April 19, 2021. 13:12. Vancouver. 11 days left till Italy.
Red, mesmerizing eyes—ones that radiate unwavering conviction.
Pale skin made sleek with enhancements. Angular cybernetics framing his face like polished armour.
Short white hair, slicked back with perfect precision. Not a single strand out of place.
Mayor Gestalt's voice is like warm velvet through the television speakers.
"There's no need to panic," he says, smiling gently into the camera. "Last night's incident has been resolved, and the safety of our citizens remains the top priority. I've been in direct contact with Police Chief Woods and the district heads. Reinforcements are already being deployed across key areas of the city. You are not alone in this."
He looks every bit the icon he's made out to be.
"I understand the fear and concern after last night's tragic event. A violent cyberpsycho attack occurred in a heavily populated sector—yes. And of course, the response time wasn't immediate. But I assure you, this is not being taken lightly. We're reallocating resources citywide, including the aid of both local security contractors and international partners. I've brought the corporations to the table—Arasaka, Militech, and several others are contributing infrastructure, specialists, and funding to bolster our frontline capabilities."
His glowing mechanical eyes—augmented for "clarity," or so they say—don't carry the menace one might expect from their colour. Instead, they gleam with the calm assurance of a man who knows how to command trust.
"I've also authorized an immediate audit of our response grid. Additional command nodes are being activated across the city to reduce dispatch lag. Cybernetic experts, psychologists, and data scientists are being embedded within emergency units. This isn't just a police problem anymore—it's a citywide initiative, and everyone is involved."
His tone never wavers. The tailored military coat threaded with subtle red neon gives him the aura of someone who could lead armies—yet chooses instead to protect civilians.
Without question, he's the face of the city.
Behind him, the city flag ripples in the soft morning wind atop City Hall. Reporters crowd forward, cameras flashing, questions flying. One voice cuts through the noise.
"Mayor Gestalt—witnesses are saying police arrived too late, after the firefight had already ended. That it was civilians who handled the situation first. What do you say to those who feel abandoned?"
There's a pause. One beat.
Gestalt nods slowly, as if genuinely considering it.
"That's a valid concern," he says, his voice steady, carrying just enough weight to sound sincere. "And one I share. Last night's tragedy wasn't an isolated event—it's part of a troubling rise in cyberpsychosis incidents we're still working to fully understand. Our emergency response wasn't fast enough, and yes, citizens were caught in the crossfire. That's unacceptable. But I assure you, we are responding—swiftly and thoroughly."
Another reporter starts to speak, but Gestalt's next words cut clean through the murmurs.
"And to those who doubt whether private entities should step in: consider the alternative. Chaos. Disunity. I believe—no, I know—Vancouver can lead the world in public-private collaboration, where people benefit from corporate expansion rather than suffer for it. And while I can't promise there won't be more incidents, I can promise you this: Vancouver will not look away. And you will never face this alone. We are fighting for you… with everything we have."
Silence. The press corps falls quiet.
The camera lingers on him a moment longer—his expression resolute, kind, and composed—before the feed fades to the city's logo and upbeat music.
Wow. He handled that better than I thought.
I don't even realize I've been staring at the screen this whole time until someone taps the side of my paper cup.
"Gina," a voice calls, light and teasing. "You good?"
I blink, and the café snaps back into focus.
My iced Americano's gone watery, condensation beading across the table in messy little trails. Soft noise hums around me—distant laughter, chairs scraping tile, the hiss of the espresso machine.
But my head's still somewhere else. Somewhere darker.
The reporter's question from earlier echoes in my mind. "Witnesses are saying police arrived too late, after the firefight had already ended. That it was civilians who handled the situation first. "
Well, I guess it's not wrong to call us civilians.
The image flashes through my mind—twisted metal, scattered bodies, smoke curling into the night. A man torn apart by the very implants meant to make him stronger.
And now we've got Michelangelo—some half-cybernetic freak of a man—dropped in our laps as "support". A walking weapon with a name that sounds more painter than soldier, but nobody's laughing.
Wissen vouched for him, said he was a top-of-the-line asset.
But even then, I saw it. The way Mister tensed. The way Azure's eyes narrowed. None of us trust it.
If Arasaka's interested, it means this is deeper than we thought. Messier. Maybe unfixable.
Even if Gestalt has them on a leash here, everyone knows Arasaka's power stretches far beyond one city. They've got the reach and firepower to start a world war if they wanted. They manufacture everything—from the electronics in a living room to the implants bolted into a soldier's spine.
They're a titan among mega-conglomerates, controlling most of Asia, expanding across the globe, rivalled only by a handful of corporations.
And that's not even counting the darker side.
Linked disappearances in Manila. A factory riot cover-up in Seoul. Rumours of ghost units operating in war-torn countries. Half of Japan practically under their thumb. Stories like those never make it past page three on the corporate feeds.
We might trust Gestalt—he's never failed us—but nobody trusts the corps. Who could?
Vancouver's one of the few cities still holding together thanks to direct corporate funding. A rare white spot on a black canvas of chaos. The closest thing to a functioning system in North America—and still teetering on the edge.
All of it combined makes Vancouver feel like the next Night City—just without as many scars.
So why do I keep thinking about last night? Why do I keep looking back on the details?
After it all calmed down—if anyone could even call it that—we went our separate ways.
Mister lingered longest, sweeping the site one last time. His movements were slower than usual, measured yet… distracted. I caught him glancing at the cyberpsycho's body more than once before disappearing into the dark, already planning something he wouldn't share.
Remi and Azure walked off together, trading their usual jabs. A strange way to cope, but maybe it worked. I watched them fade into the neon haze—Remi with his hands stuffed in his pockets, probably thinking about food, and Azure already scrolling through her phone for her shop.
The last ones out. Then there was me. I stuck around, waiting for something.
Anything. A call from Wissen. A message from Blake. Some divine sign telling me what came next. But nothing came—just the cooling air and the wail of distant sirens.
So I went home. Back to my apartment just past midnight. Back to the view of the city outside my window, the hum of quiet streets, the occasional siren echoing between the towers. I didn't turn on the lights, or bother to change out of my gear.
Just collapsed on the bed, staring out the window like it might give me answers.
But it didn't. The stars were faint. The sky too perfect for a night like that. I watched it for who knows how long, letting my thoughts drift from one danger to the next.
I lay there, tracing the lights—stars, buildings, planes—drifting across the skyline. A habit that came from Dad.
He used to say I noticed more than he did—that my eyes were sharper, my reflexes faster. He always told me I was supposed to do something better with them, something that actually mattered.
I miss him.
And I know he'd be disappointed in me—in who I've become.
Was it guilt? Shame? I don't even know anymore. But I know neither of my parents would've wanted this life for me.
After all, what parent dreams of their kid working black market gigs just to stay afloat?
But being a model isn't enough. There wasn't another way. I needed the money—to survive, to keep Mom from losing everything after Dad died.
Now, at least, we're stable. Thriving, even. And I'm sure as hell not going back.
When I woke up, I didn't even have time to think before my non-edgerunner friend group chat pinged me.
Brunch. Usual spot. No excuses.
So here I am now—Gina again. Cropped white tee, high-waisted jeans, a black leather jacket over my shoulders, and worn white canvas shoes that still pass for clean. Sitting at this café table with old friends, pretending to be normal. Pretending I'm not waiting for the next bullet to fly.
But I know better. This peace won't last.
It never does.
Another poke. "Hellooooo?"
I blink up, and Nari's leaning across the table, lips pursed. "Girl, did Gestalt brainwash you or something? You've been zoning out since the ad break."
One of the others laughs. "Honestly? He's kinda hot, though. Like a morally grey silver fox."
I shake my head, lips twitching. "Nah, I've just got too much on my plate. Work's been insane lately."
"Ughhh, mood," Nari says, stealing one of my fries like it's hers by birthright. "But at least pretend you're not having an existential crisis while I'm trauma-dumping about my roommate ghosting me."
Laughter ripples around the table, and I let it carry me a little—just enough to forget last night. Sitting here, pretending to be normal Gina Kyung again, feels almost… safe. Almost.
Even if my brain's still playing catch-up with the chaos of last night, the act of sitting here, laughing with them, pretending I'm just Gina Kyung, helps a little.
Only a little though.
I'll take what I can get.
"Okay, okay," I say with a sigh that's way too dramatic. "Let's be real—your roommate probably ghosted you because you turned the bathroom into a Sephora crime scene. I counted five open bottles of toner. Five."
"Excuse me?" she gasps. "That's called a skincare routine. It's curated."
"Curated?" I pop a fry into my mouth. "Your sink looks like a beauty influencer rage-quit mid-livestream."
That earns another burst of laughter. Nari nearly snorts her chai through her nose.
Another girl pipes up between sips of matcha. "Speaking of ghosts—Christine still seeing that walking red flag with the crypto startup?"
"Oh hell no." I groan, dragging my hands down my face. "If she brings him to karaoke again, I'm leaving."
"You said he looked like a discount Keanu," Nari adds, grinning.
"Correction." I raise a finger. "I said he looked like Keanu if you dunked him in Axe body spray."
The table erupts again—like we never missed a beat.
"Speaking of disasters," one of them says, "why did I catch feelings for a girl who sends voice notes longer than a podcast?"
Another groans. "Nooo. If her voice note has seasons, girl, run."
"Run where?" I say. "Y'all are just recycling the same four emotionally unavailable people with good Spotify taste."
"Okay, but she made me a playlist," she protests weakly.
"So did my DoorDash driver once," I deadpan. "I tipped him better."
We all break down laughing again, until the topic inevitably shifts to which influencer's on cheating scandal number three.
I toss my hair back with a mock sigh. "Please. Y'all really out here acting like I'm not the hottest one here."
Nari snorts. "No one's arguing. You're literally our emotional support hot girl."
"Exactly," I say, flicking my hair with fake arrogance. "It's exhausting being the team's emotional support bad bitch."
They all cackle, someone throws a balled-up napkin at me, and I dodge it effortlessly, smirking.
And then my phone buzzes.
I glance down—Mister's name lights up the edgerunner group chat.
"Michelangelo wants to meet soon. Everyone, get ready."
The warmth drains from my face. That name alone flips a switch in me.
I inhale, stand, and smile like it's all routine. "Sorry, girls. One sec—work just texted."
"Aww, right when I was about to make us rank our exes," one of them groans.
"Put a pin in it," I say, slinging my jacket over my shoulder. "I'll need that laugh when I get back."
Outside, the air's cooler. I thumb open the chat and type, "When are we meeting him?"
The reply comes almost instantly.
"Neutral ground for convenience. Thinking Silver Dynamo, 8 p.m. How's everyone feeling?"
"Works for me," I send back.
Shock's reply follows seconds later. "OMG?? KK lemme get ready!!"
Remi follows. "Ayoooo, say less."
Then Wissen—steady as ever. "Best of luck to you all."
Azure's text rolls in after a short pause. "Damn, we still don't know what this guy's angle is, right? I'll be there, but I'm keeping my distance."
Tetra adds the final note. "Yeah, do we have nothing to work off of? Oh well, I guess we'll find out tonight. Location and time work for me too."
I tap the thumbs-up emoji and send one last message. "See you all tonight."
Then I switch to a private chat with Wissen.
"You ever gonna tell me why Arasaka reached out to you, specifically?"
His reply comes quick.
"They want a direct line to me. Word got out that I'm planning to step back. Arasaka thinks if they cozy up now, they'll get a hand in whatever comes next."
"So Michelangelo's their mouthpiece—and their ticket into your empire?"
"Pretty much. But why they're moving so openly in Vancouver... I don't know. Maybe they think Gestalt will keep giving them room."
"And he's letting them?"
"Hard to say. Like we saw on the news, he's using them to handle the cyberpsycho crisis. But why they haven't overstepped yet? That's the part that worries me."
"You think he's got leverage?"
"Maybe. Or they owe him something. Either way, Gestalt's walking a tightrope. Ambitious men always think they can balance forever—until they don't."
My thumb hovers over the keyboard. "I just hope he's not in over his head. The last thing I want is to watch this city sell itself out."
"Well, he's a man of his word. It's his ambition and tenacity that worry me. He's on that tightrope now—and I won't be surprised when it all comes crashing down."
"Yeah… you're right. Anyway, I should get ready for the meeting."
"Do that. And stay safe."
I pocket my phone and step back into the café. Warm chatter and the smell of espresso wash over me, grounding me—if only for a moment.
"Everything good?" Nari asks as I slide into my seat.
"Yeah," I lie smoothly. "Just work. Nothing major."
I grab a fry, force a smile, and let the noise pull me back to normalcy.
…
April 19, 2021. 19:35. Vancouver. 11 days left till Italy.
The Silver Dynamo hums with corporate gloss—mirrored walls, sterile lighting softened by streaks of neon, and low jazz-fusion weaving under the steady murmur of business talk.
It's the kind of place where execs seal mergers over overpriced martinis. Neutral ground, supposedly.
We'd agreed to meet early—better to be bored than blindsided when Michelangelo showed.
Now we're all crammed into one of the corner booths. Mister got there first, of course, coat folded neatly beside him. His posture's straight as a blade, eyes flicking to the door every few minutes.
He doesn't say it, but he's on edge too.
I came ready.
Matte-black techwear: tactical pants and boots built for movement, light armour tracing the joints. Under a cropped hoodie, a contoured Kevlar plate wraps my torso—sleek, flexible, and invisible beneath the fabric. My limbs are lined with composite plating—just enough to deflect trouble, not enough to slow me down. A sidearm rides my thigh, knife tucked at my lower back, submachine resting under my arm.
Smoky eyes, matte lips, cap pulled low. Hair tied tight. Every layer intentional.
I don't blend in—and that's the point. The makeup, the hat, the gear—it's all smoke and mirrors to throw off whatever Arasaka scanners might sweep through here. Maybe I overdid it, but if things go sideways, I plan on walking out, not getting carried.
Azure lets out a low whistle as I adjust my shoulder rig. "Damn, Artemis. You look like you're about to kick down a corpo boardroom."
"Or blow one up," Shock adds, sipping her drink without missing a beat.
I smirk, brushing a thumb along the strap. "If it comes to that, at least I'll look good doing it."
Remi, halfway through his truffle fries, nudges the bowl toward Tetra. "C'mon, eat, bro. You'll stress less."
"I'm not really—"
"Eat."
"Fine." Tetra takes one, crunches it, and freezes. "...Wait. The hell? These are actually good."
Remi looks personally offended. "Actually good? Dawg, they're truffle fries."
"I grew up eating whatever we could fish, dry, or trade for," Tetra says, laughing awkwardly. "This is kinda... fancy."
Remi leans in, theatrically offended. "You telling me this is your first truffle fry experience?"
Tetra shrugs, a bit sheepish. "Probably?"
"Bro." Remi places a hand on his shoulder. "I'm gonna fix you. I swear, by the end of this year, you're gonna have a working knowledge of five-star appetizers."
Shock joins in, grinning. "Heyyy, I've been helping with that too! I got him hooked on dumplings last week."
Azure's shoulders shake as she tries not to burst out laughing. "You guys are like two steps away from adopting him."
Tetra chuckles. "Hey, I won't say no." He studies his fry like it's alive, then shrugs and takes another bite. "Still weird not eating stuff straight from the coast."
His grin's contagious. I catch myself smiling back before I even realize it.
The tension in my shoulders eases, and for a second, the whole room softens.
This is so stupid.
Maybe that's what makes it comforting—how absurdly normal it feels to argue over food, like we're just people again. For one fragile moment, I almost believe it'll stay that way.
Then I glance at Mister.
His focus hasn't moved from the entrance.
And that's when I see it—someone stepping through the door.
Just like that, the calm snaps.
Conversations falter. Heads turn.
He walks in like he already owns the place.
Michelangelo.
Tall. Imposing. Composed. Shoulder-length black hair tied back, pale skin untouched by sun or time. A tailored black suit that fits like a second skin—its only colour a red armband bright against the monochrome.
Two katanas cross his back in a perfect X, polished and untouched. Odd position for weapons. He moves like water—like the rest of the room's stuck in slow motion.
His gaze sweeps across the bar, lands on us, and stills. No smile. No nod. Just quiet precision.
He approaches—each step deliberate, unhurried.
We stay silent, instinctively bracing.
Mister's the first to speak. "Michelangelo, I presume."
The operative inclines his head. "Correct. A pleasure to meet you."
Mister gestures to the rest of us. "I'm Mister. These are my associates—Artemis, Azure, Shock, Remi, and Tetra."
Michelangelo's eyes glide over us like a scanner—clinical, assessing, almost mechanical. Not cruel, just… cold efficiency in motion.
"Understood," he says. "I look forward to working with you all."
No one breathes.
He reaches into his suit and produces a sleek tablet, setting it neatly in the centre of the table.
"The incident last night," he begins, voice smooth and cold. "You encountered the cyberpsycho directly, yes?"
Mister nods once. "We did."
Michelangelo taps the screen, and a pale-blue holo flickers to life—the digital profile of a man rotating slowly above the table.
"Then allow me to clarify who you were dealing with," he says. "Roderick Hale. Forty-five. Former construction foreman. Turned freelance mercenary after his divorce—needed the income to support his son. Worked private conflicts across the globe, with long gaps in employment. His son, Nathan Hale—sixteen. Deceased."
The table goes still.
"His son was killed in a gang-related stabbing outside a Burnaby high school," Michelangelo continues. "West entrance. After hours. No arrests. No suspects. Roderick came back too late."
He swipes to another file—police reports, fragmented logs. "After that, he spiraled. Depression, escalating contracts, heavier combat work. He started self-medicating with neuroboosters and whatever else he could find. Combined that with military-grade implants not built for street work... it was only a matter of time. Forensics found SynthCoke traces too."
Azure exhales softly. "So his cybernetics overloaded his emotional feedback loops."
Michelangelo's gaze shifts toward her. "Correct. The neural strain exceeded tolerance thresholds. His brain stopped prioritizing rational thought—it rerouted to simulate memory triggers. Everything he did became a broken echo of Nathan. The revolver he used was still voice-locked to his son's biometric ID. He'd talk to it as if Nathan were still alive. Every action was... playback. Repetition of old memories."
Shock's face stiffens. "Oh... that's… tragic… like, horror show-levels of tragic."
"But," I say quietly, "that doesn't explain everything. He talked to us. Like he still knew something was wrong."
Michelangelo nods once. "Also correct. He was likely in the late stages of implant-induced psychosis—a point where identity fractures but isn't yet fully erased."
Mister leans forward. "I see. So then, may I ask why did Arasaka send someone of your calibre? I can understand sending an implanted operative, but to say the least, you're far from a regular street mercenary."
Michelangelo's expression doesn't shift. "Because this isn't isolated. And it's pressing enough for Arasaka to take direct action."
He swipes again. A new display fills the air—heat maps, red markers blinking across Vancouver, Berlin, Jakarta, Johannesburg.
Without missing a beat, Michelangelo continues.
"There's been a global spike in cases over the past six months," he says. "Arasaka and several other megacorps are tracking it. At first, it fit the standard pattern—heavy implant loads, unresolved trauma. But the numbers kept climbing even in low-cybernetic regions. That's when the data stopped making sense."
I glance at him. "So it's not just SynthCoke?"
He shakes his head. "No. That was the first assumption. But international reports indicate it's a secondary accelerant, not the cause. A symptom, not patient zero."
Azure leans in. "Then what is it?"
Michelangelo exhales and brings up another file—lines of red-tinged code twisting like veins across a black background.
"This. NetWatch detected a digital signature spreading through citynets. It embeds into neural firmware. No ID tags. No origin. Behaves like a virus, but smarter—predictive recursion, self-erasing code. Wherever it appears, cyberpsychosis spikes follow within days."
Shock's eyes widen. "Wait… you're saying this thing is making people snap?"
Michelangelo adjusts the holo, zooming in on the code. "That's one theory. It destabilizes neural processing, corrupts internal buffers, and then wipes itself clean. Anyone with heavy integration—netrunners especially—becomes vulnerable."
I glance at Shock. Her expression's gone tight. No sparkle, just focus.
Tetra shifts uncomfortably. "So the drug just… speeds things up?"
"That's one possibility," Michelangelo replies. "Another is that the drug and the virus are unrelated, and they're just two different causes tearing apart the same mind. SynthCoke might be exposing cracks that the virus can slip into."
Azure crosses her arms. "And Arasaka's part in all this?"
"We're studying both the drug and the virus," he says. "Whether one amplifies the other or not, it's too dangerous to ignore. Vancouver's spike outpaced every other city. Whatever this is—it started here, or found the right conditions to grow."
I drum my fingers against the table. "So it's not random. It's targeted."
Michelangelo nods slowly, eyes fixed on the shifting code. "That's our working theory. The virus mutates once inside the system—rewriting local processes, corrupting core sensory logs, then erasing itself completely. No trace. Like it was never there."
"How?" Azure asks, brows furrowed. "Even black-market mods have encryption."
"It bypasses them," he says flatly. "I don't know how yet. But it knows their flaws. NetWatch calls it predictive recursion."
Shock audibly gasps. "Oh! Like disguising itself as diagnostic subroutines to slip in unnoticed?"
Azure's expression hardens. "Wait—how the hell do you even know this?" she demands. "If the virus can delete itself, how did you even find it?"
"Someone caught a fragment," he answers. "Running inside a closed sandbox. A one-in-a-million fluke. If the team had been one second slower, it would've been gone. Even now, we're struggling to reverse-engineer it. We need more live samples—and they don't last long."
A heavy silence settles over the table.
Tetra mutters beside me, "Good thing I don't have implants."
I shrug. "Same here. Guess being stubborn finally paid off."
Remi scratches the back of his neck. "Damn… I got chromed up like three weeks ago. Should I be worried or what?"
Mister tilts his head slightly. "So the rumours about the virus were true. How did you even get access to all this info on Roderick?"
"The Vancouver Police Department granted Arasaka investigative clearance," Michelangelo replies. "We have full access to all forensic records tied to cyberpsychosis. Mayor Gestalt himself approved it."
I see. So it's already official.
"We appreciate the transparency," Mister says, shaking his head. "That's one hell of a head start." He pauses, studying Michelangelo. "But if everything you've said is true... how do we know you're not compromised? You're a heavily implanted operative yourself. What makes Arasaka so sure you won't snap next?"
Michelangelo doesn't flinch. "Because I've already been tested."
The air goes still.
He continues, tone unwavering. "My systems are monitored in real-time—no emotional deviation, no memory fragmentation. And if that ever changes..." His lips twitch into the faintest smile. "I won't be the one to notice it first. You'll be safe."
The tension hits hard. It doesn't take long to realize what he means. What the fuck. If he glitches—even once—someone's pulling the plug. No questions asked.
He swipes to the next screen, moving on without pause. "In conclusion, I recommend we begin by investigating adjacent cases. Three more recent outbursts—different districts, same symptoms: delusions, implant feedback failure, identity breakdown. I've marked their last known locations."
Uneasy glances ripple around the table as Michelangelo taps again, pulling up another file.
"Also, we should trace the source of Roderick's drugs. Someone supplied him. The closer we get to the manufacturer, the better."
Across the booth, Azure's arms remain crossed, fingers twitching. Shock's usual sarcasm is gone, replaced by a rare, sharp focus. Even Remi sits silent, his expression unreadable.
I rub my forehead, trying to piece it all together.
Forget researching for Blake's safety—if we're too late, this turns into a full-blown crisis.