James sat on the monorail with a faint frown, turning a question over in his head.
By now, Viktor should already be in Kabuki, working as a ripperdoc… right?
Night City didn't always match his memories perfectly. It was the same city, the same neon poison, but time and details could shift just enough to get you killed if you relied on certainty.
Viktor's clinic wasn't famous in the big picture, but there was one thing about the building that made it easy to track.
The spiritual shop upstairs.
That place had a name people actually remembered.
Not because it sold charms or incense—Night City was full of people desperate enough to buy anything—but because the woman running it listened. And listening was rare.
Plenty of black-market ripperdocs could stitch flesh and bolt chrome into bone. But someone like Misty, who soothed stress and patched broken minds through quiet words and silly divination?
That was almost… luxury.
"Found it," Lucy said, her cybernetic eyes flickering as she ran a scan. "Misty's Esoterica. That's what you meant?"
"That's the one," James replied, nodding.
Lucy's gaze sharpened. "There's actually a ripper clinic on the lower floor."
She sounded surprised, and James didn't blame her. Kabuki was a swamp of cheap clinics and illegal chrome. You walked in healthy and walked out missing an organ—if you walked out at all.
Lucy continued scanning. "And the ripper's got good ratings. Not even 'fake' good. Real good."
"Then let's move," James said, standing. "We're at the station."
Lucy followed him off the monorail.
Kabuki sounded like a decent place—if you only heard the name and never saw the street.
A long time ago, it had been crowded with medical companies. The area had money, stability, and a sense of order.
Then Arasaka expanded, businesses collapsed, and Kabuki turned into one of Night City's poorest districts.
In the day, it was cheap shops and crowded neon markets.
At night, it became a black market bloodstream—illegal implants, combat drugs, stolen organs, and people pretending they weren't selling their own futures.
Worse, the territory was chopped up by multiple gangs. Nobody owned the whole place, which meant nobody controlled it.
Even in daylight, James and Lucy drew hungry stares.
The Scavengers here didn't even pretend to be subtle. Their eyes tracked bodies like scanners.
James had to let his pistol show at his waist just enough for the street dogs to remember pain and consequence.
He didn't want to shoot in broad daylight. Not because of morality—because of paperwork.
NCPD paperwork was a different kind of death.
"This is it," Lucy said quietly.
She led him deep into a corner drowned in graffiti and shadow. A small basement door sat there like a wound in the wall. An "OPEN" sign flickered weakly, soft and almost gentle.
Nobody would guess a ripperdoc worked behind that curtain.
James stepped forward and knocked.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Footsteps approached.
The iron door creaked open.
A burly, bearded middle-aged man filled the frame, broad shoulders and thick arms, eyes sharp behind black-rimmed glasses. He looked them over like he was measuring coffin sizes.
"Who the hell are you?"
"Doctor Viktor," James said calmly, "we've got business to discuss."
Viktor's expression hardened instantly.
"When did little brats like you become kidney harvesters?" His fists clenched. "I'm warning you—last time. I don't do business with you freaks."
The threat was real. This wasn't some shaky clinic rat.
Viktor had once been a legend in the ring, a Night City boxing champion before life dragged him into medicine.
If James had looked older, a punch would already be flying.
James lifted both hands in peace. "Seems like you misunderstood. Do I look like one of them?"
Viktor studied them more carefully this time—no scav-style optics, no pain editors, none of the usual "street butcher" chrome. Lucy's posture was too controlled. James's eyes were too clean.
After a beat, Viktor stepped aside.
"Sorry," he muttered. "Those harvesters have been sniffing around my door all week. Gets under the skin."
"Understood," James said.
Lucy stayed silent as they entered, scanning everything.
She didn't trust ripperdocs. Especially not in Kabuki.
But the clinic was… clean. Not Corpo-clean, but honest-clean. The equipment was standard and organized. The vibe didn't match the neighborhood at all.
And then she saw the trophies.
A row of old boxing awards, worn but cared for.
Lucy's eyes flickered again as she pulled public info.
Retired champion. Real record. Real history.
Viktor turned and gestured at the chairs.
"Sit. What's the business?"
James opened the bag he carried.
Inside: a mess of blood-stained cyberware.
Implant arms. Cheap optics. Metal joints. Low-grade mods ripped from low-grade monsters.
"I ran into two groups of Scavengers," James said. "Not great quality, but… you think any of this has recycling value?"
Viktor's eyes narrowed.
A half-grown kid claiming he dropped multiple Scavenger groups?
It sounded like a lie.
But Viktor inspected the items closely. The spray-painted markings were there. The sloppy removal was there. The stink of their lifestyle was there.
It was real.
Viktor sighed and leaned back.
"I won't recycle these," he said finally. "Scavs are walking disease farms. You install something ripped out of one of them and you might be installing a death sentence."
Lucy's brows lifted slightly.
A ripperdoc in Night City caring about that?
That was… rare.
James nodded once, no argument. "Got it. Then can I ask you to destroy them?"
He glanced at Lucy, silently checking if she objected.
Lucy rolled her eyes like she was annoyed, but she didn't protest.
Viktor looked surprised. Most people would argue, beg, or threaten for money. Even low-grade implants sold as scrap could buy meals.
"You're just… giving them up?"
"Yeah," James said simply. "If you're saying they're dangerous, I'm not dumping that risk on someone else."
That answer bought him something more valuable than cash.
Goodwill.
Viktor's shoulders eased. "If you trust me, leave them here. I'll handle it properly."
"Of course," James replied. "In Night City, if I can't trust you, I can't trust many people."
Viktor blinked, then gave a small laugh. "By the way… don't call me 'Doctor Viktor.' Just Viktor."
"Then I can call you Viktor?"
"Viktor?" Viktor chuckled again. "Kid, that makes me sound ancient."
"You're in trouble," James said casually. "I'll help you solve it."
Viktor's smile faded. "By that tone… you two Edgerunners?"
"Something like that."
Viktor's instinct kicked in—protective, annoyed, tired.
"Too dangerous. You're young. If—"
He stopped mid-sentence.
Because he looked at the blood-stained pile again and realized the truth.
These weren't kids playing tough.
They were already in it.
Viktor exhaled slowly.
"I can give you a job," he said. "But on one condition. I come with you."
"Okay," James answered instantly.
Lucy's eyes narrowed, and a message flashed across James's optics.
(Did you just agree without asking me?)
James replied quietly through the same channel.
(Temporary collaboration.)
Lucy's next message came fast.
(You say one thing and mean another.)
James didn't argue.
Truth was, Viktor's patience had already reached its limit. He'd tracked a Scavenger hideout himself. James's arrival simply pushed him over the edge.
They got the address.
And then James immediately moved.
Viktor frowned. "We're doing this… during the day?"
"Old Vik," James said with a grin, "daytime is the best time. At night, cockroaches vanish into holes you'll never find again."
Viktor muttered behind him, "How did I become 'Old Vik' so fast? Why does this kid act like we're drinking buddies?"
They reached a basement entrance.
Lucy didn't go in. She had work to do.
(Surveillance synced. Be careful.)
A whole camera network lit up in Lucy's vision. This hideout had sensors everywhere—but their security was a joke. Dozens of Scavs and not one netrunner.
The cameras became Lucy's eyes.
James drew his pistol.
This time, he brought spare magazines.
(Not bad. You're fast.) James sent.
Lucy didn't respond with words, just kept feeding him targets.
The basement stank of blood.
Scavs lived in darkness, so their optics had night-vision mods. They were cockroaches by design.
Viktor watched James walk straight down like he was going to buy groceries.
"Kid," Viktor said slowly, "what exactly are you planning—"
"Don't worry, Old Vik," James replied. "Wait here. I'll be right back."
Lucy cracked the door access in seconds.
The iron door opened.
James slipped inside.
Viktor stepped forward—
The door locked behind him.
Viktor tried to shove it open. No response. Permissions were sealed.
He realized instantly.
That bastard tricked me.
Then the music started.
Gunshots.
Wails.
Short. Sharp. Efficient.
Viktor clenched his jaw, fury mixing with disbelief.
And inside, it wasn't a fight.
It was harvest.
With Lucy feeding positions and James moving like something built for violence, every Scavenger who tried to react simply fell.
One shot each.
Foreheads split.
Blood and brain matter painted the walls.
Only one boss with subdermal armor took a second bullet.
Nobody even got a clean shot off.
In less than a minute, the basement went silent.
The door clicked open.
James walked out calmly, like he'd just finished a chore.
Viktor's anger hit first. "You little brat—!"
But then he saw James was untouched.
And his anger shifted into something else.
Respect.
Now Viktor believed him.
James really had handled Scavengers before.
He was made for this kind of work—whether he wanted to admit it or not.
"Thirty-two inside," James said with a faint smile. "I think you'll live a lot more peacefully from now on."
Once that news spread, it wouldn't just scare Scavs.
Even other gangs would think twice before messing with Viktor.
Thirty-two Scavs wasn't small. Even the Mox didn't have endless numbers.
Viktor exhaled, feeling suddenly old.
"Young people these days…" he muttered, then shook his head. "I don't have much money to pay you."
"Give me whatever you want," James said. "I mainly wanted to make friends. Just give me a twenty percent discount later."
Viktor stared, then laughed softly. "Alright. Guess I've got no choice. You're a friend."
He didn't say it like a business deal.
He said it like something rare.
Because in Night City, friends were harder to find than clean water.
Since they were there, James had Viktor check his implants too.
There weren't many.
One cyber-eye. Mostly original flesh.
Ninety-eight percent natural.
In Night City, that was as rare as a monk.
And right now, James didn't need combat chrome. Most implants couldn't match what his body could already do.
Why add pressure when he was already winning?
Viktor stared at the data on his tablet, eyebrows slowly rising.
Reaction nerves.
Strength.
Coordination.
This wasn't "normal."
This was… engineered.
Small-caliber rounds might not even bite deep.
Viktor didn't ask questions. In this city, you didn't ask questions if you wanted to keep breathing.
He only offered a suggestion.
"Kid," Viktor said quietly, "you interested in learning boxing from me?"
James tilted his head. "Men's boxing or women's boxing?"
Viktor groaned. "What kind of question is that? I'm a man. How would I teach you women's boxing?"
"No tuition?"
"Free."
James grinned. "Then that's perfect."
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