"Jenkins sent you to spy on me, didn't he?"
Towering walls loomed over the dim alleyway, where scattered shadows flickered across the grime.
Another crime—ordinary, unremarkable in this 'city of dreams'—was unfolding in the dark.
In a filthy backstreet, thud, thud-thud—hurried, chaotic footsteps echoed alongside the muted hiss of suppressed gunfire, the thump of bodies colliding reverberating through the narrow passage. In the chase, figures splashed through muddy puddles, scattering droplets of filth.
A man and a woman—one fleeing, one pursuing.
The man, clutching a briefcase, bolted in panic, heedless of direction. His pursuer—female—advanced steadily, one hand gripping a pistol, the other an inverted dagger.
Until at last, the chase ended in a dead end. Cornered with nowhere to run, the man pressed his back against the wall, gasping in pain.
"Haa… tsk…"
His fearful gaze fixed on the red-haired woman blocking the exit. The black-haired, brown-eyed man with a buzzed plane-cut, his pale face beaded with sweat, looked utterly desperate—a trapped animal panting heavily.
Judging by his look and manner, he was a corporate lackey—but lightly augmented, save for a shaved right temple fitted with a network enhancement implant. Likely an office worker.
That implant now sparked erratically with bursts of static.
Without a doubt, he'd been hacked. His communications relay and software had almost certainly been intercepted and shut down.
The once-pristine white pinstripe shirt and blue suit jacket he wore were now soaked crimson with blood—gunshot wounds.
"V… so Jenkins really was right about you. To think his most trusted confidant would harbor treacherous thoughts! Is this how you repay your benefactor?"
Whether from the fading adrenaline or sheer terror, the man's shoulders trembled. Trying to mask his fear, he barked at the woman striding toward him—her aura fierce, predatory—a fellow corporate dog, or perhaps his superior. Or rather, former superior.
"Director Jenkins won't let a traitor go unpunished! Don't think killing me will save you!"
"Oh, shut it, Carter. Don't try that guilt-trip crap on me."
"Don't forget who brought you in."
Stepping closer, still in her usual plainclothes—lone-wolf jacket and dark pants—V raised her pistol, her orange-glowing irises flickering with streaming data.
"So, what did Jenkins promise you? What made a cowardly little worm like you think you could tail me? A promotion to my post, maybe? Don't tell me that's what you're after."
V sneered. "You really think Jenkins will last long as Acting Director of Special Operations?"
"…"
Carter's expression faltered.
Then realization hit. V must have found a new backer—and wasn't about to leave loose ends alive.
"I see now… Jenkins was right to be cautious."
Gritting his teeth, Carter clutched his wounded abdomen and spat bitterly, "You're nothing but a turncoat. That's all you'll ever be."
"I don't deny it."
V shrugged indifferently.
Pfew!
The next instant, she pulled the trigger of her suppressed M-76e Omaha pistol. The bullet struck precisely at Carter's right knee.
As he collapsed with a scream, V's expression didn't change. "Keep talking."
Carter, grimacing through the agony, lifted his head defiantly, sweat dripping from his brow. "Don't get cocky! You and Abernathy are the same—you'll both rot in the gutter sooner or later!"
"Even if you kill me, you'll never strip me of my dignity and pride!"
"Is that so…"
V tilted her head back slightly, gazing at the narrow slice of sky above the alley—reminiscing, perhaps, about the days when Jenkins had first taken her under his wing. "He sent you to watch me, didn't he? Planning to silence me after?"
Now!
Seizing the opening, Carter forced himself to move. Despite his spasming body, he shifted his hand toward the briefcase, his eyes darting furtively. "Heh… no one trusts a traitor. I'm today, you're tomorrow—die!"
He yanked out a pistol—
But.
Pfew! Pfew-pfew!
Muzzle smoking faintly, V turned away.
An office clerk could never outgun a Counter-Intelligence operative.
Clatter. Carter's bloodstained Tsunami Nue pistol fell onto the damp pavement. Thud. He dropped to his knees, then slumped forward, collapsing completely—his forehead struck the ground, his left hand still clutching the gaping wound in his abdomen. But now, new holes marked his chest and skull—blood gushing freely.
Two shots to the chest. One to the head.
"Goodbye, Carter Smith."
With a sigh that carried faint relief, V fired a few more rounds into his vital points to make sure he was dead—then finally lowered her weapon.
"Goodbye, Jenkins."
The second farewell came as a whisper.
This was the final severing of ties.
Staring down at the lifeless body of her overreaching subordinate, V couldn't help but feel a touch of irony. In some timelines, it was Carter's betrayal that got her expelled from Arasaka. Yet here, it was she who had switched sides, while Carter remained "loyal."
Strictly speaking, Carter had been her subordinate in Division 3—but under Jenkins' secret orders, he'd been assigned to spy on his own direct superior. Dishonorable, yes—but V couldn't feel nothing. After all, Jenkins had once been her benefactor.
That was why she'd accepted the dirty job of assassinating Abernathy in the first place.
Repayment.
But Jenkins, consumed by paranoia, grew increasingly unhinged. Today, he wanted her to eliminate her long-developed black-ops assets. Tomorrow, he'd have her abandon her closest friend, Jackie. The day after that… would it be her turn?
Yeah. In the corporate world, loyalty was a fragile illusion.
"Today's me, tomorrow's you…"
Turning over Carter's dying curse in her mind, V swapped her empty magazine for a fresh one, grabbed the bloodstained briefcase, and wiped it clean with a casual motion. "Maybe," she muttered.
A wry smile. No regrets.
Because she never had the right to choose—only a fate that chose her.
Just as Carter had never had the right to refuse Jenkins.
As for what Jenkins had promised him—or what the man truly thought—V neither knew nor cared. Jenkins was already a walking corpse.
Then—beep, beep.
Incoming call.
[Lucyna Kushinada: So, you took him out. What took you so long? A subordinate of yours?]
[V: Something like that.]
[Lucyna Kushinada: In any case, you'd better move quickly before things get complicated. Good news, though—HQ just issued orders for you to handle cleanup. They've created the perfect cover for you. Your boss is probably neck-deep in handovers and paperwork—no way he can spare time to investigate you, unless he's suicidal. This is your window. Also, Valerie—this is your secure line. You're now authorized for direct escalation reporting.]
To earn trust and a safe channel for direct reporting, V had already revealed her real name to Lucy.
Beep.
—[Attachment – Encrypted Call Frequency]—
Staring at the attachment projected on her retinal HUD, V exhaled deeply in relief.
Her efforts hadn't been wasted.
Being given direct orders meant her "issues" had been quietly swept under the rug.
"Thanks, Miss Kushinada."
She spoke with genuine gratitude.
[Lucyna Kushinada: Skip the formalities. Just call me Lucy. We're in the same boat now—let's call it a favor between friends. Didn't think someone as arrogant as you, a corporate dog, would actually defy her boss for a guy like Jackie Welles—someone who isn't even Arasaka. Guess I misjudged you.]
"You're a corporate dog now too."
V chuckled, editing Lucy's contact name in her HUD. "Just call me V."
As she spoke, she pulled a red-cased, pineapple-shaped incendiary grenade from her belt.
[Lucy: Yeah… a corporate dog. Came full circle, huh? Anyway, I'm at the Vista del Rey Public Security Command Center, providing remote support for your cleanup. I'll handle the rest of Jenkins' eyes and ears.]
"Got it."
V nodded. Taking one last look at the dead-end alley, she yanked the grenade's pin and lobbed it lightly.
BOOM! The incendiary burst over Carter's body, igniting the grease and flammables on him instantly.
No braindance extraction tech could restore that charred mess of a brain.
Bathed in the flickering orange glow, V turned and walked away without looking back.
Bzz-bzz, honk-honk—from the nearby main street, traffic flowed endlessly.
As she left the alley, the open cityscape unfolded before her. V instinctively lifted her gaze toward the towering skyscrapers above.
It had rained the night before. By late morning, mist still lingered—drifting between shimmering holographic billboards and neon lights.
This was the boundary between the Heywood Valley area and Vista del Rey. On one side, the buildings were shabby and grim; on the other, they were clean and pleasant. Though some structures were old, many new and beautiful towers had already risen.
Old and new, decay and hope…
Just like the people of Night City flocking toward the bright promise of Vista del Rey, V was doing the same—embracing the light, jumping from a sinking ship.
"Hey, V."
A broad-shouldered Black man wearing a baseball cap, with a kind and honest-looking face, was already waiting at the alley entrance.
"Harry."
"How many now?"
Waving, Harry stepped forward, taking the bloodstained briefcase from V's hand and handing her a steaming American-style dirty hotdog. "Eight? Or more than ten already?"
"Thirteen."
After spending the night killing spies in her ranks and secretly purging unreliable agents from Counter-Intelligence Division 3, V hadn't even had time to eat. She took a big bite of the greasy street hotdog—its meat bits and sauce dripping—and said through her chewing, "Maybe more. But for us, it doesn't really matter."
"Yeah."
Though worried, Harry—V's trusted coworker from the same cubicle—didn't hesitate. He knew that if V went down, he'd be next. With no connections and nowhere else to go, he had thrown his lot in with her the moment she turned against Jenkins.
The two walked side by side like any pair of ordinary cyber-mercs in Night City.
"By the way, V—you remember Frank Nostra?"
Harry lowered his voice. "The guy you worked with on that 'Icefall' operation back on the East Coast."
"Frank?"
V thought for a moment. "Sounds familiar. He was Abernathy's man, right?"
"Yeah. Abernathy had him planted inside Counter-Intelligence."
Harry continued, "But since Abernathy's death, he's been sniffing around for information about you. While Jenkins is too busy to focus on Counter-Intelligence, our people detained him to prevent trouble. But when it came time to execute, he suddenly claimed to know you. The team wasn't sure…"
"Kill him."
V's answer was immediate.
Just an old coworker with a fleeting connection.
This was no time for hesitation. For all she knew, this could be a test. Someone above might be watching, evaluating. She couldn't take the risk. Everything had to be done cleanly—Jenkins removed smoothly, Abernathy's case sealed exactly according to corporate narrative.
"Understood."
Harry opened an internal channel newly established for Counter-Intelligence Division 3. His cybernetic eye blinked with orange signal markers as he relayed the order.
[Harry: V says eliminate him.]
"Done."
Barely three seconds later, Harry turned back. "There's execution footage if you want—"
"No. The priority's finishing the cleanup. The faster and cleaner we move, the less backlash when Jenkins is blamed for 'incompetence' and removed."
Before long, the two reached the parking lot.
V quickly finished the overstuffed hotdog, then bought a bottle of warm, syrup-heavy, caffeine-thickened black brew from a street stall at the entrance. She gulped it down in one go, hydrating herself before stepping into Harry's old, muscle-style car.
Vroom. The engine roared to life, pulling them onto the street.
...
At the same time—inside Arasaka Tower, Director Vela had gathered her inner circle.
First, she unified their vision—rewarding old allies, reassigning loyalists, and officially declaring the end of Arasaka's gekokujō-sanctioned "renewal period."
Then came directives for the months ahead: strengthening unity, focusing eastward, reorganizing forces, upgrading equipment, expanding logistical reserves, intensifying information warfare, bolstering the Free States Alliance Army, and preparing for the arrival of the Adelheid-class supercarrier.
Her schedule for the latter half of the month was packed to the brim—meetings with Kurt Hansen of Barghest, visits to Michiko Arasaka, consultations with Saburo Arasaka's old loyalists, talks with leaders of the Free States Alliance, reviews of the personal battle armor system, and coordination of the Jurassic Park Project, among other tasks large and small.
A whirlwind of work awaited.
Meanwhile—across the Pacific.
Tokyo. Under the night sky.
Chiyoda Ward, at Yorinobu Arasaka's private residence.
Inside the inner compound.
The warm, flickering light of paper lamps swayed gently. Incense smoke drifted through the air.
After a long day's work, Yorinobu lay flat on the tatami floor.
The room was sparsely furnished: a few stools, cushions, a table. On the table sat a framed photo and several high-grade PDA tablets. One rested loosely in his hand.
Beep-beep.
An incoming call broke the silence.
[ID 13-357, encrypted: Lord Yorinobu, during the recent personnel transfers to Night City, the security passage to the Sonnentreppe Project bio-research center has been secured. Lady Vela's discovered and cultivated specimen—temporarily designated "Tyrant-Ghoul-118-09 Fusion Virus (T-G-Progenitor-Veronica-Ghoul Fusion Variant)"—has been located.]
Blue light from the PDA illuminated Yorinobu's face. His half-lidded eyes suddenly sharpened.
"So… contact has finally been made."
Rolling over, he sat up and rubbed his forehead. "Finally. The old man guarded Sonnentreppe so zealously—it was hell getting anyone inside…"
A faint smile touched his lips as he glanced at the photo—it showed him with Hanako and their mother, Michiko Arasaka.
"Mother… please watch over me."
Determination hardened his features.
By now, nearly all his pieces were in place.
With the North American conflicts intensifying, even though Vela had reassigned several of his embedded personnel from the bio-research center, the core members remained. With a few more replacements, he could complete the infiltration and evacuation network. He already had agents within Anders Hellman's Relic Project.
It was time to tear off the mask.
Time to break completely with that old man, Saburo Arasaka.
Two months, he thought.
Two months more—and he'd be done pretending to be the obedient son.