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January 11, 2075
Along the western coast of Japan, yellow sand rolled across the horizon like a living sea.
The corporate wars had scarred the planet beyond repair. What used to be fertile land was now endless dust. Entire regions had been stripped dry in the name of profit and military dominance. Outside a few active ports, western Japan had become a dead zone—forgotten, abandoned, and swallowed by desert.
A storm howled through the ruins of old infrastructure.
Through the dust, a lone figure ran.
She wore an oversized black trench coat that flapped violently in the wind. Strands of hair—shifting faintly between light blue and pink—spilled from beneath her hood. Her eyes were filled with desperation, but also something stronger.
Hope.
Not far ahead, a massive cruise ship blasted its horn.
In thirty minutes, it would leave port.
Thirty minutes until freedom.
"Almost there… almost there…" she whispered to herself, forcing her legs to move. "I'm about to escape hell…"
Behind her lay something she refused to think about.
Ahead of her—
A chance.
---
Three Days Later – Pacifica, Night City
Gunfire exploded across the broken streets of Pacifica.
"Bang! Bang! Bang—!"
The sound echoed through crumbling hotels and half-finished megastructures. In Pacifica, gunshots weren't news. They were background noise.
There was no meaningful presence of the NCPD here. No patrol cars. No safety.
Instead, the district belonged to gangs.
The Scavengers harvested bodies.
The Animals worshipped brute strength.
And the Voodoo Boys ruled the Net from behind layers of black ICE.
Today was no different.
"Hey, T-Bug! I owe you big!" a heavy voice gasped through labored breathing. "If you weren't there, I'd already be dead!"
The speaker weighed well over two hundred kilograms. His expensive jacket was stained black with soot and red with blood. One hand pressed desperately against a gunshot wound in his abdomen as he stumbled deeper into a narrow alley.
"Shut up, DeShawn!" came a female voice over the neural link. "My brain's about to fry! What were you thinking provoking the Voodoo Boys?!"
The man—Dexter DeShawn—collapsed briefly against a wall before forcing himself upright.
"Heh… heh… I'm a fixer. If I wanna climb higher, I gotta risk it."
On the other end of the line, inside an ice-filled bathtub surrounded by equipment, T-Bug was frantically navigating digital defenses.
"The greatest evil comes from greed, not wickedness—Aristotle!" she snapped.
Suddenly—
Her tone changed.
"DeShawn!"
The air tightened.
Across the street, beneath a flickering streetlight, a massive silhouette stepped forward.
Tall. Broad. Calm.
Placide.
He carried no gun.
Only a butcher's knife.
"Dexter DeShawn," Placide said evenly. "You steal from Voodoo Boys… you pay."
Fear unlike anything DeShawn had known clawed at his spine.
"BUG! Hack him! Five seconds, or I'm dead!"
"FUCK! His ICE is thick as a fortress!" T-Bug yelled. "Run!"
Placide moved.
Too fast for a man his size.
Steel flashed.
DeShawn screamed as his right hand was severed cleanly.
"AHHH—!"
Blood sprayed across broken concrete.
In the Net, T-Bug forced a breach for a split second.
"I can distract him for five seconds! RUN!"
Then—
Her vision went white.
Neural backlash slammed into her system.
She collapsed into the ice bath, unconscious.
Placide raised his blade again.
A single gunshot cracked through the chaos.
"Bang!"
Placide jerked sideways, instinct saving his life. Even so, a bullet tore through his shoulder, leaving a massive, bleeding hole.
From the alley's far end, a young man lowered his smoking pistol.
Little Bain.
He didn't know Placide personally.
But he knew DeShawn.
The relationship between fixers and mercenaries was complicated—but sacred.
Without hesitation, Bain rushed forward, lifted DeShawn's massive body with surprising strength, and dragged him into a waiting van.
The engine roared.
They sped away.
Placide watched silently, blood dripping from his shoulder.
He did not chase.
Not yet.
---
Inside the Van
DeShawn's breathing was ragged.
"Hang in there!" Bain shouted, glancing at him in the mirror. "Don't you dare pass out! I'm taking you to a ripperdoc!"
DeShawn tried to laugh but coughed instead.
"Kid… you just… made powerful enemies…"
Bain swallowed hard.
"I found someone. A new one. You'll like him."
Darkness swallowed DeShawn's vision.
---
River Valley District
Inside a locked mechanical workshop, Arthur Vale had not left his workspace for three days.
Metal parts lay scattered across tables.
Low-end cybernetics were disassembled into fragments.
Wires, chips, and neural connectors formed chaotic patterns under harsh white light.
Arthur's Digital Virtual Soul ability allowed his consciousness to operate across physical and digital layers simultaneously. He ran simulations in parallel, testing neural pathways and cognitive feedback loops.
The first chip—the Mind Controller—was straightforward in theory.
Inject neural alignment data.
Rewrite cognitive parameters.
Alter perception.
The second—the Mind Accelerator—was more delicate.
It enhanced neural signal speed and analysis capability, but when paired with the controller chip, data corruption kept occurring.
Human brains did not tolerate errors.
Even with 999% mechanical mastery, it took Arthur sixteen straight hours to stabilize the code.
Finally—
Twelve finished chips lay neatly on the table.
Small. Unassuming.
Deadly.
These twelve were enough to fully enhance four individuals' combat capability.
Arthur considered merging both systems into one chip.
Every attempt failed.
Two codes conflicted.
Three codes broke.
Strangely—
When he introduced a fourth auxiliary correction algorithm, the system stabilized.
He smiled faintly.
Sometimes chaos required more chaos to become stable.
Just then—
"Bang bang bang!"
A knock rattled the workshop door.
"Brother Ji! It's me—Little Bain! I found a middleman! A really awesome one!"
Arthur frowned slightly.
"…Come in."
The door opened.
Bain entered, breathless.
Behind him—
On a stretcher—
Lay a pale, bleeding man with one arm missing.
Arthur's eyes sharpened instantly.
"Dexter DeShawn."
---
The name carried weight.
A fixer from Afterlife.
A man who connected mercenaries to high-paying corporate contracts.
A middleman who dealt with both sides of Night City's power structure.
Arthur stood slowly.
If DeShawn survived—
He would become a valuable piece on the board.
If he died—
It would still send ripples through Pacifica and the Voodoo Boys.
Arthur walked toward the stretcher calmly.
"Get him inside."
Bain nodded quickly.
As the workshop door shut behind them, the distant neon of Night City flickered like a heartbeat.
A fixer had fallen.
A new player had arrived.
And Arthur Vale was quietly beginning to build something far more dangerous than chrome.
He was building influence.
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