"What's going on up ahead? Looks like some excitement!"
Rebecca's twin pigtails bounced as she pushed through the thinning crowd, dragging Sasha along against the flow of panicked people. Her words made it sound like she just wanted to watch a show—but her eyes were sharp, serious.
This wasn't curiosity.
This was worry.
"Slow down!" Sasha protested. Rebecca yanked her so suddenly that Sasha nearly tripped twice before she managed to match her pace.
Rebecca had a reason to rush. She wasn't rushing for entertainment. She was worried about Wakako.
Rebecca and her brother Pilar had grown up rough. Their mother died when Rebecca was only six. Their father was once a famous Night City edgerunner—people called him the "Father of Sunrise." When he died, the apartment and inheritance he left behind were stolen by people who had smiled in their faces and called themselves friends.
Pilar survived because their father had trained him hard from childhood. He had real skills, and more importantly, he had one rare thing in Night City: an older connection. Wakako, who had once employed their father, kept an eye on Pilar, and that protection gave him enough breathing room to raise Rebecca.
Rebecca, however, inherited her mother's emotional heart and overflowing sympathy—two things that caused trouble in Night City the same way gasoline caused trouble around fire.
And Pilar? Pilar wasn't exactly a strict big brother.
He didn't discipline her much. He didn't know how. And his own personality was unreliable enough that he never had real authority in Rebecca's eyes. So as Rebecca got older, she became harder to control.
That was why Pilar always lived tight. He wasn't broke because he was weak. He was broke because he was constantly cleaning up Rebecca's messes.
Eventually, Pilar joined Maine's crew, hoping Maine's presence would keep Rebecca in line. It also created distance from Wakako, but Rebecca never stopped respecting her.
To most people, Wakako was an "old hag."
To Rebecca, Wakako was an elder worth protecting.
Rebecca grabbed a passerby who was sprinting away and yanked his jacket.
"What happened?!"
"Let go!" the man screamed. "There's a cyberpsycho! What are you standing around for? RUN!"
"Cyberpsycho?!" Rebecca's chest tightened. She released him instantly.
In Night City, that word meant slaughter.
Sasha's optics flashed red. Data streamed as she hacked into nearby surveillance.
"It's Mark," Sasha said.
Rebecca's jaw clenched. "That guy should've gone crazy a long time ago."
She knew Mark. He used to run jobs for Wakako. They'd crossed paths plenty of times. But then he got cut off—discarded.
Cyberpsychosis had signs. Everyone saw Mark slipping. Wakako tried to warn him, tried to push him away from the edge. It didn't work. In the end, she abandoned him like she had to.
Rebecca thought Mark would eventually die like the others—shot down by MaxTac and shown on the news.
She didn't expect him to snap right here, in front of Wakako's door.
This was a serious problem.
People called it cyberpsychosis like it was one simple illness, but not every cyberware-related breakdown was "cyberpsychosis." In Night City, the term was used for the extreme cases—the ones bad enough that MaxTac would be deployed.
Regular breakdowns could be handled by the NCPD.
Mark wasn't regular.
Mark had too much combat chrome.
Not military-grade, sure—but illegally modified, stacked wrong, and running hot.
Rebecca pulled out her pistol. "Sasha, stay here. I'm going to help the old lady."
Sasha grabbed her wrist. "No need… it's over."
Rebecca froze. "What?"
Sasha zoomed in on the surveillance feed. The footage showed Mark collapsing. It showed who did it.
Sasha's voice turned uncertain, like her brain couldn't accept what her eyes had already recorded.
"Isn't that… the Pancake Vendor?"
"Huh?!" Rebecca's head snapped up.
No MaxTac AV in the air. No Psycho Squad in sight.
So who ended it?
---
A few moments earlier…
Mark shrieked and lunged at James, Mantis Blades snapping out with a metallic scream. In the crowd's eyes, James looked like he was about to die.
No heavy chrome. No visible combat implants.
And Mark was a cyberpsycho.
To anyone watching, this should've been a massacre.
Instead, James stepped forward.
Not backward.
Not panicked.
He drew a dagger from his waist and moved with calm focus.
Mark swung. James didn't flinch.
James's blade drove into the joint of Mark's cyberarm—clean, precise—severing control of the right arm. The Mantis Blade froze mid-motion like a broken machine.
Mark's left arm slashed down immediately.
James released his grip, folded at the waist, and slipped under the swing like he'd predicted it a second before it happened.
Mark, completely consumed by madness, was running on pure kill instinct. The cyberpsychosis made him brutal—but it also made him move more naturally than he ever had before. For the first time, his implants looked like part of him.
He suddenly raised his knee toward James's face.
That kick would've ruined anyone.
James tilted his head. The knee passed inches away.
In the same breath, James pulled out his Kenshin and fired a charged shot into Mark's leg.
At that range, the round punched through the artificial knee joint, tearing it apart.
Mark still didn't fall—he tried to stand, grinding his teeth, trembling with rage.
Then James kicked.
Not a normal kick.
A kick with weight behind it—controlled, brutal.
The damaged joint snapped. Mark dropped to one knee with a crack that made the crowd wince.
His implants were stacked wrong—too much upper body. Too much blade. Too little stability. Losing a leg made him unstable, clumsy, trapped in his own body.
Mark stared up, eyes wild.
"I… am the legend…"
No pain. Only madness.
James moved in, blocked the swinging blade with his dagger, then cut into the interface and tore the Mantis Blade clean off with a sickening wrench of metal.
Mark didn't even understand what was happening anymore.
James's voice stayed calm. Cold. Final.
"Then I'll send you on your way."
The Mantis Blade pierced Mark's temple.
The light in his eyes died.
The madness in his implants went dark.
James turned to the sumo bodyguard and spoke like he'd just finished a normal task.
"That big guy at the door—can I see Wakako now?"
The sumo bodyguard's posture changed instantly. His contempt was gone.
"Of course, Mr. BT," he said. "Madam is waiting inside."
People understood why.
Anyone who could personally execute a cyberpsycho like that deserved respect.
---
"The Pancake Vendor!"
Rebecca's shout shattered the stunned silence.
She squeezed through the crowd, waving her arms. "HEY!"
The spectators blinked.
Pancake Vendor? Who was she calling?
Then James smiled like he'd just run into an old friend.
"Oh, it's you, Rebecca."
The crowd's eyes widened.
Rebecca punched James's arm like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"You really took down a cyberpsycho?! For real?!"
"Small matter," James said, acting cool. "Easy-peasy."
Rebecca stared at his face and scoffed. "What a punchable expression."
James ignored her and looked at Sasha. "We meet again, Miss Cat."
Sasha stiffened. She had watched him kill Mark on surveillance. The scene was burned into her nerves. Her body reacted before her mind could calm down.
"Just call me Sasha," she said quickly.
James nodded seriously, like he was taking an oath. "Okay, Miss Cat."
Sasha blinked—then, against her will, she relaxed a little.
Rebecca rolled her eyes like she was being forced to watch a terrible romance show.
The sumo bodyguard coughed and stepped closer. "Ahem… Mr. BT… Madam Wakako is still waiting…"
James snapped his fingers. "Almost forgot. I'll go see Wakako first. We'll talk later."
Rebecca pouted. "What's so great about meeting that old hag?"
Then she still waved. "See you next time, Pancake Vendor."
"Just call me James," he said.
Rebecca grinned. "Okay, Pancake Vendor."
Sasha couldn't hold it in and laughed. Then she covered her mouth fast when James looked at her.
James didn't argue. He just pointed at Rebecca like a silent promise: I'm coming back for you later.
Rebecca planted her hands on her hips like she wasn't scared at all.
Sasha watched James disappear into Wakako's office and whispered to Rebecca, "When did you two get so close?"
Rebecca's eyes lit up. "Oh, it's like this…"
---
Inside Wakako's office, the world felt different.
Quiet. Dim. Controlled.
The room wasn't large, but it was carefully designed—classic Japanese style, elegant furniture, a single desk lamp casting soft light like it was hiding secrets on purpose.
Wakako sat behind a wooden table.
When James entered, she stood up—surprisingly polite—and bowed her head slightly.
"Mark was my mistake," she said. "I didn't expect to involve you. Please forgive me."
James didn't waste time pretending humility.
"Words don't feel sincere."
Wakako's eyes narrowed, not offended—more like amused. She respected directness.
"That's fair," she said. "Consider it a kill contract."
A transfer hit James's account.
200,000 eurodollars.
It was more than market price if you looked at it coldly. A prepared team could've handled Mark—traps, sniping, distance tactics. Cyberpsychos were dangerous, but they were also predictable once they lost reason.
What Wakako paid for wasn't just Mark's death.
She paid to patch a relationship.
Because she didn't want the talent she discovered to walk into a rival fixer's arms.
James sat down, satisfied.
Wakako quietly exhaled in relief. Losing face was one thing. Losing leverage was worse. And James clearly had more potential than the average street merc.
Wakako studied him—young face, almost no visible combat chrome.
If she hadn't watched the surveillance herself, she would never believe a mostly unaugmented man could end a cyberpsycho in direct combat.
It made her think of legends.
It made her wonder if she was watching a new one being born.
"Madam Wakako?" James waved a hand in front of her. "You zoning out?"
Wakako blinked, then smiled gently. "Apologies. I'm old. It happens."
If anyone outside saw Wakako smiling like that, they'd probably go home and check their implants for bugs.
"Want a drink?" she asked.
"Anything," James said.
"Tea, then. I have the real stuff."
She brewed it with practiced, calm movements—like she'd done it a thousand times.
James took a sip. He wasn't a tea expert, but he knew good from bad.
"It's good. Send some my way."
"No problem," Wakako replied. "Dahai will pack some for you."
"Dahai?" James asked. "The big guy at the door?"
"Yes," Wakako said, smiling. "That big guy."
They talked a little longer, but the age gap was real. Different worlds. Different rhythms. The conversation stayed professional, polite.
Soon, James stood to leave. Wakako escorted him partway, closing the first meeting neatly.
It wasn't about friendship.
It was about trust.
And setting the ground for future work.
---
At the door, Dahai approached, holding an elegant wooden box.
"Madam asked me to give you this."
James opened it.
Inside was a ridiculous amount of good stuff—Wagyu beef, tea leaves, and fresh ingredients like oyster mushrooms, tofu, carrots, and more.
James blinked. "Is this for me to go home and make sukiyaki?"
Dahai looked surprised. "You even know that?"
James rubbed his chin. "I think it'd be better as malatang."
Dahai opened his mouth… then wisely closed it again.
Instead, he asked something practical.
"Mr. BT… what should we do with Mark's body?"
James understood the real meaning.
Chrome meant money.
Even broken, those implants could sell for a lot.
If Dahai hadn't kept people guarding the corpse, somebody would've dragged it away already.
"Find someone to strip it," James said casually. "We split the sale 80/20."
"No problem," Dahai said immediately. He could make tens of thousands from that alone.
James nodded and lifted the box.
Nothing else to do.
And he couldn't go to Jig-Jig Street—he'd promised.
So James carried the wooden box and took the city rail back home… already thinking about two things:
Lucy's reaction to the "two-player braindance device"…
…and how good Wagyu was going to taste tonight.