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Chapter 21 – Aftershock
> "Whoosh."
The night air reeked of oil, blood, and burning chrome.
Adrian crouched in the dim light of the wrecked garage, his breath visible through the rising smoke. In his hand, the nanothermal katana glimmered faintly—its black-red edge radiating a soft heat that shimmered against the pooling blood below.
He dragged a torn rag from the floor, smeared with oil and bullet holes, and wiped the crimson from his blade. The weapon purred, almost alive, every cut gleaming with residual energy.
He couldn't help but stare at it, admiration flickering across his face.
"This thing…" Adrian muttered, his voice low. "...is a masterpiece."
It was more than a sword—it was an extension of thought, speed, and death.
He'd used blades before, cheap street steel or refurbished machetes, but this? This was precision—corporate engineering built for silent warfare.
If I'd had this in the Biotech raid, he thought, Sasha and I wouldn't have been running for our lives.
The irony twisted in his gut. A blade that sharp cut both ways.
Behind him, Maine's voice boomed across the wreckage.
> "Quit staring at the knife, kid. We ain't got time for your romantic bullshit. Move!"
Adrian snapped out of his reverie. "Yeah, yeah."
He sheathed the blade and moved ahead, stepping over a charred corpse still twitching with shorted-out cyberware.
The rest of the crew followed through the collapsing smoke: Maine, armor dented and fists still dripping oil; Rebecca, humming a battle tune as she scooped up guns from the dead; Dorio, methodically reloading, her calm presence grounding the chaos; and Kiwi, silent as ever, her eyes flickering with residual netcode from the hack.
Sasha remained in the corner of the bay, jacked into a terminal—her eyes glassy but focused, lines of code streaming down her neural HUD.
"Alright," Maine grunted, surveying the room. "Let's grab what we came for and bounce. The Sixth Street patrols'll be here in five."
---
Rebecca's laughter echoed through the air as she yanked open a weapon locker.
Her pupils dilated at the sight—row after row of gleaming firearms.
"Holy chrome!" she squealed, voice echoing off the concrete. "Shingens, Tamakis, auto-load mags, and—oh my god, Arata stimulants!"
She grabbed armfuls of guns and ammo, her manic grin splitting wider. "We're rich, boss! Like, six-hundred-thousand-eurodollars rich!"
Dorio rolled her eyes, checking the mag on her rifle.
"Becca, try not to drool on the merch. We still gotta haul it out before the whole gang shows up."
Maine strode over, scanning the crates with his cyberoptic. The data flashed across his HUD—military-grade security weapons, encrypted origin tags, all traced back to Arata Defense Division.
He whistled low. "She ain't lying. This haul's worth a small fortune."
Adrian raised an eyebrow. "And a death sentence if we keep it."
"Relax," Maine said, lighting a cigar. "Only if they find out."
"...And they always find out," Kiwi muttered, pacing near the terminal. She flicked a half-burnt cigarette onto the floor. "You're playing with corporate fire. This gear has trackers, serial locks, heat sigs—they'll ping off any city scanner within the hour."
"Then wipe them," Maine snapped.
Kiwi's eyes narrowed behind her mask. "You don't just 'wipe' Arata encryption, Maine. It's coded with black ICE—the kind that fries your cortex."
"Then that's Sasha's problem," Maine growled.
Sasha gave a short, humorless laugh, still jacked in.
"I already did it," she said, unplugging her neural jack with a faint hiss.
She exhaled smoke, eyes glowing faintly blue. "ICE melted, data burned. No traces left."
Adrian watched her for a beat. She looked exhausted—cheeks pale, sweat glistening on her collarbone. She'd been pushing her brain past its limit since the fight began.
"Still cleaning tails," she muttered, typing one last sequence. "They'll trace the network breach eventually, but by the time they do, this place will be ash."
---
As they loaded the final crates, Maine turned to his crew.
"Alright. That's the haul. Let's move."
They piled into the battered vehicles—Maine in front, Dorio riding shotgun, Rebecca and Pilar following with the cargo. Adrian, Sasha, and Kiwi squeezed into the back, the car reeking of smoke and adrenaline.
As Maine revved the engine, he cursed under his breath.
"Goddammit, my car…"
The purple beast that had once gleamed like a showroom dream was now a cratered wreck—its frame dented, glass shattered, bullet holes riddling the hood. A faint trail of black oil dripped from the engine like blood.
Rebecca leaned out the window, grinning. "Hey boss, look on the bright side—it's got character now!"
"Yeah," Maine muttered. "So will your skull if you don't shut up."
Rebecca giggled and sat back, fiddling with one of the Shingens she'd looted. "Worth it."
---
The convoy sped down Santo Domingo's cracked highway, neon lights blurring past. The rhythmic thrum of the city mixed with the low hum of their engines. Inside, silence fell heavy—each of them lost in their own thoughts.
Finally, Maine spoke.
"This isn't over," he said quietly, eyes fixed ahead. "We got played, and I don't like being someone's punchline."
He puffed on his cigar, smoke curling through the cabin.
"That fixer—Koff, the so-called 'Multiface.' He fed us bad intel. Sent us to Sixth Street turf for what he called a 'simple snatch-and-grab.' But that was corporate shit. If we didn't move fast, we'd be bodybags."
He paused, tone turning colder.
"He knows who we are. Knows our names, our routes, our comm links. If the corps lean on him, he'll spill. We can't let that happen."
Kiwi finally looked up. "And what's your plan? Beat a fixer to death and hope the problem disappears?"
Maine smirked. "If that's what it takes."
"You're a lunatic," Kiwi said flatly. But there was no real venom in her voice—just weariness.
Adrian leaned forward between the seats, his voice steady. "Maine's right. If Koff sells you out, you won't even know it happened. Fixers are snakes. Once they're scared, they bite whoever's closest."
"So we find him," Maine said, eyes narrowing. "And this time, we make him talk."
He turned toward Adrian. "And that's where you come in, kid."
Adrian blinked. "Me?"
"You got contacts," Maine said. "You're Mox. You know people who can find ghosts."
Rebecca whistled. "Wait—Adrian's Mox? Like, that Mox?"
Kiwi's gaze sharpened. "Susan Q's little prodigy."
Adrian hesitated, then sighed. "Former Mox. Got kicked out years ago."
Maine grinned, a sharp glint in his eyes. "Former or not, you still got her number, right?"
Adrian met his stare. The air between them crackled with unspoken understanding.
Finally, he nodded. "Yeah. I'll call her."
---
The car hummed along the edge of the industrial sprawl, the Afterlife bar's neon silhouette flickering in the distance like a lighthouse of broken dreams. Adrian tapped his neural link, and his cybernetic eyes pulsed amber. A holographic interface flared to life in front of him.
> Connecting... [Mox Secure Line – Susie Q]
The line rang once.
Twice.
Then the screen lit up with a familiar face.
Susan Q—leader of the Mox, the woman who kept Night City's lost girls and broken boys alive through sheer willpower.
Her expression was as sharp as ever: cold eyes, perfect makeup, a cigarette burning between two fingers.
"Adrian?" she said, voice cutting through static. "Been a while."
He nodded slightly. "Yeah. Could say that."
She exhaled smoke, gaze flicking sideways. "I thought I told you not to get involved with that walking time bomb, Maine."
"Maine's fine," Adrian replied. "For now."
Her brow arched. "For now?"
He didn't waste time. "We took a job. Sixth Street turf. The target's dead, and the whole thing smells like Arata's wet dream. The fixer who fed us the gig—Multiface Koff—sold us bad intel. I need a trace on him."
Susan didn't respond immediately. She leaned back, tapping her cigarette against an ashtray, the embers scattering like tiny stars.
"Arata?" she said finally. "You sure?"
"Positive. There were security tags in the locker, coded for the Tiger Claws' back channel. This was corporate laundering through gang turf."
Her eyes narrowed. "That's... a dangerous mix."
"No kidding."
She studied him for a long moment, as if weighing whether to help.
Then she sighed. "I'll see what I can dig up. But if this touches the corps, you pull out. Fast. You're not built for corpo politics, Adrian."
He almost smiled. "You used to say that about firefights, too."
Her lip twitched—just slightly. "And I was right."
Then her tone softened, if only for a heartbeat. "Don't die for someone else's paycheck, kid. You're not disposable."
Adrian met her gaze, the faint hum of the car blending with her voice. "I'll try."
"Good. Because I don't do funerals anymore."
The call cut.
---
For a moment, silence filled the car. Then Maine whistled low.
"Damn. Didn't realize you were that close."
Adrian shrugged. "She's like… family, I guess. The kind that slaps you first and asks if you're bleeding later."
Rebecca snorted. "Sounds like love to me."
Maine smirked. "Remind me never to piss her off."
Kiwi looked out the window, neon lights painting her mask red. "You already have. You just don't know it yet."
---
They drove on through the night, the city sprawling endlessly before them.
Each neon sign flickered like a heartbeat. Every passing drone cast a shadow over the cracked asphalt.
Adrian watched the skyline in silence.
The adrenaline was fading now, leaving behind that familiar hollow ache—a reminder that survival in Night City wasn't victory. It was just delay.
He closed his eyes, leaning back against the seat. The hum of the engine mixed with the faint buzz of data through his cyberlink. Somewhere deep in his system, the mission log blinked:
> [Mission: "There Are Always Unexpected Events in Buying and Selling" — COMPLETE]
[New Mission Added: "The Multiface Fixer"]
[Objective: Locate Koff. Retrieve intel before the corps do.]
[Warning: Corpo retaliation imminent.]
He exhaled slowly, his reflection shimmering faintly in the cracked window.
This wasn't over. It never was.
In Night City, every win came with another war waiting around the corner.
And as the skyline swallowed their car, the distant rumble of thunder rolled across the smog-choked sky.
> Aftershock.
It wasn't just the sound of the storm.
It was the echo of what they'd unleashed.