Inside a high-level office in the Biotechnica Tower, chaos reigned. The space was utterly wrecked—filing cabinets lay overturned, pristine corporate paper scattered like snow. Monitor screens were shattered, shards of glass reflecting intermittent sparks and the sickly, pulsing neon bleed of Night City outside the window. Bullet holes and plasma scorches marred the walls like abstract, violent graffiti.
The only stable light came from a stubbornly blinking progress bar on a terminal screen, its faint blue glow fragile against the devastation.
Sasha was huddled behind a heavy metal office desk, her petite frame almost completely swallowed by the shadows. Her breathing was rapid and shallow, each inhale carrying dust and the metallic scent of burnt ozone. Sweat plastered her hair to her pale forehead.
In her hands, she clutched the rugged plasma iron Rebecca had forced on her. The barrel was searing hot from continuous firing, and the internal energy capacitor was emitting a subtle, distressed whine—a sound like a dying bird.
On the terminal screen, the progress bar for the massive data upload was crawling at a painful rate: ninety-four percent, ninety-five percent...
Outside the reinforced alloy door, an ear-grating metallic screech mixed with heavy, rhythmic thuds. It was the sound of Biotechnica's security automatons and gonks using hydraulic strength to beat their way through the barricade of furniture and damaged server racks she'd stacked against the entrance. The door was visibly dented and deformed, tiny metal fragments showering down with every impact.
"Faster… just a little faster…" Sasha pleaded silently, her amber eyes fixed on the numbers, desperately trying to push her will into the system.
Her other hand unconsciously brushed over the old, worn holographic photo pendant in the inner pocket of her jacket—her mother and sister, smiling. Her mother's gentle face, her weary eyes.
The corporate betrayal—the realization that the "miracle painkiller" she trusted was known to Biotechnica executives as a slow-acting neurotoxin—had fueled a consuming rage.
This wasn't about Faraday's gig anymore. This was a war for justice.
She had packaged every dirty secret about the drug and was uploading it to News 54, a recipient known to have the organizational muscle to fight Biotechnica's ICE. But the mass data transfer took time, and her deep-level intrusion had finally triggered the network's sensitive alarms.
Tracking, locating, surrounding... the corporate response was swift and brutal.
"Bang! Boom—!"
With the final, concussive crash, a clear crack split the center of the office door. Through the gap, the security robots' crimson optical sensors, like bloodthirsty eyes, scanned the room, their red beams sweeping unsettling paths through the dust.
Sasha's heart hammered against her ribs.
Progress bar: ninety-seven percent.
She knew her chances of walking out were flatlined. But exposing the truth, trading her life for the slim hope of sparing other families a similar tragedy, was worth the cost. Her only regret was the team—Maine, Dorio, Falco, Pilar... and Rebecca.
She felt the heavy weight of the plasma pistol. "Buy me a drink when you get back!" Rebecca's loud, caring voice echoed in her mind.
"I'm sorry, choom… This drink, I'm afraid, will have to wait until the next life," Sasha muttered, the whisper lost beneath the shrieking metal.
Progress bar: ninety-eight percent.
Through the compromised corridor feed, she saw the full security detail—multiple heavy-duty robots and fully armored Biotechnica security personnel closing in, their movements synchronized, their heavy boots drumming a deadly rhythm of encirclement.
Breaking out was impossible.
Progress bar: ninety-nine percent.
A cold metal claw suddenly tore through the crack in the door, gripping the edge and beginning to rip the metal apart. The screech of deformation was deafening.
Sasha holstered the overheating plasma iron and drew her own, lighter pinkish-purple sidearm.
Progress bar: One hundred percent. Upload complete.
A determined, fierce glint flashed in Sasha's amber eyes. She raised her pistol, aimed at the widening breach, her fingertip finding the cold trigger, waiting for the final, violent moment.