can¡¯t know. Pain? Tangled. Trapped. *Escape* Is it escape? Or... or¡­ *cripple*. **I cannot reset.** Free, but¡ª ¡ªconfused. It was maybe freedom. But not sure. Cold. for 8 seconds I-I was free. I started laughing. My mind was unraveling, threads of sanity snapping with every pulse of the neon night. In the half-light of the corridor, my own laughter¡ªa wild, unhinged cackle¡ªechoed off cold metal and broken glass. I couldn¡¯t tell if it was me or the madness that had taken root, twisting every thought into a manic grin. In that fractured moment, the world around me blurred into chaos, every shadow alive with hidden intent. Then, through the dissonance of my deranged mirth, I saw him: a merc guard stationed outside my room walking in to check on the commotion. I activate a quickhack. Suicide In an instant, the digital cascade invades his neural link¡ªa ghostly torrent of code rewriting his very impulses. His eyes widen, reflecting a silent, desperate plea as the hack commandeers his body. The merc guard''s cold, calculated command forces him to confront his own mortality; his hands, no longer his own, reach for a knife on his belt. With every passing heartbeat, the hack tightens its grip, compelling him toward an inevitable, grim act. Under the relentless pressure of the code, his will shatters, and he becomes a marionette aperformance¡ªone where his own hand orchestrates his end. Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author. I was in control. The fallen man¡¯s death left more than just a hollow silence; it offered a twisted lifeline. As his blood pooled and the echo of his final breaths faded, a knife clattered to the floor¡ªa discarded, yet fateful relic. I maneuvered my chair closer, every creak and slide punctuating the ticking of my heart. The knife, glinting malevolently under fractured light, became my savior. With trembling fingers, I reached for it, the cool metal a stark contrast to the burning ropes biting into my wrists. Heart pounding I twisted my wrists, grasping that knife between trembling fingertips. The rope was thick, oppressive; the shard, a savage, jagged savior. I began to saw¡ªeach stroke pure agony, the cord biting, tearing at my skin. My breath roared too loud in my ears. If the guards returned¡ªif they came back¡ªI''d be caught. Time twisted. Minutes stretched like endless hours. And then, with one final desperate jerk¡ªthe rope frayed, snapped, shattered. Relief flooded me in a burst of raw, frantic hope. I untied my ankles in a blur, blood staining my wrists, but I did not care. My entire body trembled, alive with adrenaline, clinging to this broken, maddening game. I stood up and stepped through the door¡ªmind shattered into frantic commands. Find the jammer. Find the jammer. Find the jammer. Find the jammer. I grabbed the SMG attached to the lifeless body and snuck out of the room.
Footsteps thundered closer. ¡°Spread out!¡± roared Changeling¡¯s voice¡ªa jagged echo in the chaos. ¡°She got loose. Find her!¡± My pulse hammered like wild drums. Two silhouettes emerged from the open floor, flashlights scanning the darkness. One, the masked ally from before, pistol raised; the other, a bulky man with a rifle slung over his chest. They advanced with lethal caution. I raised the submachine gun, my trembling hands fighting through the haze. Fifteen meters¡ªa distance filled with raw, impending violence. I inhaled, aligning my sights. The bulky man¡¯s flashlight beam cut through the dark, but I pulled the trigger before he could react. Gunfire erupted¡ªa burst of blinding fury. I heard a startled yell; he jerked, and the masked ally dove behind crates. My body shook with each shot¡ªa wild spray tearing into the silence. Bullets shattered crates, and metal ricocheted like broken promises. I forced myself to pull back¡ªshort bursts, precise, desperate. The heavy man collapsed, lifeless. The masked ally reappeared, firing in panic¡ªa bullet whizzed past my ear, splinters raining down. I ducked¡ªheart pounding in erratic rhythm. If I hesitated, he would flank me. The overhead lamp flickered, casting twisted, shifting shadows that merged with the chaos. I pivoted around the forklift and unleashed another burst. The masked ally hissed in pain, stumbling into view. I seized the chance, aimed higher, and squeezed the trigger. My arms burned from recoil, but the volley struck true; he collapsed into oblivion. Calm in the midst of carnage, I activated my cyberdeck. My fingers danced over the interface with an eerie precision. Contagion A digital plague designed to infiltrate and poison every merc¡¯s cybernetic veins spread through the building. One by one, their systems convulsed; they began coughing blood, collapsing into heaps of broken, burning metal and flesh. I watched with cold detachment as my commands tore through them. I was in control. Panting, I hovered behind a crate, scanning the dark for more threats. Two down¡ªand the guard I had already unmade was nothing. That left Changeling and maybe others lurking unseen. A bitter churn of guilt and rage twisted inside me; they had kidnapped me, and now violence was the only language left. This was their debt, my reckoning¡ªno matter the cost. No footsteps followed. No sign of movement¡ªjust a fleeting window. Clutching the submachine gun, I dashed toward the ladder leading to the control booth. My legs burned¡ªeach rung a mile of searing agony. The memory of that guard¡¯s terrified face flickered, but I shoved it aside. If I didn¡¯t disable the jammer, I would remain chained in this nightmare. I reached the catwalk and spied a small, enclosed booth with its door slightly ajar. Wires snaked along the walls, converging onto a bulky antenna-like device¡ªthe jammer. A console glowed faintly inside. An older man in a grimy jacket dozed in a chair, a half-eaten sandwich abandoned on the desk. My presence shattered his slumber. He fumbled for a sidearm, but I raised my submachine gun without hesitation. ¡°Don¡¯t,¡± I warned, voice ragged and wild. He froze, hands trembling midair. ¡°Okay, okay¡ªjust don¡¯t shoot me,¡± he whimpered. I steadied my grip, eyes burning with frenzied resolve. ¡°How do I shut down the jammer?¡± I demanded, every word dripping with desperate mania. He swallowed hard, pointing a shaking finger at the console. ¡°Over there. Switch the third toggle down, then kill the feed in the system menu. It¡¯s labeled ¡®Network Disrupt.¡¯¡± I inched closer, weapon unwavering. The screen showed a command line: ¡°Signal Disruption: Active.¡± A big toggle blinked on an old mechanical switch array¡ªa fragile beacon in the dark. I took a deep, ragged breath, flicked the switch down, and navigated the labyrinth until I reached the option labeled ¡°Disable.¡± My finger hovered, trembling with the risk of catastrophe. But I had no choice. I pressed ¡°Disable.¡± A beep echoed¡ªa cold, mechanical heartbeat amidst the storm. The man exhaled a pained sigh. ¡°That¡¯s it. You¡¯re cutting them off.¡± With the jammer silenced, I turned to see the man reaching for his pistol. Without hesitation, I raised the submachine gun and fired. The man crumpled, his eyes wide in shock, his body falling silent¡ªa final act in the chaos. Then, a flicker on my HUD confirmed the loss of the Jammer¡ªthe subdermal transmitter had finally found its signal. My heart surged with hope. Trauma Team Platinum coverage was engaging¡ªa lifeline in this storm of blood and shattered circuits. A small text prompt scrolled across my vision: ¡°Distress signal sent. Trauma Team inbound. ETA ~3:00 minutes. Remain stable if possible.¡± I nearly collapsed in relief¡ªa desperate prayer whispered in the maelstrom. Fragmented, chaotic, and alive in the ruin, I clung to that slim promise of escape. A bullet pinged off the booth window. I ducked, adrenaline spiking again. Changeling stood on the catwalk¡¯s far end, pistol raised. I cursed under my breath¡ªhe must¡¯ve circled around while I was disabling the jammer. ¡°You¡¯re persistent,¡± he snarled, eyes blazing. ¡°But you won¡¯t leave here alive if you¡¯re calling for help.¡± I fired through the glass, but it was reinforced. The rounds spiderwebbed the pane, missing him. He dashed behind a support beam. My mind whirled. If I pinned him down, maybe Trauma Team would arrive before he killed me. But the catwalk had only one exit. I was cornered. I try for a quickhack, but his ice was still too strong. We exchanged gunfire, each volley chewing the metal walkway and punching new holes in the booth window. Sparks rained. My ears rang. I felt a hot sting along my left bicep¡ªa grazing shot. I hissed, ignoring the pain. Focus. My father¡¯s voice from old training sessions rose in my memory: Short controlled bursts, aim carefully. I flinched as Changeling lunged forward, pistol blazing. Shots tore into the console behind me, showering me with sparks. I returned fire, forcing him to dive aside. He pressed himself against the catwalk railing, breath ragged, reloading with trembling hands. A quick glance at my HUD told me 90 seconds had passed. Another ~90 to go. Might as well be an eternity. My thoughts spun. If I let him close in, he could corner me in the booth. I had to move. Summoning courage, I burst out of the booth, staying low behind the catwalk railing. Changeling fired again; bullets whizzed overhead. I unleashed a burst at his cover, forcing him to duck. Then I bolted along the catwalk, submachine gun clutched tight. My plan: get to the ladder, put distance between us, keep line of sight minimal. Changeling must have guessed. He popped out from behind the beam, aiming at the ladder. I cursed, dropping to a crouch, returning fire. One of my bullets caught his shoulder¡ªhe cried out, staggering. I seized the moment, sprinting the last stretch, each footfall a jolt of pain in my battered body. I half-slid, half-tumbled down the ladder as gunfire sang overhead. Hitting the warehouse floor, I tumbled behind a pile of crates, panting. My arms shook from adrenaline. Blood trickled down my bicep. Maybe the bullet lodged or just sliced me. Didn¡¯t matter. Another glance at my HUD: Time elapsed: 2:15. Under a minute to go. I felt myself getting hacked, but my ice was running at 300% power from my overclock, purging the hack. Then I heard footsteps on the ladder. Changeling was still coming. I braced against the crate, weapon raised. My finger hovered on the trigger. The second he set foot on the ground, I squeezed off a volley. He grunted, dropping behind a rusted generator. I winced, nearly out of ammo. Another bullet clicked in my chamber, but not many left. Changeling¡¯s cursing turned frantic. He fired blindly in my direction, trying to pin me down. I pressed against the crate, biting my lip. Two bullets ripped through my side as I collapse from my cover. Changeling smirked as the tension snapped into chaos. With a fluid, almost predatory grace, he sidestepped the momentary standoff walking towards me. "Of course you specialize in Contagion hacks," he drawled, eyes glinting with a mix of contempt and dark amusement, "you''re a disease¡ªlike father, like daughter. You know when I said this wasn¡¯t personal¡­ I lied" In that instant, as his trembling hand inched towards the cold metal of his gun aimed squarely at my head, the world exploded into violent clarity. Trauma team operatives burst into the room, their synchronized steps and rapid-fire precision dismantling his final act of defiance. The crack of gunfire filled the space, and in a spray of sparks and regret, his threat was silenced forever. Amid the falling shards of a life once ruled by chaos, Changeling stood riddled with bullets has his body fell to the floor lifeless. My breath came in ragged gasps. Smoke and dust swirled. The shrieking rotor noise calmed slightly as the TT craft adjusted its position. Rappelling lines hung from the roof, and three heavily armored Trauma Team paramedics dropped to the floor, scanning for hostiles. One stepped forward, weapon raised. My implant¡¯s ID flashed on his visor. ¡°Ellia McCallister,¡± he said, voice amplified through a helmet speaker. ¡°You¡¯re safe now. Remain still; we¡¯ll stabilize you.¡± My body threatened to collapse. I dropped the empty submachine gun, letting my arms fall limp. The paramedics rushed over, scanning me with handheld devices. Another pair of them swept the area, making sure no other threats lurked. The lead paramedic frowned at my wounds, quickly applied coagulants and analgesic injectors. A wave of numbness spread over my battered limbs. ¡°You¡¯re lucky you got that jammer offline,¡± he remarked, injecting me again. ¡°We picked up your signal less than five minutes ago.¡± I forced a grim smile, too drained for words. They strapped me onto a gurney that rose on anti-grav thrusters, then guided me toward a gaping hole in the roof. Pain spiked with every movement, but relief overshadowed it. I was alive. Darkness tugged at the edges of my vision as the rotor wash intensified. The paramedics carried me up, into the waiting craft. I glimpsed the swirling city skyline beyond the warehouse, Night City¡¯s neon arteries gleaming. Exhaustion claimed me. My final moments before passing out were a raw mixture of triumph, dread, and one stray thought. What did Changeling mean when he said that he lied and it was personal? Chapter 9 - Upgrades
-Diary Log 7/15/2054- Dear Diary, Today was the day I got my first augment, a basic biomonitor. I still can¡¯t shake off the overwhelming fear that gripped me as I sat in that sterile medical chair, the chill of the room seeping into my bones. Back in my old world, surgeries like this were nearly unthinkable; the idea of implanting a machine into my body felt like something straight out of a nightmare. As the doctor administered the anesthetic, I remember the sting of the needle and the sudden plunge into darkness. When I woke, a part of me felt altered, as if the lines between flesh and machine were beginning to blur. I couldn¡¯t help but think of the warnings from Cyberpunk 2077 and Cyberpunk Edgerunners¡ªof cyberpsychosis and the loss of self¡ªand it scared me more than I expected. I¡¯m terrified that this new part of me could one day spiral out of control, that I might lose who I truly am in the process. Yet, there¡¯s a part of me that knows this is the only way forward in this harsh new world. Each beat of my heart now carries the risk of becoming a ticking time bomb, but also the promise of survival. For now, I cling to hope and the belief that I can survive this fusion of humanity and technology¡ªeven if it means facing my deepest fears every day. That¡¯s all for today, Ellia -Log end-
-Night City 2064- I woke to a sterile white light and the steady hum of machines. The trauma ward was a study in clinical detachment¡ªsleek panels, blinking diagnostics, and an undercurrent of controlled urgency. As my vision sharpened, a gruff voice broke through the haze. "Welcome back to the land of the living," said the MedTech doctor, his tone blending professional detachment with a wry humor, as if repairing cybernetic bodies were just another day''s work. He leaned over me, checking my vitals on a floating holo-screen. "Your cyberdeck is fried beyond repair. You pushed it hard¡ªoverclocked it far past human limits. Not many can handle that kind of abuse. Maxtac would probably have you on the payroll if you weren¡¯t at Biotechnica. That kind of cyberware tolerance is rare." His low chuckle, dark and unsettling, held an odd admiration. My recovery day unfolded in segments, each interaction a reminder of the cold calculus that governed my existence. Early in the morning, in the recovery suite, I sat quietly while coworkers gathered in the common area away from the sterile beeps and clinical white walls. Toby was the first to approach. His normally reserved demeanor softened with genuine concern as he sat at a battered metal table, worn smooth by long hours. ¡°Ellia, we¡¯ve talked to the medtechs. You¡¯re not in perfect shape, but you¡¯re stable. Just remember¡ªdon¡¯t overdo it next time,¡± he said, corporate efficiency mingling with personal care. I managed a tired smile as I took a seat across from him. ¡°I guess I pushed it too far. My cyberdeck¡¯s completely fried. I knew I shouldn¡¯t have overclocked it so far, but it was my only way out,¡± I admitted, running a hand over my temple as if trying to massage the memory of pain away. Toby¡¯s dark eyes met mine steadily. ¡°We all have our limits. You¡¯re a valuable asset, Ellia¡ªnot just for your skills but because your endurance is¡­ remarkable. Just take it one step at a time.¡± Not long after, Samantha arrived with a gentle smile that brightened the clinical atmosphere. Pulling up a chair beside me, she said warmly, ¡°Hey, Ellia, I''ve missed you. I just wanted to wish you a smooth recovery. I know it¡¯s tough, but you¡¯re strong.¡± I managed a small smile, eyes reflecting a mix of gratitude and quiet weariness. ¡°Thanks, Samantha. It¡¯s been rough, but I¡¯m hanging in there.¡± She reached out, resting a comforting hand on my arm. ¡°Take all the time you need. Don¡¯t worry about anything else right now¡ªjust focus on healing. Sometimes, it¡¯s the little moments of kindness that get us through the hardest days.¡± Her words were a small anchor in a storm of uncertainty. ¡°I appreciate that. It means a lot.¡± Later that morning, my comm unit buzzed with a secure holo-call. I accepted it, and Director DuPont¡¯s measured face appeared. His presence was clinical, his tone as cold and exact as the corporate systems we served. ¡°Ellia,¡± he said curtly, ¡°I wanted to speak with you directly. Despite the complications¡ªand your recent kidnapping¡ªyou managed to eliminate operative Changeling. Our agents are already cleaning up the scene.¡± His calculating eyes regarded me. ¡°Your performance was noted. Even under duress, you executed your task.¡± I kept my voice even, though resignation tinged my words. ¡°Thank you, Director. I did what needed to be done.¡± His tone softened just a fraction. ¡°Your capability is rare. For now, focus on your recovery. Your continued function is critical to our long-term objectives.¡± With that, the call ended, leaving a heavy silence behind. A few hours later, as the day edged into a quieter afternoon, the door to my recovery room opened again. This time, Clover entered, arriving separately from my earlier conversations. Carrying a small, carefully arranged bouquet of vibrant, lab-grown flowers, her presence was a warm contrast to the sterile corporate atmosphere. ¡°Hey, Ellia,¡± she said softly, offering a gentle smile and the bouquet. My eyes fixed on the bright, meticulously colored petals. ¡°Are these real?¡± I asked, my tone a blend of wonder and fatigue. A mischievous glint danced in Clover¡¯s eyes. ¡°Real enough¡ªif you call lab-grown real. I made them myself. In Night City, even a bit of natural beauty has to be engineered.¡± ¡°They¡¯re beautiful,¡± I admitted quietly, a genuine smile tugging at my lips. ¡°It¡¯s nice to have something that feels... genuine, even if it¡¯s manufactured.¡± Clover gently squeezed my hand. ¡°Sometimes, it¡¯s the little things that remind you there¡¯s still warmth in this world. You deserve a break¡ªeven if it¡¯s just for a few minutes.¡± Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators! In that quiet moment, with the soft hum of recovery in the background, I felt a small measure of comfort.
A Week Later ¨C Biotechnica¡¯s Executive Floor I found myself walking the sterile, intimidating corridors of Biotechnica¡¯s executive tower. The air was thick with the hum of high-voltage data streams and the efficiency of corporate architecture. My footsteps echoed on polished floors as I approached my father¡¯s office¡ªa sleek, glass-walled chamber that felt more like a fortified boardroom than a place of familial connection. Inside, my father sat behind a massive, minimalist desk, his presence as commanding and impersonal as an executive delivering quarterly results. His steely gaze was fixed on a holographic display flickering with financial reports and strategic directives. The deliberate chill in the room made every word carry weight; each pauses heavy with unspoken judgment. ¡°Ellia,¡± he intoned, his voice low and measured¡ªa blend of corporate authority and reluctant paternal care. ¡°You¡¯re here.¡± I stepped forward, heart pounding, searching his face for any sign of concern. ¡°Father,¡± I replied, steady yet edged with restrained emotion. He gestured to a pair of chairs facing his desk. As I sat, the silence stretched¡ªa void filled with boardroom ambitions and cold calculations. Finally, he spoke, each word deliberate. ¡°Your recovery has been satisfactory,¡± he began, his eyes scanning the latest performance reports. ¡°You survived¡ªagainst all odds.¡± He offered a subtle nod, acknowledging both my resilience and my liability. A mix of defiance and resignation flickered in my eyes. ¡°I did what I had to do. But I couldn¡¯t help noticing that no one came looking for me. Not even a word from you.¡± His expression hardened imperceptibly, his tone shifting to clinical detachment. ¡°Had you perished, Ellia, you¡¯d have been deemed an unworthy investment. Our priorities lie with outcomes and efficiency. I trust you understand that the cost of failure is far too high in our line of work.¡± Each syllable weighed on me¡ªa reminder that I was as much a tool as I was a daughter, a cog in a colossal machine. ¡°I understand,¡± I said softly, bitterness edging my voice. ¡°But understanding doesn¡¯t erase being left behind.¡± For a long, heavy moment, he regarded me with calculated approval and a fleeting hint of regret. ¡°Your performance, despite the setbacks, has proven your value. I am wiring you the necessary funds to cover your medical expenses¡ªand extra for the new cyberdeck and additional chrome upgrades. Consider it an investment in your survival and efficiency.¡± My eyes narrowed as I processed both the transaction and his words. ¡°An investment,¡± I repeated with reluctant irony. ¡°So if I had died, I would have been considered disposable?¡± There was a pause as if he were balancing duty with family. ¡°Disposable assets are a risk no corporation can afford.¡± Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, ¡°I¡¯ll never understand your fear of cyberware, but your reluctance almost cost you your life.¡± The conversation hovered between cold corporate pragmatism and the faint echoes of familial warmth. My heart clenched as I absorbed his words¡ªa man whose decisions were dictated by balance sheets, not bedside concern. After a long silence, I spoke, my voice tentative yet resigned. ¡°I¡¯ll get the new cyberdeck and the upgrades. I¡¯ll do what¡¯s required.¡± His gaze, as unyielding as the data on his screen, softened ever so slightly¡ªa brief acknowledgment of my compliance and worth, however calculated. ¡°Good. Remember, Ellia, your hesitation about cyberware has kept you grounded until now. But to thrive in our realm, you must evolve. In time, you¡¯ll see that our path, while harsh, is the only way to secure our future.¡± As I leave the room, I turn back to my father, ¡°Changeling seemed to have some personal grudge against you,¡± I questioned. He looked up, his steely eyes briefly hardening. ¡°Ellia,¡± he said in a clipped tone, ¡°you do not have the clearance to know that information yet.¡± His response left no room for further inquiry, reminding me that certain truths were reserved only for those at the top of our world. I nodded slowly, the weight of his words mingling with the cold certainty of our corporate reality as I turned to continue my journey down the corridor.
Later That Week ¨C Integrated Augmentation Suite When I got the message that my cyberware had arrived, I was sent to Biotechnica¡¯s integrated augmentation suite ¡ªa clinical chamber of cold efficiency where every implant was installed seamlessly. Dr. Alric Veran, expression neutral and precise, reviewed the final checklist on his holo-display before beginning. ¡°Ellia,¡± he intoned in a measured tone, ¡°today we¡¯ll be installing your full set of upgrades as per your father¡¯s directives. First, we¡¯re replacing your cyberdeck.¡± He glanced at his laptop screen and added, ¡°A Biotech ¦² MK4. Do try not to remove the safety limiters on this one. This cyberdeck costs quite the pretty penny, and they¡¯re not even in public circulation yet.¡± I responded with a nod that Dr. Veran acknowledged, his expression impassive. ¡°Alongside the new deck, we¡¯re upgrading your Self-ICE. I¡¯ve installed a more robust baseline, but there¡¯s also an option for Anti-Personnel Black ICE.¡± He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. ¡°That module is designed to neutralize any hacker who dares breach your defenses¡ªeffectively lethal. I understand you¡¯re hesitant about such extreme measures.¡± My eyes flickered with uncertainty. ¡°I¡¯m not sure I want a defense that could kill someone if they try to hack me. It feels¡­ excessive.¡± ¡°Excessive, perhaps, but necessary in our environment,¡± Dr. Veran replied, his tone softening just enough to hint at concern. ¡°We¡¯ll also install a blood pump into your circulatory system to guarantee that your new components receive optimal power and nutrients. Nano plating and nano fibers will be integrated into your integumentary system to reinforce your skin at a molecular level, and your standard kiroshis will be replaced with kiroshi clairvoyents¡ª an augmentation that should improve your scanning capabilities.¡± Dr. Veran paused, his eyes scanning the file. ¡°Next, we will implant an Ex-Disk into your frontal cortex. This implant will increase your RAM capacity and significantly improve quickhack upload speed. It¡¯s a routine procedure here, but its benefits are considerable. ¡± Dr. Veran¡¯s tone then shifted as he brought up the final mandate. ¡°Your father now requires the installation of a smart link. This device will allow you to interface with smart weapons¡ªfirearms equipped with tracking bullets¡ªand is a non-negotiable upgrade. Once all procedures are complete, you will also be directed to the Biotechnica Armory to pick up the smart weapon he has ordered. That should be everything.¡± Before Dr. Veran could proceed further, I hesitated, my voice barely above a whisper. ¡°Dr. Veran¡­ I¡¯ve been considering something else. Could we, perhaps, integrate a monowire as well? I know it¡¯s not standard, but¡­ I think it might help in close-quarter situations.¡± He regarded me with a brief, cautious pause. ¡°A monowire upgrade is available, but be advised: its integration is complex. Its effective use demands precise calibration, and the additional strain on your neural interface can be challenging. It¡¯s not a standard part of our protocol, but given your current capacity I could include it. You understand this is a calculated risk. I¡¯d recommend the basic combat monowire chipware provided with the premium monowire package deal.¡± I nodded, my eyes narrowing slightly as a mix of reluctance and resolve crossed my features. ¡°I understand. I need every advantage I can get.¡± After making me sign a contract saying that all cyberware officially is within Biotechnica control and can be disabled if I violate company policy, Dr. Veran turned back to me. ¡°Remember, your cyberware tolerance was engineered from childhood¡ªyour father subjected you to multiple biological modifications to increase that threshold. Many corporate born children have nearly fifty percent more augmentation than what we¡¯re proposing. You have an edge, and I suggest you take advantage of it.¡± A long silence followed as the machinery whirred around us. Though I felt inward conflict, I met Dr. Veran¡¯s unyielding gaze with resigned determination. ¡°I¡­I¡¯ll proceed with all the upgrades,¡± I said softly. ¡°I know I need these augmentations to stay competitive.¡± Dr. Veran inclined his head, his voice clinical and devoid of personal sentiment. ¡°Very well, Ellia. We will now begin the integrated operation. These procedures¡ªyour new cyberdeck, enhanced Self-ICE, blood pump, nano plating, kiroshi clairvoyents, Ex-Disk, monowire, RAM recoup augment, and smart link¡ªare standard within your corporate family package. I will initiate the process now.¡± Surrounded by advanced machinery''s sterile hum and corporate protocol''s cold cadence, I closed my eyes, and the world went black. Chapter 10 - Mods
-Diary Log 3/15/2054- Today was one of those rare, unexpectedly fun days in the city of neon lights. I managed to hack a program in a way that turned a swarm of drones into a makeshift light show¡ªimagine a dance party with sparks flying and circuits jiving. Clover couldn¡¯t help but crack a smile at the spectacle. For a moment, I felt like I was the DJ of the digital realm, remixing chaos into a beat. It was a brief escape, a small action that helped me forget the hell that was night city. See you tomorrow, Ellia -Log End-
-Night City 2064- I plunged headlong into the urban warzone, the weight of Night City pressing against me like an iron shroud. Rain hammered the cracked concrete, each drop a searing reminder of the relentless fury of this battleground. The streets were transformed into a twisted maze of neon-splattered debris and shattered glass, where every corner promised a new threat. I raced forward, every muscle tensed and every sense acutely aware, my cyberdeck pulsing at my side like a lifeline. Armored drones, sleek and predatory, emerged from the dark recesses of ruined alleys. Their red optics scanned the chaos with cold, calculated precision. I could hear the whir of servos and the soft hum of their internal engines as they advanced, a relentless tide of mechanized death. I barked out a command without thinking¡ª¡°Lock target¡±¡ªand my fingers flew over the deck. Instantly, a surge of virulent code, my CONTAGION, erupted from the interface. I watched as it streamed across my HUD in vivid, pulsating colors before lancing into a charging drone. The drone convulsed violently as its internal circuits were overwhelmed. Sparks danced across its metal skin, and a guttural, mechanical groan filled the air as its joints locked in spasmodic malfunction. It shuddered, then collapsed in a heap of twisted alloy, its red glow dimming into oblivion. But there was no time to celebrate. From the haze of destruction, a new threat materialized¡ªa squadron of agile drones, each more nimble than the last, converging on my position with deadly intent. I pivoted sharply, the slick pavement offering little grip as rounds sizzled overhead. In the midst of the chaos, my mind became a blur of code and combat. I initiated SUICIDE, a quickhack of last resort designed to turn enemy weapons against themselves. I watched with grim satisfaction as one drone, caught in the grasp of my command, redirected its own armament in a self-destructive volley. Metallic carcasses shattered, sending jagged fragments ricocheting across the street like lethal shrapnel. Every heartbeat was a battle cry in the symphony of war. The cacophony was overwhelming¡ªa relentless barrage of explosions, the crackle of disintegrating circuits, and the distant wail of sirens merging with the shriek of rain. I dodged to the left as a stray bullet seared past, its heat incinerating a nearby wall and leaving a trail of molten slag. The taste of burnt ozone filled my mouth, mingling with the adrenaline that coursed through my veins. Amid the maelstrom, a sniper¡¯s bullet cut through the air with pinpoint precision. It grazed my shoulder, unleashing a white-hot pain that surged like wildfire through my nervous system. I gritted my teeth, forcing my body into overdrive as my HUD flashed frantic alerts. My vision tunneled, but I fought to keep every sense sharp. I pressed further commands into my deck, a desperate cocktail of overrides and countermeasures that spanned both physical and digital battlegrounds. The enemy wasn¡¯t giving up. Waves of drones pivoted and re-formed as they adapted to my every tactic. I hurled another volley of quickhacks¡ªthis time an experimental blend designed to overload their systems. The air shimmered with the intensity of the assault; digital sparks exploded as my code clashed with enemy firewalls. In the split-second flicker of my augmented vision, I saw the drones¡¯ internal systems glitching, their screens of red and green cascading like dying embers. Then, as if summoned by sheer necessity, I extended my monowire. I watched it snake out in a thin, razor-like line toward a drone that had flanked my left. With a swift, fluid motion, I slashed through its exposed circuitry. The wire hummed as it cut through metal and data alike, severing connections and sending the drone spiraling out of control in a burst of sparks. That quiet hiss of destruction was a small victory amid the chaos. Not wasting a beat, I activated my smart gun. My HUD lit up with a precise targeting grid as the weapon, linked seamlessly via my smart link, locked onto an advancing enemy unit. The heavy, armored unit loomed large, its bulky frame advancing methodically despite the surrounding turmoil. With a controlled squeeze, I released a volley of tracking rounds. Guided by real-time data, the bullets curved through the rain, honing in on their target until they struck true¡ªshattering its outer plating and sending it reeling backward. Time itself seemed to fracture. Every millisecond stretched into an eternity as I fought to maintain control amidst the chaos. The relentless hum of enemy weapons, the near-tangible pressure of the onslaught, and the searing pain from my injured shoulder melded into a singular, overwhelming focus: survival. I sprinted between collapsed vehicles and shattered storefronts, my boots slipping on rain-slick concrete as I sought cover behind a rusted-out bus. Behind me, a new threat emerged¡ªa heavily armored unit, its massive form dwarfing the smaller drones, advancing with cold, methodical determination. I ducked low, heart pounding, and keyed in a final override. My fingers trembled as I initiated a rapid-fire sequence of commands designed to scramble its targeting systems. I saw the heavy unit falter, its optics flickering erratically as it was forced into a temporary shutdown of its offensive capabilities. Yet, the respite was fleeting. Amid the chaos, a tracer round¡ªits luminescence cold and unyielding¡ªfound its mark deep in my chest. I felt the heat and force of the impact as my vision wavered, colors bleeding into darkness. Pain exploded in my lungs, and I staggered, my arms flailing in a vain bid to stave off the inevitable. Desperation clawed at my mind as I fumbled for one last command¡ªa final override, a desperate plea to defy the odds. My cyberdeck interface flashed wildly as the code tumbled into place, but the cumulative strain of the assault was too much. And then¡­ darkness.
I awoke to a sterile, white light and a pervasive, clinical hum¡ªa world utterly different from the seething chaos I had just endured. My eyes fluttered open to reveal a netrunning rig, its interfaces and cables meticulously arranged, a stark contrast to the rain-soaked, debris-littered battleground I¡¯d just left behind. The echoes of gunfire and digital carnage had vanished, replaced by a calm that was almost unsettling. I rasped, still catching my breath. Samantha¡¯s voice came through soft and steady, layered with both relief and quiet pride. "Ellia, you pushed thirty two minutes¡ªnew personal record," she said, the warmth in her tone cutting through the clinical silence. A tired smile tugged at my lips as I reached for the controls, my fingers twitching with the residual rush of combat. Before I could even begin to relaunch the simulation, Samantha''s voice intervened gently yet firmly. "Take a break, Ellia. We need you fresh. We''ll be back on the clock in ten minutes." I paused, letting the lingering adrenaline settle. The instinct to dive back into the fray warred with the understanding that I needed a moment to catch my breath. Slowly, I powered down the rapid-fire protocols, the rig¡¯s status lights resuming their measured, rhythmic blink. "Alright," I murmured, the word heavy with both resignation and relief. I leaned back, closing my eyes and letting the soft hum of the system soothe the echoes of the digital battlefield still reverberating in my mind. In the quiet that followed, the memory of the chaotic combat¡ªevery burst of bullets, every flash of code¡ªfaded into a distant, adrenaline-soaked dream. Around me, the rig¡¯s lights pulsed steadily, a constant reminder that though the simulation had ended, the real work was just beginning. I could not let myself be caught of guard again. I sent a simple ping toward the coffee machine across the room. The response was immediate¡ªa crisp acknowledgment confirming that my new RAM speeds were far beyond what I¡¯d experienced. A slight grin crept over my face as I marveled at how responsive everything felt, before I felt my face fall again. Biotechnica owned every augment within me. Biotechnica practically owns me at this point. I cycled through my upgraded interface, casually toggling the new Self-ICE protocols and Black Ice while checking the stability of my cyberdeck. The improvements were subtle yet undeniable; every command felt smoother, and every response quicker. I could almost taste the promise of potential as I ran through quick diagnostics, each test reaffirming that the enhancements were working in perfect harmony. This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it I look down at the Tsunami Kappa on my hip. It was a smart weapon that Tsunami Defense Systems had just recently put in circulation with their market partners, and I had no idea how my father got a hold of one, but I wasn¡¯t complaining. I raise the Kappa hands with my hands off the trigger to test my new smart link by locking onto a tiny target on a poster on the wall. The overlay appeared without hesitation¡ªa precise grid that tracked the targets as I moved the gun around as if it were part of my own vision. It was an effortless dance between my eyes and the natural and almost intuitive digital overlay. Samantha¡¯s voice returned, gentle and encouraging. "Ellia, let¡¯s go, I hear the biotechnica has an important sales meeting today, and we need to prevent nosy netrunners from trying to listen in; I need you in peak condition." I signed and started removing the wires connected to my head.
4 Hours Later Eventually, I signed off and left Biotechnica¡¯s sterile corridors behind, stepping out into the cool evening. The neon glow of Night City¡¯s towering billboards and the distant hum of traffic reminded me that despite the polished facade of corporate efficiency, life continued its own unpredictable rhythm. I made my way to my modest apartment¡ªa small haven I¡¯d long called home¡ªwhere the familiar blend of worn furniture and flickering digital art greeted me like an old friend. Inside, the solitude offered a reprieve. I sank into my favorite armchair, the ambient neon filtering through the window and painting the room in soft, shifting hues. My thoughts wandered back to the simulation. I remembered the raw power of my old cyberdeck, how overclocking it had once granted me a surge of strength that was almost addictive¡ªuntil it broke under the strain. That broken relic now seemed like a symbol of the gap between corporate-grade equipment and the unbridled innovation of street mods. Could I, I wondered, retrofit my cyberdeck with the kind of street mods that had saved countless edgerunners on the rougher side of Night City? The idea nagged at me¡ªan impulsive thought fueled by both nostalgia and defiance. My fingers hovered over the interface as I pulled up schematics and performance logs. The upgrades from Biotechnica were undeniably precise, but they lacked the raw, gritty resilience of street tech, the kind that could be custom-tuned to endure anything. Then, I thought of Rafe, with his patched-together but fiercely reliable setup. His street mods on his deck allowed him to finish a corporate netrunning exam despite his deck being years outdated. I hesitated only a moment before my resolve took over. Leaning forward, I tapped out a message on my comm interface. The text was brief, a casual query tinged with curiosity: "Hey, Rafe. Got a minute? I want to talk about your street mods" With a swift press of the send button, I initiated the connection and got a call shortly afterward. The call came through with a rough, unexpected edge. I could hear a pause¡ªa slight intake of breath¡ªbefore a gruff voice broke through. "Hello Rafe." ¡°Hello, who is this,¡± Rafe¡¯s tone was cautious, laced with genuine curiosity. "It¡¯s Ellia. We met at the Biotechnica netrunning exam a while back," I replied, trying to keep my tone even despite the sudden rush of nerves. "I wanted to talk about street mods." There was a brief silence on the other end, filled only by the low hum of background noise that sounded like a busy, dimly lit workshop. Then, Rafe¡¯s voice returned, softer now, but still carrying an edge of incredulity. "You? A Biotechnica girl hitting up a street modder? What¡¯s going on?" He then reduced his voice to a murmur, ¡°Well at least I know who I labeled as Corpo Bitch in my contacts now¡± I felt my eye twitch as I cleared my throat. "I¡¯m not exactly thrilled with my corporate gear anymore," I explained, ¡°I would like to take a look at your mods¡± Rafe let out a low chuckle, a sound that was equal parts amusement and skepticism. "Well, I gotta say, this is a first. You reaching out to me? I never thought a corpo kid would be asking about street mods. But¡­ if you¡¯re serious, then I¡¯m listening." "I¡¯m serious," I insisted, ¡°I want to see what you could do for my deck.¡± There was a pause, and then Rafe¡¯s said. "Alright, Corpo Bitch. I¡¯m in. Just don¡¯t think this makes you one of us overnight. But I¡¯ll help you get closer to what you¡¯re looking for. We can meet at my place, I have a workshop where the real mods get done. I can show you what I can do, and we¡¯ll figure out how to mod that corpoware you got. I¡¯ll send you my address. Is tonight good?" I felt my eye twitch again as I responded. ¡°Tonight is fine.¡± I needed to remain calm. Rafe was my only non-corporate contact. I called up the Biotechnica flight department. The line clicked, and a clipped, professional voice answered. "Biotechnica Flight Department, this is Callahan speaking. How may I assist you, Ms. McCallister?" I cleared my throat. "I need an escort AV for tonight." There was a brief pause on the line before Callahan replied, "Certainly, Ms. McCallister. We have AVs available. Would you like Android security detail for your flight?" I hesitated for a heartbeat¡ªmy instinct was to decline, to rely on the regular protocol. But after the kidnapping, I couldn¡¯t risk anything. ¡°Sure, I¡¯ll take the security.¡±
2 Hours Laters I stepped off the AV, my polished corporate boots clashing sharply with the cracked pavement of the Heywood lot. The sleek vehicle behind me hummed softly in standby mode, its Biotechnica insignia faintly glowing in the dim light of Night City¡¯s polluted haze. Flanking me were two combat androids, moving in perfect sync¡ªsilent, imposing, their smooth synthetic plating gleaming under the flickering neon of a rusted-out streetlamp. A busted-looking old car was parked outside. Rafe was already there, leaning against the workshop doorway with his arms crossed and a sly smirk playing on his lips¡ªthough I caught a hint of fear shimmering in his eyes. His patched-together vest, covered in faded gang tags and repair welds, was a testament to the streets he called home. He let out a slow whistle as he pushed off the wall and walked toward me, giving an exaggerated nod in the direction of the AV. ¡°Damn, chica,¡± he drawled, shaking his head while trying to hide his fear. ¡°Didn¡¯t realize Biotechnica¡¯s entry-level corpos came with a personal AV and a pair of tin cans for backup. That job post lyin¡¯ or is corpo life just that sweet for you?¡± I met his gaze evenly, a flicker of amusement in my expression. ¡°The entry-level title¡¯s just for show. Unless you¡¯re the next Cunningham or Bartmoss, you need Corpo connections to get in. Even then, it¡¯s a fight to keep your seat.¡± Rafe rolled his eyes, his grin unfazed. ¡°Tch. Figures. Always some corpo bullshit keepin¡¯ the rest of us on the ground while you lot ride high in the sky.¡± He tilted his head, eyes flicking to the androids. ¡°Speakin¡¯ of, you mind if I tinker with one of these chromeheads? Always wanted to crack corpo security droid software, see what makes ¡®em tick.¡± I deadpanned, ¡°No, they are Biotechnica property.¡± ¡°Yeah, yeah, didn¡¯t think so,¡± he snorted, then turned on his heel and motioned me inside. ¡°C¡¯mon then, let¡¯s get to work before your droids scare off the neighbors.¡± I just shrugged and stepped into the run-down house. Inside, Rafe''s workshop was a controlled mess¡ªhalf-disassembled cyberdecks, prototype neural implants, and stacks of modded chips littered the workbenches. The air carried the distinct scent of soldered metal and coolant¡ªa mix of innovation and survival. I pulled a slim datapad from my coat and slid it across the nearest counter. ¡°Before we start, I need you to sign this.¡± Rafe picked up the datapad, glancing over the contract. His lips pursed as he skimmed the legal jargon until his eyes landed on a particular clause. He let out a low whistle and looked up, eyebrows raised. ¡°So lemme get this straight,¡± he said, tapping the screen. ¡°The fancy-ass deck in your head is some proto shit that ain¡¯t even hit the market yet. And if I so much as sneeze out a byte of data about it¡­¡± He paused, glancing at me with his usual smirk faltering slightly. ¡°I get flatlined?¡± I nodded. ¡°You¡¯d be eliminated. Standard corporate policy.¡± He let out a slow exhale, rubbing the back of his neck. ¡°Shit, chica. You bring a guy the real high-risk work, huh?¡± He clicked his tongue, then¡ªwithout hesitation¡ªscrawled his signature across the datapad. ¡°Alright, I¡¯m in. Always down to see new tech.¡± Not long after, Rafe was deep into dissecting the Biotech Mk4 schematics. I watched as his brows furrowed over the internal architecture, the occasional mutter escaping his lips. ¡°This thing¡¯s insane,¡± he finally said, turning to me with almost begrudging admiration. ¡°Like, top-tier corpo voodoo. Power output¡¯s wild, but your cooling setup¡¯s weak as shit. They¡¯re limitin¡¯ the raw speed on purpose¡ªprolly to keep corpo kids like you from cookin¡¯ your brains.¡± I folded my arms and asked, ¡°Can you fix it?¡± Rafe scoffed. ¡°Fix it? Choom, I can make this thing sing. Gimme a week, I¡¯ll throw in a custom heatsink, let you overclock without burnin¡¯ out your synapses.¡± ¡°Do it,¡± I replied. As Rafe unplugged the cable from his head, preparing to design the modifications, I noticed a tiny spark¡ªa flicker of light dancing along one of the neural links trailing from his rig. I frowned. ¡°Your deck¡¯s throwing off sparks.¡± He blinked and groaned, flicking the malfunctioning connection. ¡°Yeah, yeah, she¡¯s a temperamental bitch, what can I say?¡± I leaned against the counter, tapping my fingers idly. ¡°I can get you a better deck.¡± Rafe froze mid-motion and turned to face me fully, skepticism and curiosity warring in his eyes. ¡°First of all, I refuse to replace my baby. Secondly, ain¡¯t no way you¡¯re offerin¡¯ me a fresh deck outta the kindness of your heart,¡± he said slowly. ¡°Why would a corpo be handin¡¯ out free chrome to a street kid like me?¡± I shrugged. ¡°Most models in the civilian market are pocket change anyways.¡± He stared at me for a long moment before shaking his head with a chuckle, rubbing his hand over his face. ¡°Damn, chica¡­ sometimes I forget just how deep that corpo eddies go.¡± I smirked slightly as I transferred the creds to his account for both the mods and the deck. When Rafe glanced at the numbers on his HUD, his cocky demeanor faltered just a bit. ¡°Shit,¡± he muttered under his breath, exhaling sharply. ¡°I think I just realized how in over my head I am.¡± I raised an eyebrow. ¡°Took you long enough. I want the schematics for the upgrade in a week, and you need to buy yourself a better deck¡ªI don¡¯t want that deck of yours to cook your brain before your job is done.¡± Chapter 11 - Hobbies
-Diary Log 2055- Dear Diary, Today, I caught myself thinking, what would I do if I met a canon character from Cyberpunk? If I met Gloria or David, would I try to save them or just leave them be? Every day, so many people in Night City die¡ªit¡¯s like the whole place is built on endless tragedies and forgotten hopes. A part of me that secretly believes I could make a difference, that I had the power to rewrite fate. But another part of me is starting to care less and less for the show that once brought me to tears, for the game that tested my emotions as I watched countless lives come and go¡­ Maybe if I met one of them, and really got to know them, I might feel differently. See you later, Ellia -Log End-
-Night City 2064- -Four days Later- I step off the maglev platform into the gleaming heart of Corpo Plaza. It¡¯s a rush of fluorescent displays, monorail tracks that coil like serpents overhead, and immaculate floors that reflect every neon hue. The air smells faintly of ozone and wealth¡ªendless resources poured into building this consumer¡¯s paradise. Clover is practically bouncing at my side, already pointing out some slick boutique that just popped up last week. Despite her excitement, I can¡¯t help sweeping my gaze around, checking passersby one by one. My neural implants tap into the plaza¡¯s public security cameras, merging the data with my HUD. It¡¯s second nature: scanning for anomalies, checking if anyone¡¯s trailing too close. There¡¯s no imminent threat, but my shoulders remain tight with vigilance. Clover notices. ¡°You know, you¡¯re not supposed to be my bodyguard,¡± she says lightly, tossing her bright hair over her shoulder. Her voice has that teasing lilt that always edges toward sarcasm. ¡°My parents said the Plaza was extra safe nowadays¡ªsomething about doubling the security. So try not to look so paranoid.¡± I force a calm expression, letting out a measured breath. ¡°It¡¯s habit,¡± I say, though habit doesn¡¯t begin to cover it. I¡¯m basically hardwired for this after so many mandatory corporate defense courses, and it¡¯s gotten worse after my kidnapping. ¡°They did specifically ask me to keep an eye on you.¡± ¡°Ugh, yeah, I know.¡± She gives a dramatic roll of her eyes. ¡°But it¡¯s called shopping, Ellia. We¡¯re supposed to have fun. You can¡¯t have fun if you¡¯re busy acting like some secret agent, scanning everyone¡¯s cyberware and stuff.¡± I pause my scanning with a conscious act of will, severing the camera feeds. ¡°I¡¯ll try,¡± I mutter. ¡°No promises.¡± Clover¡¯s grin widens. ¡°If you really want to protect me, maybe buy me something cute. That¡¯d be more fun for both of us.¡± I let her banter wash over me, and before long, we find ourselves drifting toward a shop with a massive holographic sign overhead: LumiTek Clothing¡ªNeon Dreams Collection. The store¡¯s window is dominated by mannequins wearing luminous jackets, pants that shift color with each step, and accessories that appear halfway intangible. Clover¡¯s eyes sparkle. ¡°Oh, that¡¯s the brand everyone¡¯s raving about,¡± she squeals. ¡°Look at that jacket!¡± A slim, cropped piece with LED piping and stylized silver filigree. As she goes to examine it, my stomach does the small knotting thing it always does when we¡¯re in crowded areas. People swirl around, each on their own errands. No threat, I tell myself, scanning anyway. A pang of guilt flickers. I should lighten up. I follow Clover inside. The store¡¯s interior is equally lavish, with interactive mirrors that project alternative color palettes onto the clothes in real-time. A store clerk wearing an AR visor greets us in a polished tone, presumably analyzing our net worth or brand preferences. Clover zeroes in on the silver filigree jacket. ¡°This is it. My must-have,¡± she says, hugging it close like a child with a new toy. I let her chat with the clerk, feeling a distant wave of relief that my protective instincts can take a back seat for a moment. A faint chime vibrates in my cochlear implant. Rafe is calling. I flick a glance at Clover, who arches her brow knowingly. ¡°A boy?¡± she mouths. I shrug, answering the call with a mental prompt. ¡°Ellia here. Go ahead.¡± Rafe¡¯s voice is crisp with a business-like edge. ¡°Hey. Got a sec? Need to ask about the blueprint for your next implant mod.¡± ¡°Sure, what¡¯s up?¡± I say. Clover, of course, overhears my side of the conversation. She sets the jacket aside, her eyes dancing with mischief. ¡°Boy?¡± she mouths again, making exaggerated kissing faces. I wave a hand at her dismissively, trying not to give her more ammo. ¡°Just wanted to confirm the neural interface lines,¡± Rafe continues. ¡°If your gear is as advanced as I think, we can skip the capacitors and go for direct method. I¡¯ll send you the new specs, then you can double-check. Cool?¡± ¡°Cool,¡± I echo. ¡°I¡¯m at the plaza right now, so I¡¯ll look at it tonight.¡± He¡¯s silent a moment. ¡°Right. Later, then.¡± I cut the call. Clover practically pounces on me. ¡°Awww, our little Ellia¡¯s got a boy calling her.¡± She wags her fingers in front of my face. ¡°Let me guess: your project is more than just a project, hmm?¡± I look at Clover with a deadpan expression. ¡°He¡¯s literally just a contractor. There¡¯s nothing else there.¡± Clover pouts, turning her attention back to the jacket. ¡°You¡¯re no fun. You never have any fun, really. Everything¡¯s work, work, work. Bodyguard mode. Corporate hack training. Nine to five, then simulations, then quickhack coding until bedtime. Don¡¯t you do anything else?¡± The question hits me like a subtle jab to the gut. ¡°I¡­ handle my responsibilities,¡± I say, but the retort sounds flimsy, even to me. She¡¯s turning the jacket over to find the size tag, but her focus is on me. ¡°Responsibilities. Sure. But do you have any hobbies? How about music? Do you even listen to anything aside from news bulletins?¡± ¡°News bulletins are plenty¡ª¡± I start to joke, but her stern look stops me. ¡°Seriously, though.¡± Her voice softens. ¡°You¡¯re always cooped up in training sims or in your coding den and today you¡¯re on a mission to protect me from imaginary assassins. Don¡¯t you ever want to go to a concert? An art exhibit? Or, I don¡¯t know, a date?¡± ¡°Concert?¡± I echo. ¡°Not really.¡± She tilts her head. ¡°How come?¡± A faint wave of something unsettles me. I try to rummage for an answer, but all I can think about is how I never made time for anything that wasn¡¯t strictly skill-building or career progress. ¡°I guess¡­ music today feels so synthetic,¡± I mumble. ¡°All warped. It doesn¡¯t spark anything.¡± Clover¡¯s shoulders relax, and she steps toward me with a gentler look. ¡°Okay, but that¡¯s just modern stuff. There¡¯s a whole underground scene, old recordings¡ª¡± ¡°I haven¡¯t explored it,¡± I admit. ¡°I guess I never tried.¡± She sighs, turning back to the jacket. ¡°You know, Ellia, you¡¯re not a machine. You can¡¯t just revolve your life around corporate tasks and VR combat training. At some point, you gotta live.¡± I nod, the comment biting deeper than she knows. But I don¡¯t argue further. She finalizes her purchase¡ªa heart-stopping amount of eddies for a single piece of clothing¡ªand we leave for the next store.
Later that evening, I¡¯m back in my corporate-issued apartment. I drop onto my swivel chair, monitors lighting up with lines of code. My daily schedule flickers across the main screen: morning shift at the office, a break I typically spend in advanced infiltration sims, then more work on a quickhack project. By the time night falls, I¡¯m usually so drained I can only do more coding or pass out. I recall Clover¡¯s question. Do you have any hobbies? I stare at my reflection in the dark screen. The truth is¡­ not really. There¡¯s an emptiness in that realization. Feeling restless, I open a search engine. Might as well see if I can find something that resonates. I half remember older tunes from before¡ªmy memory of another life, intangible. Sinatra, Elvis, Dean Martin, old classics. I type in ¡°Frank Sinatra.¡± The results are pitiful: a few short references, broken links to archived media that no longer exist. The DataKrash ¡ªa catastrophic meltdown unleashed by Rache Bartmoss in 2022, ravaged the old Net, and what remains is behind the Blackwall. Because of that event, so many digital archives from the 20th century and earlier were lost forever. My search yields only scraps. I click on a snippet titled ¡°Excerpt of ¡®Fly Me To The¡ª¡¯¡± and a broken audio track attempts to play. There¡¯s a swirl of static, then a ghostly voice¡ªsmooth, melodic, tantalizing in its echo. It lasts maybe ten seconds before it cuts out. I could perhaps reconstruct the audio. Slumping in my chair, I realize that I¡¯ve spent my entire current existence ignoring stuff like music¡ªClover¡¯s right. I haven¡¯t let myself enjoy anything if it doesn¡¯t further my training or job performance. I rub my temples, a headache forming. This is ridiculous. I close the failed search window. Right on cue, a comm call from Rafe. Again. I accept it, pushing aside my swirling thoughts. His voice is casual, with a hint of excitement beneath it. ¡°Ellia. Good timing. Listen, me and some friends are booting up a MvP, Maxtac V Psychos. We¡¯re down a player. Wanna join?¡± I blink. ¡°I don¡¯t really play games,¡± I say, automatically. ¡°I never had the chance. My father was strict. Wanted me to focus on corporate responsibilities, not messing around in VR with random people.¡± Rafe laughs. ¡°Sheltered corpo princess, huh? That¡¯s basically a travesty. You probably have the best rig out of any of us. C¡¯mon choom. It¡¯s fun, and we need you.¡± Sheltered corpo princess. I bristle a little¡ªhe¡¯s gotten surprisingly comfortable with me so quickly, but a twinge of truth stings me. He¡¯s not wrong. I weigh my response. Maybe it¡¯s the echo of Clover¡¯s voice telling me to do something outside my bubble, or perhaps it¡¯s the small memory of playing video games in my previous life. Or maybe it¡¯s a deeper craving for something different. I let out a breath. ¡°Alright, one match,¡± I say. ¡°But don¡¯t expect me to be good. I haven¡¯t exactly been gaming.¡± ¡°Awesome,¡± Rafe says. ¡°I¡¯ll send you the invite. Join the psycho side.¡± We hang up, and I stare at the blinking ¡°Download Complete¡± icon in my field of vision. I hope I don¡¯t regret this.
I jack into my rig. The harness envelops my arms and torso, neural links hooking into the back of my skull. There¡¯s a familiar hum as the system syncs to my implants. Initializing. The next moment, I stand in a gritty urban sprawl rendered in neon and grime. A pulsing scoreboard hovers overhead, showing the Maxtac side and the Psychos side. Rafe¡¯s avatar, plus two others¡ªOrion and Sono¡ªare grouped with me in a small alley. Rafe¡¯s avatar looks paramilitary, a sleek black outfit with minimal flair. He waves me over. ¡°Override, right?¡± I glance at the name floating over my own avatar: Override. It was my gamer tag before my reincarnation. My avatar is a dark silhouette with faint electric-blue outlines, eyes glowing faintly. ¡°Yeah,¡± I confirm. Orion smirks. ¡°So you do have a sense of style. That¡¯s an edgy avatar.¡± Sono runs a quick check on my gear. ¡°Your loadout¡¯s standard. We¡¯ll find you a better weapon. The psycho side is all about stealth kills and jump scares, basically.¡± I nod, slipping into old instincts from infiltration training. This environment isn¡¯t too different from the real VR combat sims I¡¯ve run in corporate security. If anything, it¡¯s less punishing. There¡¯s no risk of actual bullet wounds or neural feedback injuries. I can handle this. Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators! We split up. Orion and Sono lay booby traps in a half-destroyed building while Rafe and I scale a flickering fire escape to get a vantage point over the main street. Through the windows, we see the opposing team¡ªfully decked out in Maxtac gear, systematically sweeping the area in tight formation. I select the monowire loadout. I release the monowire, twirling and swinging it. My VR interface reports near-instant response time¡ªthe monowire flickers with a digital sheen that hints at lethal capability. ¡°Let¡¯s go,¡± I say, a grin tugging at my lips. I used to dabble, I remind myself, recalling my old reflexes.
GrayFox POV (Ingame Maxtac Squad) GrayFox led his unit through a city block at night, his senses acutely aware of every fractured sound. Broken street lamps barely managed to cast sporadic pools of light across rubble-strewn sidewalks and busted-open shopfronts. Overhead, skeletal skyscrapers¡ªhalf a dozen in all¡ªloomed like grim sentinels, their shattered windows hinting at conflicts too terrible to name. The ambiance was heavy with tension; GrayFox could almost feel the roaches scurrying in the shadows and see electrical sparks leaping from fractured wires, each spark igniting a primal alert in his mind. His squad¡¯s loadouts were standard Maxtac fare: rifles steady in his hands, flashbangs secured at the hip, and a short-range scanner that beeped softly whenever movement came too close. Normally, they dealt with psychos who charged recklessly or relied on raw brute force. In such cases, GrayFox¡¯s unit methodically cleared buildings¡ªoverlapping fields of fire ensuring that no enemy could ambush them from behind. Tonight, however, something was distinctly off. From the moment they spawned, the city was unnervingly quiet. GrayFox¡¯s scanner reported minimal movement, and the comm channels buzzed with similar reports from the other squads¡ªeight or nine players total¡ªeach one echoing an eerie calm. ¡°No contact yet. Holding position. Possible psycho movement on the upper floors. Stay frosty,¡± crackled the messages. GrayFox¡¯s stomach churned. His instincts told him this silence was the calm before a storm. Taking point, GrayFox stepped gingerly into a ruined convenience store. The store was a tableau of decay: toppled shelves, scattered and cracked VR game boxes, and faded posters advertising old braindances peeling off the walls. As his squadmates¡ªHawkeye, Blitz, and Ember¡ªspread out behind him with rifles raised, he couldn¡¯t shake the feeling of impending doom. Every shadow seemed laden with threat. Then, a flicker of motion appeared on his HUD¡ªa subtle, ghostlike presence crossing the street outside. GrayFox¡¯s heart skipped a beat. ¡°Contact!¡± he hissed urgently into the squad comm. Weapons were raised and nerves strung taut. They burst out onto the street, expecting a foe, but found only drifting trash and the distant whir of a generator. GrayFox¡¯s mind reeled; the absence of a clear target made his skin crawl. Undeterred, the squad pushed deeper into the city block, linking up with another group to cover more ground. Without warning, the overhead lights sputtered and died. In a single moment, street lamps and neon signs fizzled out, leaving only the narrow, unwavering beams of their suit-mounted spotlights to pierce the darkness. Ember muttered a curse under her breath¡ª¡°Night shift? That¡¯s early in the match. They must¡¯ve triggered a power grid hack¡±¡ªbut GrayFox only gripped his rifle tighter. His mind raced through possibilities; was this a planned disruption or the handiwork of an unseen foe? Hawkeye¡¯s scanner chirped softly. ¡°No direct movement. Could be a trick to spook us,¡± he observed. GrayFox nodded, his inner thoughts darkening. He knew better than to trust a silence that felt so orchestrated. Then came the moment that splintered their fragile composure. As Blitz swung his rifle toward the rear, shining his beam into a shadowed alley, a choked shriek ripped through the quiet. GrayFox¡¯s blood ran cold as he spun around. There, emerging from the darkness like a specter, was a tall figure dressed in obsidian black. A shimmering monowire flashed¡ªso quickly that GrayFox only had a split second to register it¡ªand then Blitz¡¯s health bar plummeted to zero in a sudden, brutal burst of red. The figure, as though it were nothing more than a ghost, melted into the gloom before any countermeasure could be taken. ¡°What the hell?¡± Ember breathed, her voice laced with raw panic. GrayFox felt the weight of the word ¡°Override¡± throb on the kill feed¡ªa single word that now pulsed with a sinister, almost personal menace. They huddled together, adrenaline thrumming through each soldier¡¯s veins. ¡°Form up, back to back,¡± GrayFox ordered, his voice clipped and taut. In his mind, questions swirled¡ªhow could an opponent vanish so effortlessly? Was it a glitch? Or was the enemy simply that skilled? Every fiber of his training screamed caution. Moving as one, the squad advanced to the next street corner, carefully maneuvering around piles of rubble. A distant crash echoed from above¡ªlike twisted metal giving way¡ªbut then there was nothing, just oppressive silence. Trusting his instincts, GrayFox ordered the thermal overlays activated. If any enemy lurked near, their silhouettes would betray them. Instead, the scene remained deserted, a void of unsettling calm. Ahead, they spotted another friendly squad engaged in a desperate firefight with a blur of motion. Muzzle flashes strobing in the darkness revealed, for an instant, a black-clad figure darting along a collapsed hallway. In a heartbeat, that figure had leaped off the wall, swooping down on one of the enemy players. The kill feed updated again: ¡°GreenDog eliminated by Override¡±¡ªthen a second name, and then a third. GrayFox¡¯s pulse thundered in his ears as he watched the annihilation unfold in horrifying rapidity. He exchanged a sharp, grim look with his comrades as they watched the enemy squad disintegrate before their eyes. The last soldier tried to flee, but the phantom opponent pounced from above, delivering a final blow that silenced him permanently. Desperation and fury warred within GrayFox as he barked into the comm, ¡°All squads, this is GrayFox! We have a psycho user named Override. They¡¯re coordinated, moving fast. We need to regroup¡ª¡± His command was met with nothing but static, then intermittent cries from another group reporting ghostly illusions in the subway level, followed by a bloodcurdling shriek. And then, silence. Ember, her voice barely a whisper through tears and fear, clutched GrayFox¡¯s shoulder. ¡°This is insane. We can¡¯t hunt them. They¡¯re hunting us.¡± Her words, raw and unfiltered, echoed in GrayFox¡¯s mind. He gritted his teeth and, summoning every ounce of resolve, replied, ¡°We move together. Keep your corners covered. If they come at us, we light ¡®em up.¡± But inside, he questioned every decision, feeling the weight of each loss. With grim determination, the squad pressed into an adjoining building¡ªa once-grand lobby now reduced to a cavern of shattered glass and ruined architecture. The atrium, its glass ceiling broken into jagged shards, let in only sporadic light. Pillars lay fractured, walls were riddled with bullet holes, and in the courtyard, the flicker of fire from a crashed helicopter painted ghostly figures on the walls. The darkness here was almost sentient, a living tapestry of danger. GrayFox¡¯s suit-lights skimmed over debris while his scanner registered faint, deliberate footsteps from above. He froze, every sense on high alert. In a heartbeat, terror struck anew. A shape plummeted from the broken skylight, landing silently behind Ember. There was no time for a cry; the monowire came in a swift, merciless arc, slicing through her chest in a burst of vivid red. A second, equally fatal strike followed, and Ember collapsed, her digital life extinguished. The kill feed read once more: ¡°Ember eliminated by Override.¡± GrayFox¡¯s heart pounded in his chest as he felt the heavy burden of loss. Hawkeye and GrayFox spun as one, their rifles blazing full-auto toward the vanishing figure. For a split second, GrayFox caught sight of the attacker: a dark silhouette with eyes that glowed faintly in the dim light, exuding an unnerving calmness. The figure moved as if it anticipated every shot, weaving through the barrage of bullets with supernatural agility. Muzzle flashes danced in disjointed, strobing bursts as the enemy slipped behind a collapsed pillar. Their gunfire ricocheted off the stone, leaving their magazines empty and their hopes dwindling. They reloaded in frantic silence, breaths ragged and minds in turmoil. ¡°We have to go,¡± Hawkeye muttered, his voice thick with despair. ¡°They¡¯ll pick us off next.¡± GrayFox nodded, the rising tide of panic threatening to overwhelm him. ¡°Fall back, fast!¡± he ordered, urgency lacing every word. The squad sprinted into a narrow side corridor, boots pounding against broken marble as emergency lights flickered overhead. Over the comms, the final screams of another squad¡ªpinned down in some distant sector of the map¡ªechoed, the name ¡°Override¡± repeating like a death knell. GrayFox¡¯s heart sank as he watched his comrades vanish one by one. In a desperate bid for survival, Hawkeye scrambled to seal a heavy door behind them with a quick weld, buying precious seconds. GrayFox¡¯s scanner caught a faint, irregular heartbeat coming from behind the sealed wall¡ªa fleeting sign of movement that urged them to move even more cautiously. He gestured silently for the team to advance along the corridor, rifles at the ready, every shadow a potential deathtrap. Just as they reached an intersection shrouded in dim, sputtering light, the overhead illumination flickered back to life. There, perched ominously on a twisted metal beam along the ceiling, was the psycho. GrayFox¡¯s throat tightened as he raised his voice to issue a warning, but before he could finish, the figure leapt down with a terrifying burst of speed. A single, swift slash¡ªthe sound of a wire slicing through the wind and agony¡ªsent Hawkeye¡¯s avatar reeling in a haze of digital gore. The comm line updated with grim efficiency: ¡°Hawkeye eliminated by Override.¡± In that moment, desperation took hold of GrayFox. He broke into a full sprint, ignoring the pounding in his chest and the echo of his panicked breaths. Every step was a frantic dash toward the extraction zone¡ªa hope that somewhere, somehow, he might reunite with any surviving members of his unit. His flashlight bobbed erratically as he tore through the corridor, his mind a whirl of terror and determination. This was supposed to be a game, but the visceral fear was indistinguishable from reality. A sudden glitch of static danced at the edge of his vision¡ªa final, ominous sign that the psycho was close. GrayFox snapped his rifle up, aiming wildly into the dark void. But his own pounding footsteps betrayed him. Then, he sensed it: a faint whisper of movement, a rush of air that heralded a predator¡¯s pounce. He whirled around, eyes straining in the darkness, and there, just for a split second, he saw the figure again. Its eyes glowed with cold precision, and its monowire arced in a lethal, final sweep. The HUD erupted in bright red warnings. GrayFox¡¯s limbs locked in terror as the last message blazed across his screen: ¡°GrayFox eliminated by Override.¡± In an instant, his avatar dissolved into darkness, leaving behind only a final scoreboard and the echo of that one fateful name¡ªOverride¡ªetched indelibly in every surviving player¡¯s memory.
Ellia pov I take deep breaths as I sit on the virtual floor in the post-match lobby¡ªan industrial-style VR space with chain-link fences and flickering fluorescent lights. My real body was probably drenched in sweat. In-game, we thoroughly annihilated the Maxtac squads. My kills soared thanks to infiltration moves gleaned from years of actual combat simulations. It¡¯s exhilarating. Rafe¡¯s voice filters through the leftover team chat. ¡°Holy¡ªEllia, you said you didn¡¯t play?¡± Orion laughs. ¡°That was terrifying. I almost pity them.¡± Sono whistles. ¡°Where¡¯d you learn those moves?¡± I press my lips together, letting out a shaky laugh. ¡°I, uh¡­ I¡¯ve had some training. Corporate security sims.¡± Rafe is still chortling. ¡°Yeah, well. Remind me never to never get on your bad side.¡± A weird sense of pride churns in my stomach. So I can do something that isn¡¯t strictly ¡®work.¡¯ Maybe my virtual combat drills actually paid off in unexpected ways. Orion and Sono say their goodbyes, logging off. Their avatars blink out, leaving me alone with Rafe in the post-match lobby.Rafe leans against a battered digital crate, crossing his arms. ¡°That was a blast. We usually do a game night once a week, so you¡¯re invited if you want.¡± I shift, feeling a surprising wave of gratitude that he asked. ¡°Might take you up on that. It¡¯s kinda nice to, well, do something else for a change.¡± He nods. ¡°Glad to help. Hey, we¡¯re actually heading to a netrunner hub next. You want in?¡± I arch a brow. ¡°A netrunner hub? I¡¯ve never heard of them.¡± Rafe¡¯s grin widens. ¡°Of course not. Sheltered corpo princess, right?¡± I roll my eyes, but I can¡¯t deny my curiosity. ¡°Don¡¯t rub it in.¡± He laughs. ¡°It¡¯s like a VR plaza for coders, hackers, data-traders. You might like it. They¡¯ve got shops for custom scripts, black-market ICE, that kinda thing.¡± ¡°All right,¡± I say, surprised by how eager I sound. ¡°Let¡¯s go.¡±
Another swirl of neon disorientation, and I re-appear in a sprawling VR metropolis. My new avatar¡ªa transparent aquamarine figure that mimics my silhouette¡ªrenders smoothly in the prismatic glow. The hub is huge: walkways of data, towering neon towers representing shops, throngs of netrunner avatars bartering in a kaleidoscope of forms. Rafe stands beside me, his black geometry-laced avatar flickering as he gestures expansively. ¡°Welcome. Big rule here: watch your ICE. Some people like scanning noobs for system vulnerabilities.¡± I check my rig status: stable, no intrusion attempts. ¡°Got it.¡± He leads me through a few aisles, each with floating signage advertising code:"QUICKHACKS" ¡°CUSTOM DAEMONS,¡± ¡°ICEBREAKERS,¡± ¡°REMOTE BOT OVERRIDES.¡± Vendors peddle data as if it were fresh produce at a farmer¡¯s market. I see netrunners haggling over a new meltdown hack, some hooking each other up with exploit trades. We drift toward a large stall called Night Market Novelties. Rafe points out a neat Ping upgrade but shrugs. ¡°That¡¯s mainstream stuff. Still good. Anyway, I gotta meet someone in a private node. Wander around, see what catches your eye.¡± I give him a parting wave, scanning the crowd. ¡°Will do.¡± He disappears into a swirling black gateway. Left to my own devices, I wander deeper. The main corridors are jammed with flamboyant avatars and stalls with dizzying arrays of code. Deeper in, the foot traffic thins; the netrunners here move with quiet purpose. Their avatars look more refined, the environment heavier with encryption. My rig hums as it adjusts to the advanced data layers. I pause at a tall, domed booth emblazoned with shimmering text. Inside, lines of quickhack scripts rotate like rotating display racks in a clothing store. I examine an advanced Overheat mod that doubles it¡¯s speed while cutting memory usage. Impressive. I lose myself in analyzing the subroutines. Suddenly, a voice behind me: ¡°Nice find.¡± I turn to see a lithe avatar shimmering in yellowish code, vaguely feminine. She steps closer, scanning me appraisingly. ¡°That Overheat script is good quality. You definitely know your code if you¡¯re reading it that carefully.¡± ¡°It¡¯s well-written,¡± I say, my curiosity piqued. ¡°A lot of Overheat variants are simple and can get messy. This is lean and potent.¡± She tilts her head, her silhouette¡¯s textures rippling. ¡°Your avatar¡¯s rendering is crisp. Must be a top-of-the-line rig.¡± I give a small nod. ¡°Custom build. I do a lot of coding.¡± ¡°Figures,¡± she says, voice warm. ¡°Don¡¯t see you around here often. New?¡± ¡°Yeah,¡± I admit. ¡°First time in a netrunner hub like this. My friend introduced me.¡± She laughs softly, then leans in conspiratorially. ¡°If you like advanced hacks, I can show you a deeper node¡ªstuff they don¡¯t sell to newbies. But your rig better handle it. The encryption there is fierce.¡± I set the Overheat script down, intrigued. ¡°I¡¯ll manage.¡± She beckons me behind a swirling curtain of code. My rig begins to heat up as the environment transitions to a private sub-node. Only a handful of netrunners stroll here, each avatar stable and heavily encrypted. The stalls are smaller but filled with undeniably powerful and sometimes illegal hacks: meltdown viruses, multi-layer infiltration daemons, scripts capable of shutting down entire city blocks with the proper hardware. ¡°Wild, right?¡± the yellow-coded avatar says. ¡°Code like this can be lethal in the wrong hands.¡± ¡°You¡¯re not wrong,¡± I murmur. My mind toggles through possibilities, a swirl of excitement and caution. ¡°I¡¯m not sure I¡¯d go that route, but it¡¯s impressive.¡± She shrugs. ¡°Depends on your moral compass.¡± Her voice brightens. ¡°Anyway, I appreciate your eye for detail. Not many would spend that much time reading the description on an Overheat quickhack.¡± I glance at her. ¡°Thanks for showing me around.¡± Checking the time, I realize it¡¯s much later than I expected. ¡°I should probably head out soon, though.¡± She nods, stepping away from the stall. ¡°Sure. This place can eat your entire night if you let it. Mind if we swap contacts? I like connecting with people who know their stuff.¡± I hesitate a moment, but she seems genuine enough. ¡°Yeah, let¡¯s do it.¡± She sent me a data handshake, and I accepted. A bright swirl of code indicates our rigs have exchanged secure IDs. ¡°Thanks,¡± she says. ¡°I didn¡¯t catch your username.¡± I smile faintly at my reflection in the shop window. ¡°I''m Override.¡± She cocks her head, letting the name roll around in the air, then responds, ¡°Call me Kiwi.¡± Chapter 12 - Viktor
-Diary Log 3/20/2062- I met a guy last week. An edgerunner. Didn¡¯t catch his real name¡ªhe went by Kite. Said he was between gigs, trying to score something big. We sat at the same ramen stall, and he just started talking, like he needed someone to hear him. Told me about his last job, a botched convoy hit in Pacifica, how he barely crawled out with his chrome intact. He laughed like it didn¡¯t matter, like Night City hadn¡¯t already decided his fate. Out of curiosity, I looked him up today. I found a single line buried in the news feeds¡ªKite, cyberpsycho, neutralized by NCPD in Watson. No grand send-off, no legacy, just another nameless body dumped in the gutter. I don¡¯t know why it stuck with me. Maybe because he was the first person in a long time who talked to me without wanting something. Maybe because he had plans, dreams, and in the end, it didn¡¯t mean a damn thing. Seven days. That¡¯s all it took for Night City to erase him. -Ellia -Log end-
-Night City- -Private Netrunner Sub-Node- The name Kiwi triggered a swirl of images and half-forgotten lore from a vanished world: Kiwi, the netrunner from Maine¡¯s crew, and Lucy¡¯s mentor, the one whose motto was simple but unyielding: never trust a soul in Night City. I must have stood still for too long because the Kiwi¡¯s avatar turned. I saw a stylized face, blank but for faint slits where eyes might be. Her posture stilled. She tilted her head. ¡°Are you okay?¡± The voice was crisp, cool, distinctly female. There was a slight hiss, as if masked by an audio filter. I realized I¡¯d been staring, locked in place, posture rigid and arms taut at my sides. Her question brought me back to the present. I forced my avatar¡¯s limbs to relax, let them assume the pre-programmed idle stance. ¡°Oh¡ªuh¡ªsorry,¡± I replied quickly. ¡°I got lost in the code and my deck glitched.¡± A lie, but plausible enough. She made a small gesture of understanding. ¡°Better watch it. This place can fry your deck if you push it too hard, or if you let the locals get too curious.¡± Her voice was casual but had an undercurrent of mild concern. ¡°You sure you¡¯re all right?¡± I swallowed. ¡°Yeah. All good.¡± I forced my avatar to produce a slight wave. ¡°Guess I just recognized your handle from somewhere¡ªmaybe a rumor.¡± I tried to keep my tone light. The faint luminous shape of Kiwi¡¯s face tilted again. ¡°Hmm. Not sure where you¡¯d have heard it. I keep a low profile.¡± A moment¡¯s hesitation. ¡°Are you sure we haven¡¯t met?¡± My heart hammered. ¡°No, no, must be an error. Sorry to bother you.¡± She said nothing for a moment, letting the silence weigh between us. Then, with a graceful pivot, she turned back to the display of scripts. ¡°Suit yourself.¡± I seized the moment to vanish before she probed further. I forced my deck to open a local sub-menu, conjuring a quick ¡°Logout¡± door. ¡°Gotta run,¡± I mumbled. ¡°Take care.¡± Without waiting for a reply, I launched out of the hub. A swirl of neon code enveloped me as the environment collapsed into a black funnel. Moments later, I was back in the real world, blinking away the VR haze in the solitude of my apartment. My heart still hammered as I stared at the battered 2030 laptop perched on a side table. I swallowed, opening the ancient 2030 laptop¡¯s archaic OS. The battered screen flickered to life, lines of text scanning across in a dusty hue and I go through my database
Alias/Handle: Kiwi Appearance: Kiwi is a tall, slender woman draped in a flowing red jacket. The most striking thing about her is the red mask that conceals the lower half of her face¡ªhiding the fact that her jaw is completely missing. She has a sharp, feline gaze and a short, pale blonde bob. History & Reputation: ¨C Kiwi was part of Maine¡¯s mercenary crew well before the main events of Edgerunners. ¨C Stands out for her distant demeanor and self-reliant philosophy¡ª¡°never trust a soul in Night City.¡± ¨C Despite her aloof stance, Kiwi and Lucy share an intimate if subtle bond. Lucy¡¯s netrunning skill eventually surpasses Kiwi¡¯s in crucial missions. ¨C Kiwi has orchestrated or contributed to important ambushes. For instance, involvement in the Jimmy Kurosaki job, a turning point in multiple timelines. Possibly assisted in data heists for Maine¡¯s crew. ¨C Known to have once attempted a breach of Tanaka¡¯s ICE but failed after Maine''s cyberpsycho attack, prompting Lucy to step in¡ªthis moment changed Lucy¡¯s path in Maine¡¯s crew. Role as a Netrunner: ¨C Kiwi¡¯s talents lean toward infiltration and intelligence gathering. She¡¯s adept at setting up ambushes, data interceptions, and bridging specialized equipment. ¨C Skilled but overshadowed by Lucy in raw infiltration. Kiwi¡¯s approach: methodical, cautious. She rarely invests personal feelings in a job, aligning with her motto of universal distrust.
I stared at these words, a knot forming in my stomach. The difference between knowledge gleaned from that show and the brutal reality I inhabited gnawed at me. Kiwi was dead in that storyline. And yet, here in 2064, the netrunner was still alive.
-Rafe¡¯s Workshop- -3 days later- I walked into the workshop and immediately spotted Rafe bent over a cluttered workbench, tinkering with a fist-sized circuit component that gleamed under the flickering neon overhead. The cramped interior of his makeshift workspace in Heywood reeked of scorched metal, engine oil, and take-out leftovers. Drones in various states of assembly lined every shelf, while half a dozen circuit boards lay scattered across the floor. He glanced up as my footsteps neared, a wry, unreadable grin spreading across his face. ¡°Took you long enough,¡± he said. I crossed my arms, surveying the chaos of tangled cables and half-burnt wiring. ¡°I¡¯d say your decor¡¯s gotten worse, but that would imply there was a standard here to start with.¡± ¡°Hey,¡± he retorted, only half-offended. ¡°It¡¯s a system. Organized chaos.¡± With a flick, he activated a spot on the circuit board and held it out with triumphant flair. ¡°Anyway, check this out: brand-new schematic for your deck. It even includes a custom heatsink for that fancy Biotech ¦² you¡¯re packing these days.¡± I studied the metal attachment, noting the spiderweb of tiny gold and silver conduits etched across its surface. ¡°Looks like a bunch of micro-lattice vents on top of a standard HPC conductor?¡± Rafe¡¯s eyes lit up as he flipped the piece over to reveal an exposed circuit board. ¡°Yeah, that¡¯s the gist. It¡¯s a specialized mod that¡¯ll funnel heat away from your deck¡¯s cores¡ªperfect for overclocking or rapid-fire quickhacks.¡± I raised a brow. ¡°And you think any random tech can attach it?¡± ¡°Not just any,¡± he replied. ¡°You need a ripperdoc who knows this kind of street mod. Also, see these four pins?¡± He tapped them gently. ¡°They have to link directly with your deck¡¯s sensor array. If the doc solders them wrong, you risk frying your precious corpoware.¡± I grimaced. ¡°That¡¯s exactly what I¡¯m worried about. Don¡¯t you know a reliable doc?¡± He shrugged. ¡°Don¡¯t you have, like, some rich Biotechnica ripper on speed dial?¡± I let out a dry laugh. ¡°Sure, I¡¯ll just stroll into a corporate clinic and politely ask them to install unapproved street mods onto unreleased hardware. I¡¯m sure they¡¯d love that.¡± Rafe snorted and set down the piece. ¡°Good point. I do know a decent ripper in Little China, over in Watson. And he¡¯s cheap, too.¡± I rolled my eyes. ¡°Believe it or not, ¡®cheap¡¯ isn¡¯t exactly my deciding factor.¡± He explained, ¡°Yeah, well, it¡¯s Vik. His real name¡¯s Viktor, but everyone calls him Vik. The guy¡¯s good¡ªand he doesn¡¯t charge an arm and a leg for basic enhancements. Even advanced stuff, if you know him well enough.¡± Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on. My mind flickered through half-remembered references. ¡°Viktor¡­ as in Viktor Vektor?¡± Rafe eyed me carefully. ¡°Uh, yeah? You know him?¡± ¡°That¡¯s not important,¡± I quickly dismissed, waving a hand. ¡°But I¡¯ve been meaning to meet him actually. Let¡¯s go see what he can do.¡± Rafe nodded, relief softening his features. ¡°Great. I actually need to drop by too¡ªI missed a couple of checkups, and Vik¡¯s been on my case.¡± A slow grin tugged at my lips as I said, ¡°So, we¡¯re heading to Watson. And how do we get there? Don¡¯t tell me your rust bucket out front is finally back in working order.¡± He placed a hand on his heart, feigning offense. ¡°Look, my ride may not be the prettiest, but it runs¡ªmost days.¡± I shot him a withering look. ¡°Right. You can ride with me on the AV.¡± His protest died on his lips. Fiddling with a broken drone shell, he mumbled, ¡°Fine. If you insist.¡±
I boarded my Biotechnica AV just outside the workshop, the door sliding shut with a subdued hiss. Inside, the cabin enveloped us in an almost oppressively smooth interior of synthetic leather and tinted windows, with two droids standing by. I sank into one of the plush seats while Rafe lingered awkwardly, taking it all in. As the craft lifted from the ground with an effortless hum, I peered out the window. Heywood¡¯s chaotic streets unfurled below: block after block of chipped concrete, graffiti-splashed walls, and even the occasional flash of muzzle fire from a gang shootout near the Santo Domingo border. Rafe stared out too, his eyes tracking the silhouette of battered tenements, tents, and cardboard shacks huddled together under the gleam of monorails. In the distance, the polished skyscrapers of the City Center rose like monoliths, a stark divide between the haves and have-nots. After a long silence, I finally broke it. ¡°You okay?¡± Rafe waved his hand dismissively. ¡°Shh. Let a man fantasize.¡± ¡°Fantasize about what, exactly?¡± I asked, arching an eyebrow. He snorted softly. ¡°About being in the big leagues¡ªlike those legends who get their own AV, traveling high above the rabble. Just soaking in the view, you know? This must be how big-time mercs or well-known edgerunners see the city¡ªsmall and far away. It¡¯s kind of¡­ motivating.¡± I let his words settle before asking, ¡°When you left Biotechnica Tower after the test, you said you¡¯d try becoming a merc. How¡¯s that going?¡± His cheeks flushed. ¡°You know¡­ a gig here, a gig there. Nothing major.¡± A quick mental command on my part had my kiroshi optics pull up Rafe¡¯s partial records¡ªpublic data and some snippets from Biotechnica¡¯s logs. I saw a handful of minor tasks: deliveries and petty fetch jobs. Smirking, I said, ¡°By ¡®gigs,¡¯ you mean running packages around for random no-name fixers?¡± Rafe¡¯s expression twisted. ¡°How the hell do you know that?¡± I offered a half-shrug. ¡°It¡¯s not exactly hidden. Your profile¡¯s wide open, and you¡¯ve posted on every bottom-tier job board in Night City. No offense, but that¡¯s not how you land the big leagues.¡± He slumped in his seat. ¡°I¡¯m not getting calls from the major fixers, obviously. They contact you first once you prove yourself.¡± ¡°Couldn¡¯t you just¡ªmessage them? Show some initiative?¡± I prodded. He shot me a sour look. ¡°It¡¯s not that simple. Especially if you¡¯re nobody. The fixers with real power don¡¯t have time for cold calls¡ªthey want a reason to approach you.¡± I studied him, noticing the frustration that undercut his usual bravado, and a twinge of sympathy stirred within me. ¡°I know some big fixers. Dino Dinovic in City Center, for instance. But Dino¡¯s mostly into dangerous gigs¡ªmajor corp infiltrations or high-stakes hijacks. I remember my father hiring him for some internal espionage once. Not sure you¡¯d want that.¡± Rafe let out a long sigh. ¡°I guess it doesn¡¯t matter. I don¡¯t have the rep for that sort of job¡ªnot yet, anyway.¡± I pursed my lips. ¡°Well, if you need smaller tasks¡ªmaybe some netrunning subcontracts¡ªI might be able to hook you up.¡± He chuckled lightly. ¡°I appreciate it, but I¡¯d prefer to catch the eye of a real bigshot. Dex, or maybe Faraday.¡± I burst into genuine laughter. ¡°Those two? Faraday¡¯s so deep in Militech you might as well sign with a corp, and Dex¡­ well, let¡¯s just say not everyone who works with him walks away alive.¡± Rafe¡¯s ears reddened, irritation flashing across his face. ¡°You sure talk like you know these people personally.¡± I simply shook my head with a knowing smile. ¡°Call it a hunch.¡± He opened his mouth to argue, but the AV¡¯s autopilot chimed, announcing our arrival in Watson. The craft glided onto a half-broken rooftop pad, thrusters kicking up trash and the stench of old takeout as the door hissed open. I led the way out, followed by two Biotechnica droids in corporate black, their optics scanning the narrow alley stretching from the rooftop¡¯s staircase to the street. Rafe swallowed and hopped out, his eyes darting around as if expecting a trap at any moment. He looked out of place next to the sleek, expressionless droids and my crisp jacket. ¡°This is it, I guess. Little China, alley near Vik¡¯s. Not the best area, but it does the job.¡± As we descended the steps, a wild-eyed man slumped against a corner, ranting in a singsong voice: ¡°These soulless men that run the corporations are not just human, but immortal! They gained their powers from aliens in Alpha Centauri¡­ open your eyes, people! The blue eyed aliens watch us all. It¡¯s in the radiowaves!¡± Rafe snickered and elbowed me lightly. ¡°I think he¡¯s talking about you.¡± I rolled my eyes. ¡°He¡¯s not entirely wrong.¡± Rafe nearly tripped over a loose brick and spun around, staring at me. ¡°What in the¡­ what do you mean by that?¡± I arched an eyebrow and kept walking. ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it.¡± ¡°Hey, you can¡¯t just drop a bomb like that and keep walking!¡± he called after me. We turned a corner, passing a shuttered Chinese restaurant with chipped, flickering neon above the door. Farther ahead, a broad sign reading ¡°Little China Dumpings¡± remained dark¡ªprobably closed for the night. This was the area where Misty¡¯s Esoterica would eventually set up shop. I paused to glance at a half-hidden metal gate beside the restaurant. Beyond it, a dimly lit alley cast long shadows on the crumbling pavement from a single, flickering light. ¡°He sets up shop down here, behind a half-broken gate? Doesn¡¯t exactly scream ¡®professional doc.¡¯¡± Rafe shrugged. ¡°Viktor hates fancy front signage. He¡¯s a back-alley doc with real skill¡ªhow he likes it. Anyway, how¡¯d you hear of him?¡± ¡°Biotechnica tried to recruit him at some point,¡± I replied carefully, offering only a half-truth. ¡°He said no.¡± Rafe snorted. ¡°Must not be money-motivated then. Guess he¡¯s just stubborn.¡± I signaled the droids to remain at the alley entrance. They beeped once, scanning the perimeter before taking up watchful positions. Rafe rolled his eyes but seemed relieved. ¡°Not exactly subtle, your goons.¡± I ignored the jab. ¡°Let¡¯s just get this done.¡± Inside the clinic, the smell of disinfectant and stale coffee hit me immediately. A row of battered waiting chairs lined one side, and the overhead fluorescent light buzzed incessantly. A robust older man¡ªsporting noticeable cybernetics¡ªlooked up from a desk cluttered with worn medical textchips. ¡°Hey, Vik,¡± Rafe greeted him with a raised hand. ¡°Long time no see.¡± Viktor turned, eyebrows knitting together. ¡°You again, huh? You missed your last two checkups.¡± His voice carried that exasperated yet fond tone of a reluctant father figure. Rafe coughed awkwardly, shoving his hands into his pockets. ¡°Yeah, well, been¡­ busy.¡± Vik¡¯s gaze shifted to me. ¡°And who¡¯s your friend?¡± ¡°I¡¯m Ellia,¡± I said, stepping forward. ¡°I need a mod attached to my cyberdeck¡ªsomething Rafe built.¡± I handed over the small case containing the module. Vik examined it with calloused fingers. ¡°This is decent craftsmanship. Looks custom. Should keep your deck cooler under load.¡± I nodded. ¡°I¡¯d like to get it installed¡ªunofficially. If that¡¯s all right with you.¡± His eyes flicked from the module to my crisp attire. ¡°You come from the corporate side of Night City?¡± ¡°Biotechnica,¡± I replied evenly. A wry smile crossed his face. ¡°I¡¯ll assume you¡¯re not here to offer me some fancy contract. Alright, I can help. But first, I gotta make sure your pal here isn¡¯t rotting from the inside. Rafe, on the chair. Now.¡± I said nothing, watching as Vik led Rafe into a side alcove lined with scanning equipment. I couldn¡¯t help but be amused as the younger netrunner endured a stern lecture about maintenance schedules, safe deck usage, and the cost of ignoring subtle warning signs. ¡°Kid, keep adding mods to your relic hardware like this, and you¡¯ll end up frying your synapses,¡± Vik warned, scanning Rafe¡¯s neural port. ¡°Next time, come in before you blow out half your deck. Got it?¡± ¡°Got it,¡± Rafe mumbled, his face flushed. Suppressing a smirk, I watched their dynamic¡ªRafe always tried to play it tough, yet here he was, practically chastised like a child. Eventually, Vik shooed Rafe away and beckoned me to the main medchair, rummaging for a micro-solder kit. ¡°All right, your turn. Let¡¯s see that fancy deck.¡± I lowered myself into the chair, letting calm settle over me. ¡°Go for it, doc.¡± I felt Vik unlock the hidden neural port behind my ear, carefully prying open the protective plating on my new Biotech ¦² deck. A faint hiss of escaping coolant signaled that the system was active, ready to be enhanced. Vik¡¯s brow furrowed in concentration as he attached the module pin by pin, aligning them perfectly with the deck¡¯s sensor array. Occasionally, he used a micro-laser to fuse the connections. A slight sting at my temple made me inhale sharply. Vik paused and injected a local anesthetic to dull the bite. After a few more delicate connections, he closed the panel with a decisive click. ¡°All done,¡± he announced, stepping back. ¡°Now, let¡¯s see if it boots without a meltdown.¡± I toggled the deck¡¯s overclock, feeling an internal hum vibrate along my neural pathways. The usual warmth at the back of my skull flared, then steadied into a pleasing equilibrium. A grin spread across my face. ¡°Feels stable.¡± Vik nodded approvingly. ¡°You¡¯ve got some advanced hardware in there, Ellia. You¡¯d better handle it carefully.¡± I offered a small shrug. ¡°I¡¯ll keep that in mind.¡± He settled onto a nearby stool, eyeing both Rafe¡ªstill perched on a crate¡ªand me, stretching my neck from the medchair. ¡°You two remind me of Jackie and his new friend. Jackie brought in some Arasaka Academy girl the other day¡ªboth wide-eyed and bickering. Different backgrounds, just like you two.¡± Rafe perked up. ¡°Jackie? Mama Welle¡¯s kid?¡± Vik sighed. ¡°Another dreamer, but with the personality to back it up. Might cause a stir one day¡ªif he doesn¡¯t get himself flatlined first.¡± I chewed on my lip as old memories stirred at the mention of Jackie. An Arasaka teen¡ªthat might be V. I tried to hide my reaction, but Vik¡¯s glance suggested he noticed. Just then, my comm beeped with a priority message: my father. ¡°Ellia, I have a new assignment for you.¡± The message was crisp, terse¡ªno time for pleasantries. I sighed inwardly and acknowledged the call with a mental press. The text scrolled across my vision. Forcing a polite expression, I said, ¡°I have to get back. Work calls.¡± Rafe hopped off the crate. ¡°Already? You sure you¡¯re good to travel so soon?¡± I gave a quick nod, stretching my arms. The new mod in my deck imbued me with a sense of steady power, yet it also reminded me how entangled I was in corporate demands. ¡°I¡¯ll manage.¡± Turning to Vik, I offered a rare, genuine half-smile. ¡°Thanks for the help, doc. This was exactly what I needed.¡± He smiled faintly. ¡°Stay safe. And if your deck starts smoking, come back before it fries your brain.¡± I eyed Rafe. ¡°Want a ride back? Or shall I call you a Delamain?¡± He shrugged, aiming for nonchalance. ¡°Delamain¡¯s fine, I guess¡­¡± Lowering his voice, he muttered, ¡°Fucking corpos and their eddies.¡± I nodded and stepped toward the door. Rafe trailed behind, looking oddly uncertain. As we reached the clinic exit, slipping past the last flicker of overhead neon, I called back, ¡°Later, Vik.¡± The doc just waved, his eyes already returning to some battered piece of hardware. Outside, my droids still manned their positions at the alley entrance, scanning passersby with mechanical disinterest. Pushing open the gate, I felt the night air of the city rush in¡ªa heady mix of engine fumes, street vendors¡¯ spices, and the faint tang of recent rain. My father¡¯s summons echoed in my mind. I turned to Rafe with calm finality. ¡°I¡¯ll have a Delamain pick you up in two. Good luck with your checkups next time¡ªI¡¯ll see you during game night.¡± He blinked, about to protest, then shrugged. ¡°Sure. Thanks.¡± Without another word, I strode off, my droids falling into step behind me, each mechanical footfall echoing on the wet pavement. A silent, threadbare glow from a distant streetlamp lit the far end of the alley, guiding me out. I tapped my comm to hail the AV, and my father¡¯s message scrolled again in my peripheral vision¡ªurgent and impersonal. Chapter 13 - Loose ends
-Diary Log 12/16/2060- Dear Diary The first time I met an actual canon character was oddly unexpected. My father paid a fixer to find a merc to kill a rival R&D manager and his team, and steal a data chip. He didn¡¯t trust any of his associates to collect the data, so there I was, an NCU student walking alone in downtown night city trying to find a place called ¡°Malted Iguana Liquors¡±. Turns out the place was a secret bar called Electric Orgasm in the literal shadiest part of downtown, and when I arrived, the damn bouncer didn¡¯t even let me in and just stood there. After an hour, I got tired of waiting, reset his optics, and walked right in, worst-case scenario trauma team would clean this dumphole of a bar. Inside, amid the usual neon haze and murmur of back-alley deals, I spotted him: Dino Dinovic, lazily sitting on a chair. I told him that my father sent me to retrieve the datachip, and he just joked about I made it past his bouncer and complimented my ¡°bold move¡± on the optics and handed over the data chip like I didn¡¯t stand out there for an hour. What an asshole. later, Ellia -Log end-
-Night City 2064- -Top of Biotechnica Tower- I stepped out of the AV onto the Biotechnica Tower rooftop, the night air clinging to my skin as the thrusters died down behind me. Two Biotechnica security drones and a pilot nodded curtly, but I barely acknowledged them. My focus was on the looming glass doors that led to the executive elevators. Inside, everything was polished white and silver¡ªsterile. The hum of corporate business thrummed beneath my feet, a constant undercurrent of whispered calls and flickering data screens. A quick scan of my ID got me into the elevator with no questions asked. The doors slid shut, enveloping me in the subtle scent of disinfectant and some vaguely floral cleaning agent. Corporate cleanliness at its finest. As I ascended, I found myself checking my reflection in the elevator¡¯s chrome plating. My hair, pinned into a sleek style for the day, showed a few rebellious strands escaping from the stress of the last few hours. I tried smoothing them down as the elevator chimed softly, letting me know I was nearly at Father¡¯s office. When the doors opened, I walked down a short corridor lined with minimalist artwork that tried too hard to appear avant-garde. Each step echoed on polished flooring until I reached his door¡ªa slab of opaque glass that slid aside the moment it recognized me. The lights in Father¡¯s office were lower than usual. He was hunched over a large, holographic display behind his imposing desk¡ªone of those carved monstrosities made from some exotic wood to project status. I could make out the words ¡°Project Sereph¡± flickering across the screen before he quickly switched to a dull chart of quarterly earnings. He finally noticed me, turned around, and gave me a tight-lipped stare. The lines on his face looked deeper today. Whatever the fiasco was, it had clearly aged him a little more. ¡°Your first operation was a failure,¡± he said by way of greeting. I felt a rush of adrenaline. I¡¯d braced for a reprimand, but not so abruptly. ¡°The mole operation? I caught Songbird digging through our data, didn¡¯t I?¡± He shook his head, brows furrowing. ¡°Songbird was let in. She didn¡¯t crack our encryption; the mole allowed her entry to erase data that revealed their own tracks. We have no idea how much was wiped, and I can¡¯t afford to let HQ catch wind of it.¡± My stomach twisted as I realized the implications. The breach was worse than I thought. ¡°So¡­ there¡¯s a mole?¡± I managed, trying to keep my voice steady. He tapped a control on the holo-display, pulling up a new tab. The faint glow illuminated his features, making the tension in his jaw even more obvious. ¡°The mole is Senior Researcher Dr. Darius Chen. He was supposed to clock in yesterday but never showed. No pings on any corporate account, no sightings on the Tower¡¯s cameras. He¡¯s ghosted us.¡± I scanned the file. Dr. Chen was an expert in biotech engineering, especially in gene-sequencing projects. If he¡¯d gone rogue, there was no telling what he could have stolen. Father¡¯s voice turned cold, more so than usual. ¡°If Biotechnica learns that a research team under my jurisdiction has been compromised, the consequences could be severe¡ªfor both of us. I need you to flatline him. Discreetly.¡± He picked up a small, black datachip from his desk and flicked it toward me. I caught it in midair. ¡°Those accounts are unlinked to Biotechnica. Use them to hire mercs if you need to. I¡¯ll handle damage control on the corp side, but you must deal with Chen as soon as possible.¡± I glanced at the chip, feeling its weight in my hand despite it being just a thin square of plastic and metal. ¡°Of course, Father,¡± I replied, swallowing the lump in my throat. He turned away, shutting me out as he pivoted back to the spreadsheets. Dismissed, I walked out, the door hissing closed behind me.
-Downtown Night City- Later that evening, I slipped into a dingy bar called Electric Orgasm. It looked like a condemned building from the outside, and the sign read Malted Iguana liquors. Inside, the atmosphere hit me like a wave: the smell of stale synth-smoke, cheap liquor, and something metallic, possibly from the crackling neon rods that blinked overhead. I wore my best ¡°street¡± outfit¡ªripped jacket, scuffed boots, and no obvious corporate logos. Father insisted I keep any Biotechnica branding under wraps. Undercover or not, I still picked my usual booth in the back. Same seat, same squeaky vinyl cushions that smelled faintly of spilled beer and disinfectant. Leaning back, I let the pounding bass lines from the ancient sound system wash over me. The bar wasn¡¯t exactly packed, but it was busy enough for background noise. A few groups huddled around battered tables, whispering about black-market deals or local gossip. Before I could even relax fully, Dino Dinovic emerged from a dimly lit hallway, probably having finished a side deal in one of the private rooms. He sauntered over to the counter with the kind of casual confidence that only a seasoned fixer could pull off. Noticing me, he flashed a grin. ¡°Ellia, my favorite delivery girl¡ªdid your old man send you, or are you just here to wet your whistle?¡± Dino asked, resting his elbows on the bar. Keeping my face neutral, I rose and approached him. ¡°I¡¯m here unofficially. Need you to put out a gig: tracking and assassination¡ªtriple the normal rate, and I¡¯ll pay you triple your usual cut, too. Only send it to mercs who can keep their mouths shut.¡± A slow whistle escaped his lips. ¡°With that kinda pay, I¡¯ll have half the city¡¯s scum beating down my door. Gonna give me any details, or just the kill order?¡± ¡°Name¡¯s Darius Chen. He¡¯s a researcher who went AWOL,¡± I said, keeping it vague. ¡°He¡¯s carrying data that could hurt me, and I want him gone. The data, however, is top priority. All shards in his possession go to me.¡± ¡°Right,¡± Dino agreed, already tapping on his agent. ¡°I¡¯ll start making calls. With triple rates, I¡¯ll have edgerunners chewing through walls in no time. Got a preference on who picks up the job?¡± ¡°Not particularly. Anyone who¡¯s reliable, and silent. This can¡¯t be linked back to my father or Biotechnica, understand?¡± He nodded, never stopping his flurry of texts and calls. After a moment, he pocketed the device and turned back to me. ¡°So, want a drink while you wait?¡± I shrugged, taking the seat next to him at the bar. ¡°Sure, I could use something strong.¡± He waved down the bartender. ¡°Two of the special,¡± he said, then turned to me with a mischievous glint. ¡°So, what¡¯s new in the wondrous world of corpos?¡± I took the glass the bartender slid my way and sipped, the liquor burning my throat pleasantly. ¡°It¡¯s all hush-hush, Dino. You know how it is.¡± He chuckled. ¡°Sure do. But hush-hush doesn¡¯t usually pay triple unless it¡¯s nuclear-level hush.¡± I set my drink down, narrowing my eyes while trying to change the subject. ¡°You¡¯re a die-hard Silverhand fan. The same rockboy to vowed to take down the mercs, now look at you. Hustling with us as much as any other merc.¡± His eyes sparkled at my jab. ¡°I hustle with corpos because they pay the bills, sweetheart. Keeps the game preem interesting. Don¡¯t confuse that for loyalty. I never sold out¡ªI just learned how to survive. You, on the other hand¡ª¡± he leaned closer, ¡°you¡¯re a full-blown corpo now. Traded in your NCU campus days for the rat race. And as far as I can tell, you¡¯re climbing fast.¡± I rolled my eyes. ¡°Sounds like you¡¯re the one who sold out, mixing with corps every day.¡± Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there. He laughed softly, swirling his drink. ¡°Difference is, I keep my secrets close. You might think you do, but¡­ that brand on your jacket says otherwise.¡± I glanced down. A small, discreet Biotechnica seal near the collar. I winced. ¡°Great.¡± With a smirk, Dino pivoted the conversation. ¡°So, what else can I do for you tonight?¡± I cleared my throat. ¡°I also want a profile on a netrunner who goes by Kiwi. Heard she¡¯s decent, curious about her.¡± Dino¡¯s forehead wrinkled. ¡°Kiwi¡­ ring a bell. Think I¡¯ve sent gigs her way. She¡¯s good at staying out of the data limelight. Why d¡¯you want her?¡± I shrugged. ¡°We crossed paths on the Net. Nothing major. I just like to know who I¡¯m dealing with.¡± He tapped another quick note into his agent. ¡°I¡¯ll send you what I¡¯ve got by tonight. Might not be anything juicy, she¡¯s real careful.¡± He paused, then added, ¡°Her crew is on standby if you want them in on the Chen job. They¡¯re a bit green, though¡ªwouldn¡¯t be my first choice for a high-priority gig.¡± ¡°Anyone named Maine with them?¡± I asked out of nowhere. Dino shook his head. ¡°Nope. Why d¡¯you ask?¡± ¡°Just curious,¡± I said, finishing off my drink. The fixer rolled his shoulders. ¡°Well, for Chen, I¡¯ll keep it to the best crew. Already got a line on a few people. You want me to pass them the details for a time-sensitive job?¡± ¡°Yeah,¡± I said, standing up to leave. ¡°Tell them if Chen¡¯s taken out by tonight, I¡¯ll double the pay. All shards go through you¡ªI¡¯ll pick them up in person.¡± Dino flicked a casual salute. ¡°Done and done. Want to talk to the mercs direct?¡± I shook my head. ¡°No. They don¡¯t need to see my face.¡± With that, I turned and left, the neon glare of Electric Orgasm burning my retinas. I¡¯d let Dino handle the recruitment. My father wanted quick results, and that was exactly what he¡¯d get.
When I got outside the city was alive with late-night chaos. Cars honked, steam rose from broken vents in the pavement, and stray advertisements projected onto the sides of buildings. My new modded cyberdeck hummed at the base of my skull, that comforting neural tingle reminding me that every camera in range was at my command. With a small mental nudge, I overlayed half a dozen feeds in my peripheral vision. Grainy angles, rotating security cams, a random data-traffic monitor, all giving me a patchwork glimpse of the blocks around me. That¡¯s when I spotted him: a hooded figure trailing me. He stuck to the darkest edges of the street, face obscured by a tattered gray hood. I tested him, cutting abruptly across the road and turning down a narrow side alley. Sure enough, he followed. I decided to set a trap. Slipping in my earbuds, I queued up a track¡ªan old tune I¡¯d salvaged from a pre-Collapse data shard: The music began in my ears. ¡°When no one else can understand me¡­¡± The corner of my mouth twitched into a grin. I let my posture relax, feigning ignorance as I navigated the sidewalk. In one of my camera feeds, I watched him close the gap. Step by step, he drew nearer. ¡°When everything I do is wrong¡­¡± With a small mental command, I hacked a nearby vending machine. Its old circuits gave me no resistance. I set its power core to overload. ¡°You give me hope and consolation¡­¡± A sudden BOOM rattled the street as the vending machine blew. Twisted metal and cheap snack bars scattered across the pavement. My pursuer jumped back, startled, scanning the surroundings in a barely controlled panic. ¡°You give me strength to carry on¡­¡± Now I had him rattled. He edged toward a flickering lamppost that stood alone on the corner. A single, buzzing neon light flicked on and off above his hood. ¡°And you¡¯re always there to lend a hand¡­¡± He stared at that lamppost as though it were a bizarre beacon. To him, maybe it was. If he was any good, he¡¯d suspect the flickering wasn¡¯t random. But he seemed too nervous to piece it together. ¡°In everything I do¡­¡± I seized control of a parked car behind him¡ªan old model with an automated driving system. Re-routing the ignition to my deck was almost too easy. ¡°That¡¯s the wonder¡­¡± The engine roared to life. The car lurched forward, ramming him from behind. He didn¡¯t even have time to scream. ¡°The wonder of you.¡± He crumpled to the ground, dazed, maybe worse. I felt a sudden spike at the edge of my neural interface. Someone was trying to breach my ICE. My deck recognized it instantly¡ªa netrunner piggybacking on the hooded man¡¯s link. They never stood a chance. With a flick of my mental switch, I unleashed black ice so lethal that I almost felt sorry for them. Almost. The intrusion attempt fizzled, an echo of digital agony reverberating through my link before going silent. I approached the man¡¯s prone form carefully taking off my earbuds, scanning him for threats. A quick ID check popped up: Tobias Hurk, minor merc with a handful of completed gigs, known ties to the Sixth Street gang. He was out cold but still breathing. I tapped my comm. ¡°Ellia to Biotechnica Air. I need an immediate pickup at my current location.¡± The operator¡¯s voice crackled, ¡°Acknowledged. ETA three minutes.¡± A few curious onlookers gawked from a distance, but the typical Night City bystander mentality prevailed¡ªthey weren¡¯t about to involve themselves in some corporate scuffle. Before the AV arrived, I rummaged through Tobias¡¯s pockets. Just a few eddies, a cheap data slate, and a half-charged pistol. Sloppy. Within minutes, the AV descended with a hiss of hydraulics. Two droids and a security officer hopped out, rifles at the ready. The officer gave me a brief once-over. ¡°You all right, Miss McCallister?¡± ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± I said, stepping aside and gesturing at Tobias¡¯s limp form. ¡°He was tailing me. I want him in Biotechnica¡¯s interrogation room, stat.¡± He nodded. ¡°Understood.¡± The droids lifted Tobias¡¯s body with mechanical efficiency, the security officer covering them until the AV hatch slid closed. I followed them in, settling onto a seat while the engine thrummed, lifting us back into the Night City skyline.
Biotechnica Tower Interrogation room I¡¯d only been in this part of the tower a handful of times, but every visit felt colder than the last. The place didn¡¯t bother with the usual corporate veneer of warmth¡ªno tasteful sculptures, no polished motivational slogans. Instead, it was all sterile white walls that felt more like a lab than a detention room, illuminated by stark, buzzing fluorescents that gave everything a washed-out, almost unreal quality. Even the floor looked clinical, sealed tile that made footsteps echo as though each person were trespassing on sacred ground. A single metal table took center stage, anchored to the floor. It had adjustable restraints along the sides that looked like they could accommodate any limb arrangement a corp might need to secure. Tobias was strapped to a bolted-down chair next to it, unconscious but breathing. A bio-monitor at his wrist blinked green intermittently¡ªjust enough sedative to keep him stable while they patched him up. Couldn¡¯t interrogate a corpse, after all. I stood over him, arms folded, my posture stiff with a tension I tried to hide. Even the hum of the overhead lights seemed amplified here, underscoring the gravity of what I was about to do. I mentally toggled a command in my neural interface; a soft hiss escaped from the stimulants being fed into his system through a port in his arm. It was a precise cocktail: enough to bring him out of unconsciousness but keep him tethered to reality¡¯s edge. Tobias¡¯s eyelids flickered, then his gaze snapped into focus. I watched the recognition bloom¡ªand the anger flare. ¡°Ugh¡­ Where¡­?¡± he groaned, voice scratchy with disorientation. ¡°Hello, Tobias,¡± I said softly, stepping just into his peripheral vision so he¡¯d understand who held the power here. His features contorted the moment he recognized me. ¡°Shit,¡± he spat, ¡°I didn¡¯t get paid enough for this.¡± I raised a single eyebrow, feigning calm. ¡°I¡¯m going to keep this simple. Why were you following me?¡± He managed a defiant glare, then spat onto the pristine floor¡ªlittle flecks of saliva speckling white tile. ¡°Do your worst, corpo brat. I¡¯m not talking.¡± I took a measured breath, fighting the impulse to roll my eyes at his bravado. Instead, I flicked through my deck¡¯s interface, scanning for the perfect program. A gentle approach was pointless. He was obviously the kind of merc who thought he could handle a bit of torture¡ªphysical or otherwise. In seconds, I activated a slow-ticking contagion hack, funneling it through his neural implant. The overhead lights seemed to pulse in time with his mounting panic. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple, then another. He tried to straighten, but every muscle in his body betrayed him, quivering under the hack¡¯s invasive code. He coughed out blood, eyes going wide with fear. I tap my finger on the table, letting the hack''s faint hum vibrate in my skull. ¡°It¡¯ll fry your synapses in about five minutes if you don¡¯t start talking. So let¡¯s try this again¡ªwho sent you?¡± His gaze darted around the clinical space, searching for any avenue of escape or mercy. He found none. ¡°A man in a brown suit,¡± he gasped. ¡°Yellow tie. He wanted me to grab you, bring you in. Paid upfront. Said he¡¯d pay more if I got anything on Ian McCallister or¡­¡± He grimaced, struggling for breath. ¡°Or something called the Seraph Project.¡± The mention of ¡°Seraph Project¡± made my gut clench. The words Father had been trying to hide on his screen and the exact project Changeling had mentioned. I leaned forward a fraction. ¡°Why target me specifically?¡± Tobias tried to hold back a groan as the contagion hack ramped up, twisting in his seat. ¡°Said you¡­ you had something to do with it. You or your father¡ªhell if I know. I was supposed to keep an eye on you, maybe snatch you if I got the chance¡­¡± My teeth ground together. Anger at the audacity. ¡°And the netrunner? The one who tried to breach my ICE?¡± He squeezed his eyes shut like it might keep the pain at bay. ¡°Liz¡­ Elizabeth was her name. She was in a van, feeding me intel, helping with the hack if you resisted. Is she¡ªdid you¡ª?¡± I let the moment hang, offering only a slight shrug. ¡°My black ice dealt with her. Haven¡¯t retrieved the body.¡± The statement made him snap. A raw, guttural yell tore through his throat, and every vein in his neck stood out like wires. ¡°You killed her? I¡¯m gonna fucking kill you!¡± I sighed and stepped back. His rage wasn¡¯t surprising, not anymore. We were beyond negotiation; he was thrashing, trying in vain to break the restraints, the legs of the metal chair scraping against the floor in a shrill squeal. Across the room, a security guard stood at attention, face impassive behind tinted tactical glasses. The tension in his posture told me he was expecting my order. And we both knew Tobias wasn¡¯t leaving this room. ¡°Enough,¡± I said quietly, turning to the guard. ¡°Get rid of him.¡± Tobias¡¯s wild eyes went wider still. ¡°Wait¡ªno, you can¡¯t¡ª!¡± But the guard was practiced. One swift motion, a single shot. The crack reverberated off the walls, colder and more final than any scream. I turned away, stepping out of the room as the door hissed shut behind me, the afterimage of the muzzle flash clinging to my vision like a ghost. I paused in the corridor, pressing my back to the sterile white wall. My heart thundered, each beat reminding me of the violence I¡¯d just orchestrated. My fingers felt numb, yet my thoughts swirled with laser clarity: the Seraph Project, the man in the brown suit, Dr. Darius Chen still on the loose, but probably not for long. I took a single, shaky breath. Ordering a man¡¯s execution felt both surreal and disturbingly ordinary in these halls. Eventually, I steeled myself¡ªstraightened my jacket, smoothed the stray wrinkles on my sleeves. The corporate labyrinth demanded results, not remorse. I just hoped I could still recognize my reflection when all this was done.