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Rita had to admit it—she'd misjudged him.
This man, who didn't even have combat cyberware, was dangerous in a way Night City didn't like to admit existed.
James shook out his hands, flexing his fingers. He'd only cracked three of Aiden's alloy ribs, and his knuckles were already aching.
Still not enough.
He needed more training.
"If you keep hitting him," Rita said, "he'll die."
She stepped into the restroom, metal baseball bat on her shoulder, then tapped it twice against the wall—loud enough to announce she was here without startling the whole bar.
Aiden's swollen eyes widened. The moment he saw Rita, he looked like he'd been handed a lifeline. He raised both hands, making muffled sounds through a broken mouth, begging.
James glanced at him, then casually drove one more punch into his ribs.
Aiden folded and passed out again.
Rita's eyes narrowed. "Why'd I get here so fast?"
James grabbed a wad of paper towels from the stall and wiped the blood off his hands—blood that very clearly didn't belong to him.
Then he looked at Rita, calm as ever.
"You installed mini cameras in the men's restroom? What—privacy isn't a concept anymore?"
Rita didn't even blink. "We put them in the women's restroom too."
James paused.
"…That's worse."
Rita shrugged, unbothered. "It's not for peeping. It's surveillance. No blind spots. This is Night City."
James exhaled through his nose, like he was trying not to laugh.
Yeah. This is what happens when Lucy isn't here.
In this city, you didn't do anything quietly without a Hacker backing you.
"Relax," James said, tone almost friendly. "I'm here for business. Give me two minutes. I'll be gone. Won't affect your profits."
Rita shook her head.
James clicked his tongue, grabbed Aiden by the collar, and dunked his head into the toilet.
Aiden woke up instantly, choking and gasping.
"Consider yourself lucky," James said, dragging him upright and letting him cough. "In less than three hours, this place closes. We can continue our chat after hours."
Aiden's voice came out cracked and desperate. "W-wait—what do you want?!"
He looked like he was going to cry for real. And honestly, he deserved it.
James blinked. "…Didn't I say?"
He looked at Rita like she was supposed to answer.
Rita swore. "How the hell would I know what you said?"
James tilted his head toward Aiden again. "Fair."
Then he sighed. "My bad. I forgot to tell you the reason."
Aiden's face was swollen beyond recognition. He tried to wipe blood off his cheek, then remembered the toilet water and gave up.
"It's… fine," Aiden croaked quickly.
"No," James corrected, almost kindly. "It's not fine. But it can be fine."
He leaned closer.
"The Hacker fees you owed? You never settled them. So now you settle them."
Aiden froze.
Then his expression changed, like the universe had just slapped him.
"Oh. That. That's why—"
James narrowed his eyes. "What's wrong?"
Aiden swallowed hard. "I… used the money to buy myself a big cannon…"
"So," James said, voice completely flat, "you don't have money."
"No! No—I can raise it. Immediately. You believe me."
James stared at him for three seconds.
Then nodded. "Alright."
He jerked his chin—go on then.
Aiden scrambled, shaking, tapping on his interface with swollen fingers like his life depended on it.
Rita crossed her arms, watching with an expression that promised murder later.
Aiden forced a strained smile at her. "We were… just messing around. It's fine."
Rita's glare could've burned steel.
But she didn't have a reason to escalate. The "victim" claimed it was consensual kink.
Night City logic.
Minutes later, James washed his hands and walked out of the restroom like nothing happened.
The 40,000 euro debt went straight to Lucy. Half would be forwarded to Kiwi, half left as Lucy's pocket money.
Behind him, Aiden slumped in the restroom like a corpse that hadn't gotten the memo.
To gather the money that fast, he'd pawned his precious "big cannon." He'd taken the beating, lost the weapon, and still had medical costs.
All of it.
For nothing.
---
Outside Lizzy Bar
James stepped out into the night air.
Rita leaned against the wall near the entrance, casually talking with a beautiful woman beside her—revealing outfit, glossy implants, unmistakably a pleasure model.
When Rita saw James, she pushed off the wall.
"Hey. You. Come here."
"I'm not 'hey you.'" James corrected. "Call me BT."
"BT?"
Rita frowned. The name felt familiar, but she didn't chase it.
"You're an Edgerunner, right? I've got a job."
"No." James yawned. "I'm going home to sleep."
Rita's eyes sharpened. "Then don't come back to Lizzy Bar. We won't welcome you. And none of our girls will do business with you."
James stopped walking.
His eyes widened like she'd shot him.
"…That's a vicious threat."
He didn't even plan on using pleasure models, but having the option taken away was a whole different insult.
He turned back. "What's the job?"
Rita nodded toward the pleasure model beside her. "She and some girls want to work in our territory. Their pimp won't let them go. You're good at… communicating. Convince him."
It wasn't hard for Rita to handle personally. A little pressure, a little fear—problem solved.
But the Mox were constrained. That pimp was under a different umbrella, and starting trouble could draw attention from bigger gangs.
The Mox were still building their foothold. They couldn't afford a reckless war.
James folded his arms. "How much?"
Rita lifted a hand and wiggled five fingers.
James squinted. "Fifty thousand?"
Rita said, dead serious. "Five thousand."
"…You're joking."
"I just installed new cyberware," Rita said bluntly. "That's what I have."
Then she added, like it was normal: "If that's not enough, the girls can keep you company for a few days."
James waved a hand. "No."
Rita's eyebrows jumped. "What, you want me to accompany you? That's not impossible."
James stared at her.
Then exhaled slowly. "…Five thousand is fine."
Rita grinned like she'd won something. "You sure you don't want big sister—"
James lifted his hand and gave her a clean middle finger. "Trying to take advantage of me."
Rita laughed.
"Money first," James said. "Then work."
Rita transferred the payment.
James didn't even look at her anymore. He turned to the pleasure model.
"What's your name?"
The woman hesitated, cautious. "Katie."
Pleasure models were at the bottom of the city's food chain. Used when young, discarded when older. Sold, traded, or harvested by Scavs.
Most didn't choose it.
Night City chose for them.
"What are you waiting for?" James said. "Lead the way."
Katie nodded quickly. "O-okay."
---
The Pimp's Building
It was close—just another street over.
That alone showed how small the Mox influence still was.
They were surviving beside a much bigger predator: the Tyger Claws.
Katie led James into a decaying apartment building. The smell hit first—mold, cheap smoke, body fluids, rot.
A tattooed brute squatted by the stairwell with a katana, pretending to be Tyger Claws.
James didn't even slow down.
"Katie! Where the hell—"
The brute surged up.
James snapped a kick into him so clean it looked effortless.
The man flew backward, skull cracking against the steps, and went limp.
Katie froze.
James patted her shoulder gently. "Keep going."
Something lit inside Katie's chest—rage, courage, relief, years of swallowed fear.
She stepped forward and stomped the brute's crotch with savage precision.
There was a wet crack.
The brute twitched, still unconscious.
James said nothing.
They climbed.
Katie pushed open the door.
Sounds poured out—grunts, laughter, a woman crying too quietly.
James sighed.
He followed.
A man on a sofa turned, eyes cold. The pimp.
"Katie?" he sneered. "You actually came back. This guy give you courage? You think you can leave me? Don't forget who fed you."
His gaze slid onto James—measuring, calculating.
Then several thugs behind him stood up.
James didn't bother with drama.
"Keep it simple," he said.
The pimp smirked. "How simple?"
James spoke like he was ordering food.
"Either you let me take everyone."
He tapped the holster at his waist.
"Or all of you lie down… and I take everyone anyway."
The pimp laughed—loud, exaggerated—stalling for time, trying to distract while his men reached for weapons.
The laughter was still echoing when seven bodies dropped almost at once.
Headshots.
Clean. Instant.
James stepped forward, muzzle hot, and pressed it to the pimp's forehead, forcing him back into the sofa.
"Keep laughing," James said softly.
The pimp's face collapsed. "I-I was wrong. Please. Spare me."
James didn't answer.
He turned to Katie and tossed her a pistol.
Katie fumbled it, eyes wide—first time holding a gun.
Then she steadied her grip.
She'd walked into Lizzy Bar alone to ask for help. She wasn't weak. She'd just been trapped.
"Go," James said.
Katie kicked open the inner door.
Inside—panic. Half-dressed men scrambling like rats.
One tried to run.
Katie fired.
A scream. A body dropped.
Then she pulled the girls out—trembling, bruised, alive.
James scanned them.
"Everyone?"
"All here," Katie whispered.
James nodded and holstered his weapon.
The pimp exhaled shakily, thinking he'd survived.
Katie stared at him.
"What about him?" she asked.
The pimp started babbling. "I-I have money! I'll give it all—just—"
"I'm not interested in your money," James said.
He placed a hand on Katie's shoulder—not controlling, not forcing—just steadying.
"And your life…"
Katie lifted the pistol.
Her first shot hit the pimp's stomach. Bad angle. Hands shaking.
The pimp screamed, folding forward.
Katie stepped closer.
She pressed the muzzle to his forehead with both hands—copying James, but making it hers.
Her eyes didn't blink.
The second shot ended it.
The room went silent, except for Katie's breathing.
James looked at the girls and spoke calmly, like the world hadn't just shifted.
"Pack your things. We're leaving."