Falco looked like the kind of man you'd expect to see holding a newspaper outside a quiet old café—ordinary face, calm eyes, and a style that screamed "polite trouble." His long brown hair was brushed back but never fully tamed, and his beard was trimmed so neatly it curled up a little at the ends. He wore a brown vest with suspenders over a white turtleneck long-sleeve shirt, like he was trying to keep a gentleman's manners alive in a city that murdered manners for fun.
So it made perfect sense that the meeting spot James picked wasn't a noisy bar, or a back-alley noodle shack.
It was an English-style afternoon tea shop.
Inside, the air smelled warm and clean, like baked flour and sweet cream—almost unreal in Night City. Scones sat in a glass case like they were protected treasure. Black tea steamed in thin cups, and for a few minutes, the world outside didn't exist.
Lucy sat beside James with her tea in hand, stirring slowly. She added milk, then sugar, then tasted it like she was adjusting a formula. The calm look on her face was a lie. Her eyes were always alert, always scanning—like her brain never stopped running.
Outside the glass wall, rain hammered the street.
Night City rain didn't fall like water. It fell like a warning.
The forecast had said it clearly this morning: today's rain was more acidic than usual. If you had to go out, you wore protective gear—unless you wanted your skin burned, your eyes ruined, your lungs damaged. And if the city center was already like this, then the outer districts had to be worse.
In Night City, a clean sip of pure water was luxury. Most people didn't even remember what "fresh air" felt like.
Falco took a slow drink of his tea and set the cup down with careful control, like he respected the cup more than most people in the city respected life.
James leaned forward slightly.
"How have you decided, Mr. Falco?"
James had offered a clean deal—rare, almost suspicious. A fixed monthly salary of five thousand, plus commission for travel gigs and field jobs. Enough to live comfortably. Enough to plan. Enough to breathe.
Falco let out a quiet sigh, like the decision had already been made the moment he agreed to meet.
"I don't seem to have a reason to refuse," he said.
It was honest.
Maine had vouched for James, and in Night City that kind of reference carried real weight. Not to mention the growing street talk about James and his crew. People were starting to whisper the name like it meant something.
Falco's only real worry had been James' age. Young mercs usually came with two problems: ego and impatience.
But sitting here now, feeling the steady confidence beneath James' calm expression, that worry faded fast. James didn't talk like a kid trying to sound tough. He spoke like someone who had already learned what the city costs.
James nodded once.
"Then I'm looking forward to working with you."
James extended his hand. Falco gripped it firmly. The deal was done.
Falco gave him a small, almost amused look. "Should I start calling you boss?"
James shook his head. "Just call me James. We're not building some corporate tower here."
"As you wish, James."
James' smile sharpened slightly. "Good. Then we start today."
Falco blinked. "Today?"
Instead of answering, James casually tossed a set of car keys across the table.
Falco caught them on instinct. His eyes dropped to the brand tag and model stamp, and something bright flickered behind his calm expression.
Lucy watched Falco the way a cat watched a bird—quiet, curious, and ready to react if the bird did something stupid.
They finished their tea and headed down into the underground parking lot.
And the moment Falco saw the vehicle, his face gave him away.
A Chevrolet Emperor 620 Ragnar.
But not the kind you bought off a dealer lot.
This one looked like a predator dressed in armor—reinforced body plating, heavy modifications, and a presence that made nearby cars look like toys. The work was clean, practical, and violent in the way only a Night City machine could be.
Falco walked around it slowly, almost reverently, hands hovering like he was afraid to touch it.
James leaned against the wall with an easy grin. "So? Any problems?"
Falco finally placed his hand on the bulletproof plates, fingers tracing the seams.
"Some details need fine tuning," he admitted. "Polish work. Small improvements."
His voice sounded like a man holding back excitement.
Then his hand moved again, softer than it should've been, like he was touching a lover.
James chuckled. "Alright. She's yours to tune."
Falco took the driver seat. James and Lucy sat in the back. The team's first ride began.
Falco started the engine, and the Ragnar purred like it was happy to be alive.
They rolled out of the garage and straight into the acid rain.
Because of the weather, the streets were unusually empty. Fewer cars. Fewer pedestrians. Even the city's usual chaos seemed muted under the harsh downpour.
People didn't risk the rain unless they had to.
Even with protective gear, acid rain always found a way—seeping into cracks, biting at skin, slipping into filters.
Unless you went full chrome—replace your skin, upgrade your lungs, rebuild yourself until you could walk through acid like it was romance.
James' Ragnar didn't care. It had an internal air loop system and anti-corrosion coating. Inside, it felt clean and safe, like a moving bunker.
Falco drove fast.
But he drove smooth.
No shaking. No sudden jerks. No wasted motion. The kind of driving that made you feel like the road was obeying him.
He didn't even need to stare at the route. Night City's streets lived inside his head.
After a few minutes, Falco spoke without turning around. "So… how many people are in our team?"
James shifted slightly and slid an arm around Lucy's shoulders.
"Four," he said. "I'll introduce you to the last one another time. Today is private business."
Falco nodded once and didn't ask again.
That restraint mattered.
Professional ethics were rare in Night City, and James had chosen Falco partly because of that.
The Ragnar entered Japantown and pulled behind a casino operating under Tyger Claws territory.
Two Tyger Claws spotted the unfamiliar ride immediately and stormed up to the windows, banging hard and cursing.
"Are you blind?" one barked. "You think this is a parking spot?"
The window slid down.
A gun barrel appeared.
A single muted shot snapped through the rain.
The first Tyger Claws thug lost his skull in an instant.
The sound was soft—drowned by the acid rain. Nobody noticed.
The second thug barely had time to blink before Lucy lowered her window too.
Another quiet shot.
The second Tyger Claws thug dropped beside his friend.
Lucy frowned and leaned back.
"It splashed on my face," she complained, pouting like it was a minor inconvenience.
James leaned in, eyes narrowing. "Let me see."
He gently pinched her chin, scanning her face like a careful surgeon.
Nothing.
Not a mark.
Lucy used the moment to lean forward and kiss him quickly, eyes bright and satisfied—like she'd won something.
James returned it for half a second, then pulled away and tapped her lips with his thumb.
"Stop playing," he murmured. "We're working."
Lucy's fingers danced over her terminal.
With the Ragnar's small onboard server boosting her, she cracked into the casino network in seconds.
Lucy hijacked the casino's surveillance and security feeds.
"Target located," she said. "Private room one. Cameras are mine. You've got three minutes."
James nodded. "That's plenty."
He stepped out, opened an umbrella, slipped through the back door, and vanished into a smoky haze of cheap perfume, stale sweat, and desperation.
Inside, the casino was ugly.
Underground gambling dens like this weren't built for comfort. They were built to drain people. The air was thick, and the smell hit James like a punch.
His senses were sharper than most—unfortunately, he couldn't just "turn off" his nose like a chrome setting.
He endured it and moved.
In the corners, Tyger Claws enforcers watched the room, ready to smash anyone who got loud.
If someone borrowed money and couldn't pay? They didn't get "kicked out."
They got dragged into a back room where the house decided which organs would settle the debt.
Tyger Claws didn't gamble.
They calculated.
James slipped on an electronic mask and blended in like a normal gambler.
Lucy had already lured the stair guard away through their comms.
He reached private room one and pushed the door open.
Lucy cut the power instantly. The room fell into darkness.
Voices erupted.
"What the—?"
"Power outage?"
"Quiet! Don't move!"
Glowing tattoo patterns lit up in the dark, giving James perfect targets without needing night vision.
A few muted gunshots.
Then silence.
James executed the Tyger Claws hit squad in seconds.
He didn't celebrate. He didn't smile.
He left the room, walked out, and returned to the Ragnar like it was routine.
To him, it wasn't "revenge." It was interest collected. The real debt would be paid later.
By the time anyone noticed bodies upstairs, Falco had already driven them away.
Rita's Payment
James didn't like owing people.
So he handled Rita's problem too.
The target, however, wasn't sitting in a quiet room. He was moving with a small patrol on a public street—daylight, too many eyes. And James had to think about bigger politics.
Wakako's territory. Wakako's network. Wakako's sons.
Nine sons, high-ranking in Tyger Claws.
James didn't feel like earning an old fixer's endless nagging over reckless slaughter.
"Find a place to park," James told Falco.
Falco pulled into an open-air lot.
The rain had gotten worse—harder, heavier, more violent.
Lucy and Falco stayed inside. They weren't built for acid rain.
James stepped out alone with his umbrella.
The target was across the street—fully exposed to the downpour like he didn't care. He held a katana, and his body language screamed confidence.
James scanned him with Kiroshi optics and paused.
Arasaka nanoweave thermal katana.
High-end. Deadly. Expensive.
Not something a basic gang soldier carried.
Only Arasaka loved turning old-school blades into high-tech weapons, and Tyger Claws loved using them because of culture and pride.
Rita's intel said the man was the illegitimate son of an Arasaka executive—valued, protected, not a disposable grunt.
James didn't keep his name.
Names didn't matter.
He only needed the job done.
James moved ahead and waited in a narrow alley—barely wide enough for two people. Trash, broken syringes, ruined cameras, blocked sight lines.
Perfect.
The patrol entered.
A subordinate saw James and barked, "Hey! You blind? Move!"
James stepped forward instead.
That single choice made them realize the truth.
This wasn't random.
This was a hit.
They drew blades, but the cramped alley killed their range.
James suddenly accelerated and drew his Kenshin pistol.
The target's face tightened.
He activated his Sandevistan.
Time slowed in his eyes.
He saw every detail—every raindrop, every breath, every twitch.
Then his subordinate's head exploded behind him.
The confidence shattered instantly.
Rage took over.
With reinforced tendons and Sandevistan, the target lunged forward like a short-range teleport, katana blazing hot enough to make rain sizzle into steam.
It was fast.
But not fast enough.
His Sandevistan wasn't military grade.
And he wasn't fighting a normal man.
Their eyes met.
The target's wrist flared with sudden pain.
His katana slipped free—
—into James' hand.
The target hit the ground like his body had been unplugged.
Two heavy sounds followed.
The target's head rolled to James' feet.
James looked down calmly, umbrella still raised.
He held the nanoweave thermal katana like a prize.
"Nice sword," he said quietly. "Thanks."
The dead couldn't reply.
The acid rain would erase the rest—blood, footprints, traces. James only made sure the brain-computer links were physically destroyed.
No data. No backup. No trail.
Then he walked out of the alley like nothing happened.
Before getting back into the car, he snapped a photo and sent it to Rita.
Payment delivered. Debt cleared.
Rita replied instantly.
A beautiful photo.
A kiss.
And the silent message behind it was clear:
In Night City, favors always come with teeth.
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