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Meina Valez stared at Abertha in disbelief.
"Why are you buying so many inhibitor potions? From the way you're talking, it sounds like you're planning to empty our entire savings on this stuff."
Abertha leaned back in the driver's seat, hands finally steady.
He had never felt this stable before.
"Because I've experienced it," he said quietly. "And that's exactly why I know its value."
He turned to her, eyes sharp.
"That wasn't just a suppressor. It didn't just dull the side effects of combat cyberware."
"It made everything clearer."
His voice lowered.
"Clearer, Meina. No hallucinations. No neural static. No migraines. No creeping madness."
Meina swallowed.
"You're saying…"
"I'm saying this thing is going to explode in the mercenary market."
He gestured toward the empty syringe casing.
"Every merc in Night City with heavy chrome is walking a tightrope over cyberpsychosis. If this potion works long-term, people will sell their last implant to get it."
Meina's mind was already calculating numbers.
"Buy at one thousand eurodollars… sell at two thousand…"
"Guaranteed profit," Abertha nodded. "And DeShawn said it came from a corporation. Which probably means limited supply."
He leaned closer.
"If this is a small batch, and we don't stock up now, we'll regret it."
Meina exhaled slowly.
As his partner, she trusted his judgment.
And if he said this was the real deal—
Then it probably was.
Across Night City, similar conversations were unfolding.
Chrome-heavy mercenaries felt relief for the first time in years.
Not artificial calm.
Not numbing sedation.
But genuine stability.
Hope.
And hope was addictive.
---
River Valley District
Puff Bar
Arthur Vale stretched his neck slightly and let out a tired breath.
He had just finished overtime in the workshop.
Seven complete thought-control accelerator chips.
Five hours.
Practice truly made perfect.
Earlier, he had jokingly asked several unlucky members of the Destiny Church if they wanted "collective upgrades."
They had agreed enthusiastically.
So Arthur had simply injected anesthetic and laid them on the workshop floor to perform the procedures.
Cold metal beneath them.
Industrial lighting overhead.
They didn't complain.
They were grateful.
Arthur certainly wasn't going to worry about them catching a cold.
It was evening now.
Time to relax.
He walked into the bar and sat down.
"Vodka. Ice. Small Coke on the side," he told Loki.
The bartender raised an eyebrow but complied.
Before Arthur could take his first sip, Bain descended from the second floor and walked straight toward him.
"Brother Arthur," Bain said. "Old Captain just sent a commission."
Arthur didn't look up.
"And?"
"Karim and the others just had surgery today. This job's urgent. You free to moonlight as a merc tonight?"
Arthur took a sip.
"No."
Bain nodded reluctantly.
"Then I'll call Dorothy. It's a 6th Street job. Not far from here."
Arthur's hand paused mid-air.
"6th Street?"
"Yes."
"They caused trouble outside the bar this morning," Arthur said calmly. "Details?"
Bain's eyes lit up slightly.
"The client is Leah Trow. Her lover—some mid-level corporate manager—posted anonymously. Reward's twenty-five thousand eurodollars."
Arthur raised a brow.
"Twenty-five thousand means this isn't a small-time crew."
"Stronghold led by Will Hanson," Bain continued. "More than thirty members. Old Captain said don't worry about the aftermath. Just rescue the hostage fast."
Arthur nodded slowly.
Which meant—
Will Hanson had likely angered someone internally within 6th Street.
Politics.
Infighting.
Typical.
Arthur didn't particularly care.
If retaliation came—
They would relocate.
If pushed too far—
He would erase the problem entirely.
"Call Dorothy," Arthur said calmly. "I'll join."
Bain blinked.
"You just said—"
"I've been studying hacker tech lately," Arthur replied lightly. "Moonlighting as a merc won't hurt."
Bain hesitated.
"They're veterans. Probably equipped with Unity War relic cyberware. Most likely Sandevistan users."
Arthur's lips curved faintly.
"Understood."
He stood up.
"Let's pay them a visit."
---
As Arthur approached the workshop door, something unexpected happened.
A mechanical chime echoed in his mind.
[Ding. Special mission triggered: Salvation of the Destiny Church.]
[Eliminate all 6th Street members under Will Hanson.]
[Reward: Talent – Mechanical Insight: Optimization.]
Arthur froze for half a second.
Then smiled faintly.
Interesting.
He pushed open the door.
Inside, recently operated Church members were stretching stiff limbs.
"Up," Arthur ordered calmly.
No hesitation.
No complaints.
"Gear up."
Within minutes, they were equipping body armor and selecting firearms.
When Bain and Dorothy entered, they stopped short.
The workshop looked like a small military depot.
Crates of rifles.
Ammunition.
And in the corner—
Boxes of electromagnetic pulse grenades.
Bain swallowed.
"Arthur… isn't this a little excessive?"
Arthur waved dismissively.
"Take whatever you need. We're brothers."
He stepped forward, voice calm but firm.
"Listen carefully."
"It doesn't matter if we rescue the hostage."
Silence.
"What matters is this—"
"At Will Hanson's stronghold, I want every single 6th Street member dead."
No one questioned him.
Dorothy simply grinned.
---
Outside Puff Bar, engines started.
Two vans.
Ten people.
No wasted movement.
Bain drove the Vito.
Arthur sat in the passenger seat.
As they passed a sidewalk near the school district—
Bain suddenly narrowed his eyes.
"That kid…"
Arthur followed his gaze.
Spiky hair.
School uniform.
Bruised face.
Still holding five thousand eurodollars in his pocket.
David Martinez.
Arthur tapped the dashboard.
"Pull over."
Bain hesitated.
"…You sure?"
"Do it."
The van screeched slightly as it stopped beside David.
Before the boy could react—
The sliding door opened.
A hand shot out.
And dragged him inside.
David barely processed what was happening before he was shoved onto a seat.
The familiar face appeared before him.
Arthur Vale.
Again.
Arthur calmly handed him a standard military pistol.
"David," he said lightly, "we're about to get to work."
David stared at the weapon.
Then at Arthur.
Then at the heavily armed mercenaries inside the van.
"…Why is it you again?!"
Arthur smiled faintly.
"Fate."
The van doors slammed shut.
Engines roared.
Night City lights blurred past the windows.
And somewhere ahead—
Thirty armed members of 6th Street were laughing, drinking, unaware—
That destiny had just turned in their direction.
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