Prologue: Streetkid
V rubbed at his bruised knuckles, the dull ache settling deep in his bones. The faint scent of stale beer and synth smoke clung to the air, wrapping around him like an old, worn-out coat. He sat at the bar, hunched over the scuffed surface, surrounded by the murmur of voices and the occasional burst of raucous laughter. The bar top was a patchwork of history, littered with stickers—faded band logos, chipped and peeling at the edges, corporate slogans turned ironic, and cryptic messages carved in with shaky hands. Years of wear and tear added to the charm, if you could call it that.
The bar itself was a classic dive, the kind that thrived on loyalty rather than luxury. El Coyote Cojo— The Limping Coyote . A staple of Heywood. It was a place that felt more like a community hub than a watering hole.
His gaze flicked up to the mirror mounted behind the counter, catching the distorted glow of neon signs bleeding in from the street outside. His own reflection stared back at him—his nose was bruised and crooked, smeared with dried blood that cracked every time he moved his face. He lifted his hands up, wincing as he prepared to adjust the cartilage of his nose back in place.
A shot glass slid into view, stopping just shy of his elbow.
“A little… anesthesia,” said Pepe Najarro, the bartender, his voice carrying a casual rasp that came from years of cheap cigars and saying too much to the wrong people.
V let his eyes drift to the glass, his other hand instinctively resting on the edge of the bar.
Pepe leaned on the bar, his gaze lingering on V’s bruised and swollen nose. “Helluva look,” Pepe added with a smirk. “I’m guessin’ the other guy looks worse?”
V huffed a dry laugh, his voice low. “Wouldn’t call it a fair fight.” He flexed his knuckles absently, feeling the sting flare up again. “Some gonks don’t know when to back off.”
Pepe shook his head, the corner of his mouth twitching in what might’ve been sympathy—or amusement. Hard to tell with Pepe. “You should hit up a ripper-doc for that,” he said, his tone casual but the concern behind it was obvious.
“Nah. I can handle this much myself.” V glanced at the man, his bulk towering over him even as he was leaning.
He reached for the glass and tossed it back in one smooth motion, the liquor burning all the way down. The warmth hit his chest, spreading out like a comforting lie. Setting the glass down with a clink, V braced himself and gripped his nose with one hand. In a swift, practiced motion, he snapped the cartilage back into place with a sharp pop.
“Ugh, motherfucker… ” he muttered under his breath, his voice strained as pain flared briefly. He swayed, leaning heavily on his forearm against the bar, his body remembering the hit all over again.
V wiped the blood from his nose with the back of his hand, his grin tight even wider. “Piece of cake,” he said, his voice strained.
Pepe shook his head, the corner of his mouth twitching in what might’ve been sympathy—or amusement. Hard to tell with Pepe. “Yeah, sure. You’re handling it real well.” He paused, grabbing the empty shot glass and sliding it behind the bar with a smooth motion. “Y’know, one day this macho shit’s gonna catch up with you, mano.”
V huffed a faint laugh, his lips curling into a smirk. “I’ll take my chances.”
Pepe didn’t look convinced, his brows knitting together. He leaned on the bar beside him, casual, but there was a flicker of concern in his eyes that he couldn’t quite mask. He had that way about him—always playing it cool, but keeping one eye on the storm. “What happened?”
V glanced at him, his smirk faint but sharp. “Some bastard tried to mug me.” He scoffed, like the idea alone was a bad joke. “I handled it.”
Pepe snorted. “Who? Local guy?” He asked it like a throwaway question, but V knew better. The tone was casual, sure, but the probe was there, subtle, like a blade slipped under the ribs. Pepe didn’t like trouble coming too close to the bar—trouble made customers nervous, and nervous customers didn’t spend eddies.
V leaned back slightly on the stool, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the memory. “You really think some local guy would try to mug me, Pepe?” He tilted his head, his grin widening just a fraction. It wasn’t cocky, exactly—just a simple statement of fact. Around Heywood, everyone knew better. These streets had taught him plenty—how to talk fast, fight faster, and never, ever show weakness.
Two years in Atlanta hadn’t changed much. If anything, it just made him realize that leaving wasn’t the same as escaping. Night City had a way of dragging people back—claws out, fangs bared.
Pepe let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Been back what—two weeks? And you’re already makin’ new friends.”
“Night City’s not exactly big on warm welcomes.” V cracked a grin as he ran his fingers over a gouge in the bar top, feeling the rough edge catch on his skin. It reminded him of Heywood in a way—patched together, rough around the edges, and barely holding up. He glanced up at the bartender, his smirk fading into a bitter smile. “Guess some things never change, huh?”
Pepe tilted his head slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching in a knowing half-smile. “This city’s got a long memory, V. You leave, come back—it’s like picking up a tab you never paid off. But you know that.”
“Yeah,” V murmured, leaning back against the stool with a small sigh. “I know.”
For a moment, they sat in silence, the hum of the bar filling the space between them. It was the kind of quiet that didn’t need filling—an understanding born out of shared experience.
Pepe shifted slightly, his hand brushing over the bar’s worn surface. The movement was subtle, but enough to break the stillness. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the counter, his voice low. “Listen, V… I got a problem. Serious this time.”
V turned his head, studying Pepe’s face. There was a weight there he didn’t like—one he’d seen too many times before in people who’d run out of good options. “What kind of problem?” he asked, his tone steady but edged with caution.
Pepe’s gaze dropped to the bar, fingers brushing at an invisible speck of dust, before he finally met V’s eyes again—only for a fleeting moment. “It’s, uh… Kirk.”
The name hit like a slap. V’s frown deepened, his jaw tightening.
Pepe looked away, embarrassment pulling at his features. He scratched at the back of his neck before meeting V’s eyes again, briefly, like he couldn’t quite bear to hold the gaze. “I owe ’im, V. Don’t pay by tomorrow, said he’d bust my legs.” His hand twitched, and he clenched it into a fist.
“’An he don’t joke about that stuff,” Pepe added, his voice trembling slightly. “Got cartels in his corner.”
V leaned in slightly, blinking as the words sunk in. “You in it with Kirk ?!” His tone was sharp, disbelief and frustration cutting through the low buzz of the bar. He gestured toward Pepe with his bruised hand, his movements quick and jagged. “Are you out of your damn mind? Every man, woman, and rat in Heywood knows he’s a fuckin’ shark! He doesn’t loan money—he hands out nooses.”
“My bro jumped the joint, deserved the hero’s welcome…” His voice was low, matter-of-fact, but there was a hint of regret woven into the words. Pepe let out a shaky breath, glancing away. “I know I fucked up, V.”
“Huh,” V muttered, his lips curling into a faint smirk. He tilted his head, the hint of amusement cutting through the tension. “You ever gonna get wise, Pepe?” His tone was a mix of teasing and endearment, the kind you only used on someone who’d already tested your patience a hundred times and still managed to stick around. “Least tell me your brother’s doin’ alright.”
Pepe shifted, some of the tightness easing from his face as he talked about his family. “Ah, doin’ his thing, you know… livin’ the dream, or somethin’ like it.” He shrugged, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. But the moment passed quickly, and the tension returned as he glanced down at his hands, still wringing together on the bar. “So, can you help?” he asked, his voice soft, hopeful but hesitant.
V stared at him for a long moment, his fingers tapping idly against the bar. His mind raced, cycling through memories of Kirk—his sleazy smirk, his flashy tracksuits, and the bruisers he kept on speed dial. The guy didn’t cut anyone a break, and V doubted he’d start now…
He pushed himself up from the stool with a grunt, making a show of his so-called reluctance—stretching his arms, cracking his neck, all the little theatrics that he knew would make Pepe sweat just a little more. But the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth betrayed him.
“I’ll talk to Kirk,” he said, his voice steady, like he was already weighing the risks in his mind. “But hear me, Pepe—this is the last time. Next time you’re strapped, you come to me first. No excuses.”
Pepe exhaled sharply, his voice thick with gratitude. “You’re savin’ my life, V, truly.”
V paused for a beat. “Yeah, well, don’t make a habit of it,” he replied, the teasing edge back in his tone.
V moved from the bar, the open-plan of the joint gave the space a sense of being both vast and crowded at once, with every corner steeped in character. Above, a second floor loomed, a handful of patrons leaned lazily over the railings, their conversations muffled but constant.
The lighting was low, dominated by deep reds that bled into the shadows. The neon glow from the signs around the place spilled across V’s face, sharpening the lines of his jaw and the glint in his eye. Blues and yellows punctuated the gloom and reflected off the bar’s polished chrome edges and the glass bottles lining the shelves. Their flickering light danced across the walls, which were plastered in graffiti—a chaotic tapestry of colors and messages that spoke of Heywood’s streets.
As V made his way around the bar, his sneakers thudding softly against the scuffed floor, his eyes traced the murals on the walls. One caught his attention: large letter V, its bold yellow lines framed by roses set against a pure black background—the unmistakable symbol of the Valentinos. In Heywood, it was common knowledge that every street, every corner of Vista del Rey, the Glen, and Wellsprings answered to the Valentinos.
To anyone else, the murals might’ve seemed like art or territory markers, but V knew better. These walls told the unspoken rules of Heywood—respect the Valentinos, or pay the price.
V’s lips pressed into a thin line as his gaze lingered on the bold strokes of paint. Gangs like that gave you family, protection, loyalty, a place to belong… But no matter how noble they made themselves out to be, they took just as much, if not more—your freedom, your choices. And when the gang called, you answered, whether you wanted to or not. He didn’t like that sentiment—didn’t like the idea of being someone’s dog, held on a leash.
That's why he’d left Night City in the first place. He wanted something more — to stand on his own, to make a real name for himself. Now that he was back, he couldn’t escape the irony. Lone mercs didn’t survive long. The ones that made it either had friends in high places or someone to watch their backs when the bullets started flying. For better or worse, alliances mattered. And V had none.
V reached the stairs that spiraled up to the second level, his sneakers making a faint thud with each step. His eyes flicked to the neon strips embedded along the edges of the steps—pink lights pulsing in rhythm, casting fleeting shadows on the graffiti-covered walls.
At the top, the second floor felt quieter, though no less alive. The air was thick with the hum of muted conversations, clinking glasses, and the faint thrum of bass from the jukebox downstairs. A waitress brushed past V, her tray laden with drinks. She moved with the kind of efficiency that came from working Heywood’s bars—quick, sharp, and always alert, her eyes constantly scanning for trouble before it started.
The booth he was heading for sat in the far corner, tucked away in the kind of shadowed space where deals were made and secrets were spilled. It was darker than the rest of the floor, away from the prying eyes of the bar’s regulars.
One man sat sprawled in the expansive seat, taking up more room than he needed, like he owned the place. A magazine rested in his lap, his hand lazily flipping the pages. Smoke curled upward from the cigarette pinched between his fingers, the faint orange ember casting a glow over his sharp features. The bold turquoise tracksuit he wore practically screamed for attention, contrasting with the dim surroundings. Over his eyes, sleek sunglasses flashed strings of text across their lenses, data feeding him information only he could see. He looked about V’s age, but the air of smugness he carried—like he’d already won whatever game you thought you were playing—made him seem older.
V didn’t like Kirk. Didn’t like his smug grin, didn’t like the way he thought he was someone important. And most of all, he didn’t like the way Kirk thought he could own someone just because they owed him a few eddies.
“Hey, Kirk,” V said, stopping at the edge of the booth. His voice was calm, but there was steel behind it. “Wanna talk.”
Kirk’s attention shifted slowly, deliberate in its pace, like he had all the time in the world. He lowered the magazine just enough to peer over it, his lips curling into a smirk that made V’s fists itch. Kirk brought the cigarette to his lips, drawing it out, savoring the moment. V ignored the faint burn on his knuckles as his hands flexed in his jacket pockets.
“V,” Kirk said, leaning back against the cracked leather of the booth. “Been a while.” his tone was casual, but there was that sharpness underneath, like he was testing the waters. He gestured lazily to the seat across from him with the magazine. “Spin it—whataya need?”
V slid into the booth, his movements slow and measured. He made sure to keep his eyes locked on Kirk, his expression neutral. This wasn’t his first time dealing with someone like him.
“Pepe asked me to talk you up,” he said evenly, keeping his voice steady.
As the words left his mouth, a shadow loomed over the table. V’s eyes flicked up just as a massive guy slid into the booth beside him - Big Joe, the gonk that never left Kirk’s side. The space was tight, and the guy’s bulk nearly shoved V into the edge of the seat. He reeked of cheap deli meat, the kind you grabbed from corner bodegas when you were desperate enough to eat it.
V resisted the urge to shift away, keeping his posture relaxed. The big guy took a slow, deliberate bite of his sandwich, chewing like he had all the time in the world. He glanced at V, his eyes lingering just long enough to make a point.
V resisted the urge to scoff.
Typical . Kirk always needed backup when he was cornering someone. Couldn’t risk getting his own hands dirty.
Kirk chuckled, a low, smoky sound that filled the booth. “What, Pepe too shy to hand over the eddies himself?” He leaned forward slightly, the glow of the cigarette catching the smirk that hadn’t left his face. “Tell him I don’t bite. Not yet.”
The big guy beside V set the sandwich down. V caught the shift in his posture before he moved, his hand disappearing under the table. A second later, a heavy handgun landed on the table with a deliberate clunk, the weight of it making the wooden surface groan.
V’s eyes flicked to the gun, then back to Kirk. He didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink. This was Night City—this was Heywood. Flashing a piece was just another way of saying hello.
If you’re gonna try to intimidate someone, don’t make it so obvious, V rolled his eyes. Now I know exactly where it is, and exactly who’s reaching for it.
He leaned back slightly, his posture loose, almost casual, but his eyes stayed locked on Kirk. “What’s he owe you?” he asked.
Kirk flicked the ash from his cigarette with practiced nonchalance. “Afraid that’s client confidentiality,” he replied smoothly. “Call it a lot and leave it at that.”
V huffed a dry laugh, shaking his head. “A credshark with business ethics,” he said, the sarcasm unmistakable. “Sounds too good to be true.”
“Well, merry fuckin’ Christmas,” Kirk shot back, a crooked grin spreading across his face. His voice dripped with mock cheer, the kind that made V’s jaw tighten. V turned his head toward the massive guy still crowding his space, his patience starting to fray at the edges.
“What’s your problem?” V snapped, his voice cutting through the low murmur of the bar.
The big guy’s smile faltered, his chewing slowing as if his brain had stalled. For a moment, he just stared at V, confusion flickering across his face. Didn't seem like anyone before had ever called him out during one of his little power displays—parading his bulk and his gun around probably usually was enough to shut people up.
His eyes shifted to Kirk, a silent plea for direction. Kirk didn’t even bother looking up from the magazine, just gave a subtle shrug.
The big guy hesitated, uncertainty written all over his face. He seemed unsure whether to push back or stand down, clearly out of his depth with someone like V. After a tense beat, he turned back to his sandwich, taking another deliberate bite, his jaw working slower than before.
V’s annoyance simmered as he turned back to Kirk. “Cut him some slack, will ya? He’ll pay—just needs some more time.”
Kirk didn’t respond immediately. He flipped another page in the magazine, his movements lazy, deliberate, like the conversation barely registered as important. The ember of his cigarette flared brightly as he took a slow drag, the smoke curling upward before he finally exhaled.
“Do I look like a charity to you?” Kirk said, his tone mocking and sharp. He leaned forward slightly, the glowing tip of his cigarette aimed at V like a loaded weapon. “You borrow eddies, you pay ’em back—with interest. It’s common. Fuckin’. Knowledge.” his eyes locked onto V, sharp and unwavering. “You suggesting I let a flaky cunt who can’t keep a deal off the hook?”
V leaned forward on the table, his voice steady and low. “No,” he said, the word cutting clean through the tension. His expression stayed calm, but there was no mistaking the steel behind it. “You let him off because it’s me askin’.”
Kirk let out a sharp, quick laugh, leaning back in the booth as smoke curled lazily from his cigarette. “You know me, V. I’m a man of the biz. So, I gotta ask…” He tilted his head slightly. “What do I get out of it?”
V sighed, rubbing his temple briefly with his fingers, his patience wearing thin. He hated this kind of game, but Kirk thrived on it. Always pushing, always making you say just a little more than you wanted to.
“Transactions go two ways—I get that,” V said finally, his voice lowering into a sigh. He glanced at Kirk, his expression reluctant. “I’ll owe you a favor.”
Kirk dragged deeply on his cigarette, the ember flaring bright for a moment before he exhaled a slow cloud of smoke that hung between them. “Tempting…” he said, drawing the word out like he was savoring it. His fingers flicked the magazine in his hand, dropping it onto the table with a thud. He spun it around with practiced ease and slid it toward V. “Got a nova idea already.”
V’s eyes flicked down to the magazine, his brows furrowing slightly. The screamsheet’s glossy surface displayed an ad for a car, the image subtly shifting in a loop. The sleek, silver body of a sports car gleamed under simulated lights, its contours sharp and polished. Above it, bold text read:
“The Legend of Aerondight” – a Rayfield ‘Guinevere.’
V’s expression flattened as he recognized the name. The Aerondight wasn’t just a car—it was the car. Rayfield was synonymous with wealth, extravagance, and untouchable status. The kind of car that screamed opulence louder than any custom job in Night City. Its price tag alone could wipe out debts for half the corpos living in Watson.
V glanced up from the page. “You gotta be kidding me…”
“Preem ride there on the page,” Kirk chuckled, his grin widening. He tapped the ad with one finger, the polished gold of his ring catching the dim light. “Only four of ’em in NC as of now.” He took his time, like he enjoyed drawing out the details, knowing it would make V’s hackles rise. “One—the Rayfield regional director. Two—Mayor Rhyne. Three—a rental service.”
V arched a brow, his tone flat but edged with dry disbelief. “Uh-huh. And four?”
Kirk’s grin sharpened like a knife. He leaned forward slightly, the cigarette dangling lazily from his lips as he pointed at the car. “Number four’ll belong to my client—just as soon as you klep it for me, that is.”
His words were smooth, too smooth, like they were discussing the weather instead of grand theft auto. V leaned back in his seat, his eyes narrowing slightly.
Of course it’s something like this , he thought. Cars like the Aerondight weren’t just locked down—they were fortified. Anti-theft tech, corporate-level security, the whole package. Stealing it wouldn’t be a job—it’d be a damn spectacle.
V's gaze stayed fixed on Kirk, measuring the man with each word he spoke. “I do this, and Pepe’s debt is squared?”
“’Course,” Kirk said, spreading his hands wide in a gesture of mock sincerity. “I’m a man o’ my word, you know that.”
V didn’t respond as Kirk took a final drag from his cigarette. The ember flared bright before Kirk flicked the butt aside, the faint hiss of it hitting the ashtray barely audible over the ambient noise of the bar.
“Whole thing’s simple,” Kirk continued, his voice smooth as oil. “You swipe the Rayfield for me, I clear Pepe’s account. Even toss in a cut for you, ’cause I’m such a nice guy.”
V’s jaw tightened, but he kept quiet, letting Kirk spin his pitch.
“My man Rick works the parking structure over by Embers—the club where our Rayfield driver likes to kick it. Every Friday night, like clockwork. Soon as you appear, security cams shut down, gate swings up—the road is yours.” Kirk’s tone was as casual as if he were describing a stroll through Wellsprings. “Just gotta grab the Rayfield and roll out. Simple.”
V’s eyes narrowed further. It was too simple . Jobs like this? They didn’t come without complications.
“And your man, Rick…?” V asked, his voice even, though his skepticism was impossible to miss.
“Trust him like my own brother,” Kirk replied, his tone smooth and almost rehearsed, like he’d sold this line a dozen times before.
V huffed a dry laugh. “Plan sounds shaky as fuck.”
“Oh?” Kirk raised an eyebrow, feigning surprise. The subtle smile tugging at his lips never wavered, though his eyes glinted with something sharper. “How so?”
“Sounds like you’re looking for a sucker,” V said matter-of-factly.
“This ain’t no setup, V.” Kirk’s tone shifted slightly, adopting a deliberate slowness as if trying to sound more sincere. He leaned in, his grin softening into something that almost resembled seriousness. “Heard you got a good head on your shoulders. Maybe we help each other make a few eddies. What d’you say, V?”
V didn’t answer right away as he weighed his options. He could feel the walls of Night City closing in again, the city’s familiar noose tightening. Jobs like this had a way of spiraling fast, but Pepe needed the help—and Kirk had a knack for making it hard to say no.
V let out a long sigh. “Who’s the owner?”
Kirk chuckled, leaning back in his seat, the leather creaking under him. “Just some Arasaka suit from across the water. Spews cash outta every hole in his body.”
“And his name ?” V pressed, his tone sharper now.
Kirk leaned forward again. “How would I know? Why would I care?” He waved his hand dismissively, like the details were beneath him. “It’s a hot item, and I know where to find it. That’s all that matters.”
V exhaled sharply through his nose. “How am I supposed to do this?” he asked, his voice carrying an edge of sarcasm. “You expect me to slide under the chassis on a skateboard for a quick hotwire, fast and easy?” He snorted, shaking his head. “Wheels like this have security systems. Good ones. ”
Kirk’s grin widened at V’s words. He had the look of a man who’d been waiting for that exact question, the smug satisfaction practically oozing off him. Raising a finger, he signaled for V to hold on and reached into his back pocket.
V’s eyes followed the motion carefully, every muscle in his body tense. Kirk wasn’t stupid—he wasn’t going to pull anything in a place like El Coyote—but V had learned the hard way never to trust anyone too much in Night City.
From his pocket, Kirk pulled out a small device and placed it carefully on the table. It was sleek, compact, and metallic, small enough to fit snugly in the palm of a hand.
“This bitty bop,” Kirk said, his voice low, like he was revealing some priceless artifact, “works just like the key Rayfield techs use for repairs.” He tapped the device with one finger, his grin widening. “Opens locks, bypasses identity verification.”
He slid it slowly across the table toward V, his movements deliberate, savoring the moment. The device caught the faint glow of the bar’s neon lights, its surface gleaming like it belonged in some corpo lab rather than Kirk’s grimy hands.
V didn’t reach for it right away. His eyes stayed on the device, his thoughts turning over as fast as his pulse. Something this sleek? This corpo? Didn’t come cheap. Where the hell did he get it?
“And this…” V said finally, his voice flat, his eyes flicking back up to meet Kirk’s. “Just fell into your lap?”
“Kabuki’s tech wizards sell more magical shit than this under the counter,” Kirk said with a casual shrug, sinking deeper into the booth. “Have a little faith, V.”
Faith ? In this city? V scoffed, his gaze shifting back to the device. He didn’t need to say it; the skepticism on his face said plenty. Anything that sounded too good to be true usually got you killed.
“So… we all agreed then?” Kirk pushed, his voice light but insistent.
The massive guy sitting beside V grunted suddenly, cutting through the moment. He tossed what was left of his sandwich onto the table, greasy paper crumpling as it landed. Without a word, he reached for his gun, the faint squeak of leather punctuating the motion, and pushed himself heavily out of the booth. The seat groaned under his weight as he stood, his shoulders brushing against V’s on his way out.
V’s eyes followed the big guy as he lumbered away, but his thoughts stayed on the device. The thing felt like a loaded dice roll. Either it worked as advertised, or it’d blow up in his face—metaphorically, if not literally. He turned back to Kirk, his expression unreadable. He grabbed the device off the table. The weight of the thing felt wrong, light in a way that made his gut twist. He didn’t trust it, didn’t trust Kirk, but Pepe needed this done.
“Best keep your word…” V said finally, his tone low, as he slid out of the booth. He paused, his gaze cutting into Kirk as he added, “ …Kirk .” The name rolled off his tongue slowly, hanging in the air like a challenge.
“Eeeasy, V,” Kirk said, leaning forward slightly, his grin widening. “Job’s gonna pad your wallet too, you know.”
V didn’t reply. He turned on his heel and walked away, the device slipping into the pocket of his jacket with a faint rustle.
“Head to Embers, in the Glen,” Kirk called after him, his voice chasing V down the stairs. “Rick’s in the garage, be waitin’ for ya. We’ll be in touch.”
V reached the stairs, descending back toward the noise of the bar below. The sounds of laughter and conversation grew louder with each step drowning out Kirk’s voice that still carried faintly behind him.
“Good luck out there,” Kirk said, his words practically dripping with amusement. “We’ll be in touch.”
V’s worn sneakers landed heavily on each step as he reached the ground floor. He turned away from the front door, angling instead for the back exit. It wasn’t just habit—it was instinct. Front doors were for people who had nothing to hide.
V passed a pool table surrounded by onlookers. Their shouts and laughter rose above the sharp clack of billiard balls colliding, bets traded over cheap drinks and credits. V barely spared them a glance. He’d seen it all before—the same players, the same hustle. Games like that weren’t about skill; they were about survival, about finding a moment of control in a city that gave you none.
By the exit, a row of battered arcade machines lined the wall, their screens flickering with glitchy animations of pixelated heroes. The electronic hum they gave off mixed with the ambient noise of the bar, creating a soundtrack so embedded in the neighborhood it felt almost nostalgic.
The door led him into a cramped storage room, dimly lit by a flickering bulb overhead. Beer kegs were stacked haphazardly against one wall, surrounded by a clutter of discarded boxes and heaps of old newspapers. The place was a mess, sticky stains spreading across the floor like ghosts of spills no one cared enough to clean up. Crushed cans and stray wrappers littered the corners, their shine dulled by dust.
The air was thick with the scent of stale beer and grease, the kind of smell that clung to places that had seen too many late nights and too little effort. It was a familiar setting, the kind of space where conversations weren’t overheard, and deals stayed under the radar.
He stepped further into the room, his sneakers sticking slightly on the tacky floor. By the far wall stood a vending machine, its bright neon display cutting sharply through the dim light. The thing was a Night City staple—promising “food” and “refreshments” in garish text, though everyone knew the contents were synthetic trash barely fit for a rat.
He paused by the back door, exhaling slowly as his gaze lingered on the faint glow spilling in through its cracked edges. Night City didn’t hand out victories—but it handed out chances. And that was all V needed. If he played it smart, if he made the right moves, he could claw his way out of the muck and make a name for himself.
V pushed through the door and stepped into the alley behind the bar. The heavy metal door creaked on its hinges before slamming shut behind him, the sound echoing down the narrow space. The air hit him like a wet blanket—damp and thick, reeking of garbage, oil, and something sour he didn’t want to place.
Trashcans lined the alley, their overflowing contents spilling onto the cracked pavement. Old wrappers, crushed cans, and something that looked like it used to be food lay scattered across the ground, glistening in the glow of a buzzing street light above. The flickering reds and blues of the neon's around the bar, streaked the puddles at his feet, the colors shifting and shimmering like an oil slick.
Two people were hunched over one of the bins, their arms elbow-deep in trash as they argued loudly. V caught snatches of their conversation but their voices blended into the hum of the city. He kept walking, his sneakers splashing lightly in a puddle, the sound barely registering. People scavenging through garbage? That was just Night City doing what it did best: grinding people down until all they had left was desperation.
Toward the end of the alley, a woman leaned against the wall. Her legs were bare, her gold shorts catching the faint light as she shifted her weight. A tied-up shirt barely covered her midriff, leaving her bra and a tattoo on her ribs visible. She had the look of someone who spent most of her time on these streets—sharp eyes, a guarded posture.
As V approached, she straightened, her gaze locking onto him under the glow of the streetlamp.
“Got a cig?” she called, her voice cutting through the quiet hiss of the city.
V slowed, his brow furrowing slightly as he glanced at her. “We met before?” he asked, his voice steady, though his expression carried a flicker of curiosity. “I don’t recognize you.”
The woman rolled her eyes, her tone shifting from casual to irritated in an instant. “I just asked for a smoke— Jesus ,” she said, crossing her arms and scoffing as she looked away.
“Don’t smoke,” he said plainly, his tone neutral. It wasn’t an explanation, just a fact.
The woman muttered something under her breath as her eyes turned back to the ground.
V paused for a beat, then continued walking toward the alley’s mouth. He wasn’t one to lecture—people made their choices, and he wasn’t about to waste energy trying to change their minds. Still, he couldn’t help but think about all the folks he’d seen coughing up blood in back alleys or struggling to breathe through the smog of Night City.
Turning back to the dark alley still twisting ahead, V walked on. Near a rusting trash container, a voice called out from the shadows, rough and weary enough to make him pause mid-step.
“Spare a veteran some change?”
The man’s voice was gruff, tired. He sat slumped in a puddle, his back pressed against the container, legs stretched out on the wet ground. His face was weathered, his eyes bloodshot but still sharp enough to size up V with a practiced glance.
In his hands, he held a piece of torn cardboard. The text scrawled across it in messy black marker read:
got no home, sick kid
and a cheating wife
need booze money
ASAP
you’re just gonna waste it anyways
V’s lips twitched, amusement flickering across his face as he glanced down at the man, his face familiar. “So, you’re a vet today, huh?”
The guy chuckled under the layers of grimy rags draped over him. “Heh. What can I say? War stories rake it in.”
V sighed, shaking his head faintly. He crouched slightly, extending a hand toward the man. The soft blue glow of the cybernetic implants in his eyes flickered faintly as they scanned the guy’s profile. A moment later, 1 eurodollar (€$ 1) was transferred to his account with a faint chime.
“Here. All yours,” V said, straightening back up. His tone was flat but not unkind, carrying a matter-of-factness that didn’t leave room for thanks or pity.
The man glanced at his wrist, where an old, scuffed display lit up to confirm the transfer. His lips cracked into a grin, revealing teeth that had seen better days. “Knew I saw good in you. God bless.”
Night City was full of people like that. Everyone was running a hustle. Some just didn’t have the energy to make it convincing anymore.
V stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets, his gaze drifting down the alley. He moved into a stretch of deep shadow. The faint glow of distant neon faded here, leaving only the dim, uneven light of the street close by and the hum of voices.
From the corner, a faint voice broke through the murk.
“The cybernetic god comes to devour its children,” the man mumbled, crouched low against the wall. His head was bowed, his fingers twitching erratically as he stared at the nothingness in front of him. His voice wavered between a whisper and a growl, like he was half-praying, half-prophesying.
V barely glanced his way. This kind of thing wasn’t uncommon in Night City. Too much time on the wrong corner, too many bad chips or chems, and the line between reality and delusion blurred into static. V sighed, his pace steady as he moved toward the faint glow at the end of the alley.
The shadows began to thin as he neared the light, the damp air carrying faint echoes of the city beyond. But another sound caught his ear—a voice, low and gruff, cutting through the hum of distant traffic.
“Talk to the people in Santo. Tell ’em to be ready.”
V slowed his steps slightly, his attention sharpening as he approached the scene, He recognised that voice.
A man stood by an open trunk, his posture calm and commanding. The faint glow of the trunk’s interior illuminated his face, revealing a weathered expression and sharp eyes that seemed to take in everything with quiet authority. He was balding, his dark mustache thick and neatly groomed. The cybernetics on the side of his skull were old, their bulky, outdated design a relic of a time when cyberware was made to last rather than impress.
V didn’t need to wonder who the man was. Everyone in Heywood knew Padre. V wasn’t old enough to have seen the kinder side of the man who’d once been a priest, but he’d heard the stories—especially the one about the bloodbath at Moto Cielo. That story had scared the hell out of him when he was just a kid on the streets, and even now, that unease lingered in the back of his mind. Padre wasn’t just a name; he was a force, the kind you didn’t want to cross unless you were ready to face the consequences.
Something shifted inside the trunk. V squinted, trying to make out the details in the dim light. He caught the sole of a shoe, the silhouette of something bulkier than luggage.
On the opposite side of the car stood a massive man, arms crossed over his chest. His sheer size alone would’ve made most people think twice about coming closer, but the calm way he stood said he didn’t need to rely on intimidation. He nodded, his deep, measured voice answering the first man’s command.
“Yes, Padre,” the big man said simply, his tone respectful but firm.
V’s eyes lingered on the pair. The older man, Padre, straightened, his hands resting on the edge of the trunk. Padre’s arms were a canvas of tattoos that crept up his neck, vivid designs telling stories of a life lived in Heywood’s heart. Each one seemed deliberate, purposeful, like they carried more meaning than he’d ever let on. Around his neck hung a heavy gold cross, its weight matching the rings that adorned his fingers, thick and ornate. They gleamed faintly under the dim light, a subtle reminder that power wasn’t just about the weapons you carried but the presence you commanded.
V didn’t need to know the details of their conversation to get the gist. Deals like this happened everywhere in Night City—power shifted hands in the quiet moments, not the noisy ones.
V stayed rooted where he was, the faint hum of the city surrounding him. He wasn’t eager to get involved with Padre—he never had been. He'd spent years cutting himself free of the strings that tied him to Heywood. So he shifted slightly, just enough to keep himself in the shadows without compromising his view of the scene.
The trunk closed with a soft thud , the sound deliberate, final.
V’s jaw tightened as he watched. He was confident in his ability to handle most things Night City threw his way, but he wasn’t interested in testing his luck against the weight of Heywood’s most infamous fixer.
The faint rumble of the car’s engine kicked up, its polished body glinting faintly under the dim overhead lights. V exhaled quietly, his breath barely audible over the hum of the car as it pulled away. The taillights cast long, distorted streaks of red along the damp ground, fading as the vehicle disappeared into the night. Only then did V allow himself to relax. His shoulders loosened slightly, and he took a single step forward, out of the deeper shadows.
Whoever was in that trunk, whatever deal had just gone down, it wasn’t something V wanted to be a part of. He knew he’d made the right call staying out of sight—the last thing he needed was to tangle himself in Padre’s web.
With a faint shake of his head, V adjusted his jacket and moved out of the alley. He kept his pace steady as he navigated the labyrinth of backstreets. They weren’t just familiar—they were etched into him. Every shortcut, every shadowy corner, every creak and groan of the city’s underbelly felt like an extension of himself.
The Glen loomed ahead, the faint hum of activity reaching him before the sights did. Here, the streets widened, opening into a maze of dilapidated buildings clinging to their past glories. V passed graffiti-tagged walls, their vivid colors shouting messages of rebellion and despair. In front of him, a rusty railing stretched along the edge of the street, separating the upper road from the drop below. The alley beneath yawned like a shadowed canyon. Only faint streaks of red and blue shimmered across the puddles below, distorted and restless.
V vaulted over the railing in one smooth, fluid motion. His sneakers hit the lid of a trash container below with a dull thud that blended seamlessly into the constant hum of the city. Without pausing, he dropped to the ground and weaved through the alley, past overflowing trash bins and slick puddles that mirrored the faint glow of the streetlights above.
Ahead, an old elevator was tucked into the side of a building, its metal frame weathered. The flickering panel above the doors was barely legible, the numbers worn down and scratched over years of neglect. Its dim glow flickered weakly, casting fractured shadows onto the alley floor.
V stepped inside. The doors groaned shut behind him, rattling slightly as they locked into place. He leaned against the wall, the metal cool against his back, his eyes fixed on the flickering display. Just as the elevator jolted into motion with a faint hum, his holo buzzed.
Kirk’s name lit up the display, the sharp blue glow filling his vision in the dim cabin. V exhaled, swiping to answer.
“Kirk. Status?” Kirk’s voice came through immediately, sharp and direct, like he couldn’t wait a second longer.
“On location,” V said, his voice clipped, barely managing to mask the irritation creeping in. Fixers didn’t usually hover like this—calling in the middle of a job, micromanaging every detail. But Kirk wasn’t a real fixer, was he? Just a loan shark playing at being something bigger. Maybe he was nervous, worried the job would go sideways.
Whatever his reason, it put V on edge. The whole thing felt off, enough to put him on edge. He shifted his weight against the wall, his fingers brushing absently against the fabric of his jacket. “About to find your man,” he added, his tone sharp, a subtle warning not to push further.
The elevator rattled faintly as it descended, the hum of its mechanisms filling the silence. When it finally stopped, the doors groaned open, revealing a brightly lit corridor bathed in the cold, artificial glow of fluorescent lights.
V stepped out, his sneakers echoing softly against the tiled floor as he made his way forward.
“Rick’s one of the good guys, you’ll see,” Kirk said, his tone light with just a hint of smugness. “I trust ‘im like a brother.”
“Yeah,” V said flatly. “So you said.”
A flicker of unease stirred in V’s gut as Kirk stayed on the line, his voice lingering in his ear like an unwelcome passenger. V stepped out of the elevator as the doors groaned open, revealing the parking lot below. Rows of cars stretched out in the dim, uneven lighting. Off to the side, the security booth sat enclosed by grimy glass panels streaked with dirt and oil. Inside, a man was slouched in a chair, the bluish glow of a monitor casting harsh shadows on his face.
V approached with steady steps.
“Yeah?” the man drawled without bothering to look up. His voice was thick with disinterest. “Somep’n I can help you with?”
“Kirk sent me,” V replied, keeping his tone even, neutral.
The man’s eyes flicked toward him, sizing him up with a look that felt more instinctual than intentional. After a moment, he grunted and leaned forward, pressing a button on the console in front of him. One by one, the cameras blinked off on the monitor, their feeds replaced by black screens.
“Mhm,” the man muttered, swiveling his chair to the side, his attention already drifting elsewhere. “Cameras’ blind. You got twenty minutes. Do your thing.”
V gave a small nod and turned away, his focus shifting to the rows of vehicles that filled the cavernous space.
It didn’t take long to find it.
The Rayfield sat in a marked VIP spot, its sleek silver body shimmering like liquid metal under the pulsating waves of blue and white neon framing the parking space. The car was a work of art, every curve and line screaming wealth and status.
“Kirk,” V said as he approached the car, his voice low. “I see the ride.”
“Your moment to shine, kiddo,” Kirk replied. “Good luck.”
V eyed the Rayfield skeptically as he reached into his jacket and pulled out the skeleton key Kirk had given him earlier.
“Let’s take this piece of wondertech for a whirl,” V muttered under his breath, his skepticism plain.
“You’re a man of little faith,” Kirk scoffed in his ear.
The small device rested comfortably in his hand, its smooth surface lighting up with a faint glow as it activated. The Rayfield responded immediately. With a soft hiss, the driver’s side door slid upward and to the side, revealing an interior bathed in soft ambient lighting. Every detail inside screamed luxury, the kind of craftsmanship that didn’t belong anywhere near the streets of Heywood.
“See?” Kirk said, his voice practically dripping with satisfaction. “We’re rich. Now fire ’er up and call me when you’re underway. I’ll tell you where to go.”
V stared at the car for a moment longer, his grip tightening on the skeleton key. Something about this still didn’t sit right, but there was no turning back now.
V slid into the driver’s seat with care. The plush leather molded perfectly to his frame as the door closed in a smooth motion. The interior of the Rayfield was as impressive as its exterior—chrome accents gleamed under the ambient lighting, and the dashboard looked more like a command console than anything else, a seamless blend of tech and opulence.
He reached for the controls, but the quiet hum of the car was interrupted by the sharp sound of the door being pulled open. A man loomed in the opening, broad-shouldered and towering, his silhouette backlit by the dim, flickering parking lot lights. The man’s leather jacket was adorned with bold Valentino's insignias—roses, skulls, and swirling patterns—the vibrant designs practically glowing under the dim parking lot lights. His chest rose and fell a little too quickly.
“Get out,” the man snapped, his voice carrying an edge that betrayed his attempt at control. He held a gun loosely in one hand, the barrel angled downward, but its weight was impossible to ignore. It wasn’t aimed at V, but the message was clear: compliance wasn’t optional.
V raised his hands slowly, his gaze locked on the man. “Okay, easy,” he said, his voice even but laced with frustration. His mind raced, calculating his next move.
As the man shifted slightly, V saw his chance. Without hesitation, his foot slammed on the gas. The Rayfield’s tires squealed against the concrete for a fraction of a second before the dashboard flickered. A faint bzzt echoed through the cabin as the skeleton key sparked and fizzled out.
The car went silent.
“Fuck—” V cursed, slamming a fist against the steering wheel in frustration. The Rayfield’s access shut off completely, the dashboard now dark and unresponsive.
“Wow, you can drive. Now get out,” the man barked, his voice loud and clipped. The forced bravado didn’t quite mask the nervous edge creeping into his words. He stepped closer, reaching into the car with a sudden motion that lacked finesse. Before V could react, the man grabbed him by the front of his shirt and hauled him out of the seat like he weighed nothing.
“What the hell , man?” V shoved the guy’s hands off himself, dropping back in the car seat. “Never heard of thieves’ honor?” his tone edged on offended. “ Finders keepers? I was first.”
The man’s tightened his grip on his pistol. The sweat glinting on his brow under the dim lights betrayed his nerves.
“Listen,” he said, agitation growing. “Only one of two ways this can go—friendly or fucked up. Either way, the ending’s the same—I’m takin’ the car.”
A sudden screech of tires echoed through the parking lot.
“¡Qué chingados…?!” (The fuck...?) the man growled, his head snapping up toward the sound.
Blinding white light cut through the dim shadows of the parking lot. V squinted, raising an arm instinctively to shield his face as a police cruiser slid to a halt nearby, its tires skidding against the concrete.
Another NCPD car followed close behind, jerking to a stop with an aggressive lurch.
“NCPD! Drop your weapons!” a voice barked, sharp and commanding, cutting through the chaos like a blade.
A cold knot formed in V’s gut as he stared into the blinding lights. The sudden shift in stakes hit him like a gut punch, the adrenaline in his veins now tinged with dread.
“Don’t move! You’re under arrest!” a second officer shouted as silhouettes emerged from the vehicles, their movements swift and methodical. Guns were trained on the pair, unwavering in their focus.
The man in the Valentinos jacket froze, his shoulders stiffening as he hesitated for only a moment. Then, he let his pistol clatter to the ground. The sharp scrape of metal against concrete echoed in the heavy air. It slid away, coming to a stop under the harsh glare of the headlights. His chest heaved slightly as he raised his hands slowly.
“Hands where I can see ’em! Nice and slow!” the lead cop barked, stepping forward with deliberate authority.
With a long, resigned sigh, V followed suit, lifting his hands into the air, gaze darting to the officers as they advanced, their voices sharp and overlapping. The ache in his knuckles flared as he moved, a small reminder of just how quickly the night had spiraled.
“Stay where you are!” a woman’s voice yelled, her tone cold and precise. The words cut through the chaos like a gunshot, silencing the faint hum of the parking lot.
V stole a glance sideways at the man, trying to gauge his reaction, but the view was cut short as another officer’s voice sliced through the air.
“On the ground, motherfuckers! Now! ”
V barely had time to process the command before he was dragged from the car, the rough grip of an officer’s hand clamping around his wrist. His sneakers scraped against the pavement as he was forced down. The cold, unforgiving concrete rushed up to meet him.
“Easy!” V hissed, but his protest was swallowed by shouted orders. His face was pressed against the damp concrete, cheek scraped. The sharp glare of flashing red and blue burned into his vision. He winced, blinking against the searing brightness of headlights. His pulse thundered in his ears, the heat of adrenaline giving way to the cold, hard reality of what was happening.
From the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of the Valentinos man. He was face down, his arms yanked roughly behind his back, an officer’s knee pressing firmly into the back of his neck. The man’s body jerked slightly, a muffled grunt escaping as the cop pinned him further.
“Stay down!” a cop growled, his voice low and menacing. V felt a sharp twist in his arm as the officer wrenched it behind him.
V gritted his teeth, ache shooting through his shoulder, his breath coming in short, controlled bursts as he stared down at the ground. His mind raced, trying to piece together his next move, but every option led back to the same frustrating conclusion: there was nothing he could do.
“Jackie Welles, my old pal from the hood.”
The voice cut through the chaos, cold and sharp, making the man beside V—the one the officer had pinned down—try to turn his head despite the knee pressing firmly into his neck. That must’ve been his name—Jackie.
“See you haven’t grown an ounce wiser,” the voice added, each word deliberately measured.
“Hey, argh… Detective Stints!” Jackie said, forcing his voice into something that almost sounded friendly, though the strain was impossible to hide. “Been a while, huh?”
“ Inspector Stints,” the man corrected coolly, stepping into V’s line of sight. His silhouette cut sharply against the blinding headlights, the polished toes of his boots reflecting the harsh glow.
“Same shit,” Jackie scoffed, defiance bleeding into his tone.
Stints ignored the jab, crouching slightly as he picked up Jackie’s pistol from the ground. He turned it over in his hand, examining it with deliberate care. The way his grip tightened on the weapon suggested he wouldn’t hesitate to use it if the situation called for it—or even if it didn’t.
“Speaking of…” Stints said, his gaze shifting to V. His voice dropped slightly, adopting an almost casual tone that was somehow more unsettling. “Your mug’s familiar, too.”
“Yeah?” V replied, his voice strained under the weight of the officer pinning him down. He shifted slightly, his cheek scraping against the rough concrete. “Yours ain’t to me.”
Stints paused, his expression tightening for a moment. “Left for Atlanta,” he said like it was common knowledge. “Lookin’ for a slice of happiness.”
V tried to follow his movements as Stints began to pace. His slow steps were of someone who enjoyed holding all the cards. Jackie’s gun swung casually in his hand as he moved, a silent threat that loomed over the conversation. V craned his neck, catching glimpses of polished boots stepping closer, his muscles aching.
The boots stopped inches from his face.
“Guess you didn’t find it,” Stints said, his voice dropping lower. There was no malice in it—just grim certainty. “I’ve always maintained it’s the same for all you termites in Heywood. Born here, live here, die here.”
He took a step back, letting the weight of his words sink in. “Looks like I was right.”
“You know fuck all about me,” V growled, his voice cutting through the tense silence like a blade.
Stints stopped mid-step, his head tilting slightly as though considering the remark. The pause stretched just long enough to make V regret speaking, but the words were already out there, burning between them.
“Truth hurts, huh?” Stints replied, his tone laced with mock sympathy, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Just watch your tone—I’m not a patient man.”
The quiet that followed was thick with tension, the faint hum of the police cruiser engines the only sound cutting through the oppressive atmosphere.
“Hey, c’mon, Stints, give us a break, huh?” Jackie spoke up, his voice strained but oddly casual, like he was chatting with an old friend over beers rather than pinned to the ground under a cop’s weight.
V blinked in surprise, the words striking him harder than they should have. Us . He almost didn’t believe he’d heard it. The guy had no reason to speak up for V. Most people would sell you out—even if they had been your partner in crime—toss you under the bus without a second thought. But Jackie didn’t even hesitate.
“You lock us up – we’ll just jerk off till trial, and then what?” Jackie continued, his tone light despite the rough knee digging into his back. “Worst case, ugh, we get some months. Hell, standin’ room only nowadays in el bote , so… we’ll prob’ly be out early.”
V shifted slightly, trying to catch a glimpse of Jackie’s face. The guy was either fearless, reckless, or both. It almost made V grin.
The sound of someone scoffing cut through the ambient noise, drawing Stints’ attention instantly. The inspector froze mid-step, his posture stiffening as if he’d been caught off guard. His lips moved, the words muttered under his breath. “Fuck, he’s here.”
It wasn’t meant for anyone to hear, but V caught it anyway. The quiet expletive, the slight tremor in Stints’ tone—it all added up to something V didn’t like. His pulse quickened as he lay motionless, his cheek pressed against the cold pavement.
“Are these the thieves?”
V craned his neck to see, his muscles protesting as he pushed against the rough grip holding him down. A man stepped into view, his appearance a violent clash against the drab, grimy parking lot.
He was flashy—corp flashy. Pristine white pants and a gold vest layered over a bright pink shirt that screamed excess, the cuffs trimmed in yet more gold. White biker gloves hugged his hands, their clean surfaces glinting under the harsh parking lot lights. Oversized gold sunglasses perched on his face completed the look, reflecting the dim neon glow like twin mirrors. He didn’t just stand out—he radiated the kind of arrogance that came with knowing the world revolved around him.
“Ordinary street trash,” the corp scoffed, his lip curling in disdain as his gaze fell on V and Jackie.
V gritted his teeth, the insult biting despite its predictability. He couldn’t help but feel the weight of those words, not because they were true, but because people like him had the power to make judgments like that stick—judgments that could end lives.
“Got ’em in custody, Mr. Fujioka,” Stints said, his tone shifting noticeably. He stood straighter now as if the corp’s presence demanded more than just respect—it demanded obedience. “We’ll be takin’ ’em now.”
“It’s a waste of effort,” the corp—Fujioka—replied, his disdain dripping from every syllable. His gaze swept over V and Jackie as though they were nothing more than stains he couldn’t be bothered to clean. “I have no time to testify or play at an investigation.”
“You suggestin’ we let ’em go, sir?” Stints asked, his voice steady but carrying an edge of unease.
Fujioka tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable save for the cold calculation lurking beneath the surface. “I suggest you toss them in the sea,” he said smoothly, tapping a manicured index finger against the inspector’s chest. His voice was calm, almost conversational. “Cuffed, legs broken, so this trash doesn’t float.”
Fujioka turned without waiting for a response, his polished shoes clicking sharply against the concrete as he walked back toward the club.
V’s gaze fell to Jackie for a brief moment, catching the tension in the other man’s face. They locked eyes briefly, sharing a silent understanding in the breaths they held.
“You heard ’im,” Stints said, his voice sharp and devoid of hesitation as he barked the order.
“Fuuck…” Jackie growled low, the word dragging out, rough. His body tensed under the officer’s grip, the sound of resistance vibrating in his throat as the cop above him shifted into action.
V tried to glance at Jackie, but his view was cut short as hands grabbed him roughly, rolling him onto his back. The cold pavement pressed into his shoulders, and when he looked up, all he could see was the officer towering over him. The man’s face was hard, but there was something unsettling in his eyes—an almost eager glint, like he was savoring the violence before it began.
With a smooth motion, the cop drew his baton, the metallic rod snapping to full length with a sharp click.
V’s heart raced, his pulse hammering in his ears as another officer stepped into view, this one approaching him directly, baton raised high.
There was no hesitation in the swing.
The baton came down with brutal force, striking V on the side of the head. The world tilted violently, spinning out of control. For a moment, everything went silent, the impact leaving him deaf except for the faint, high-pitched buzz in his ears.
Pain exploded outward, hot and sharp, flooding his senses and drowning out any coherent thought. His breath caught, his chest heaving as his body struggled to process the shock.
Another strike followed, though V barely registered it. The second blow slammed into his ribs, the dull thud reverberating through his body like a distant echo. The edges of his vision blurred, the stark lines of the parking lot twisting into a haze of light and shadow. The buzzing in his ears grew louder, the pain shifting, receding—not because it was gone, but because it was too much. It felt distant, as if it belonged to someone else.
Then the third blow came, driving him fully into the void. His vision turned to black, the last faint sound fading away as the world disappeared.