GOOOOOOOD MORNING, NIGHT CITY!
The raspy voice of Stan echoed from the Quadra Turbo-R V-Tech's radio, mixing with the sound of the light rain hitting the windshield.
"This is your friend Stan, bringing you the hot news you all love! Last night's body count reached a respectable sixty-seven souls heading to the big datasphere in the sky! Anyone who bet on a nice, normal night in Night City definitely hit the jackpot!"
The car slid through the northern industrial sector of Watson, passing abandoned warehouses and decrepit factories whose silhouettes were lost in the morning mist. The rain created puddles that reflected the few neons still working in this forgotten part of the city.
"Much of that is due to a heated encounter between 6th Street and the Valentinos—seems an argument over BD sales territory got a little disproportionate, as always. Arroyo is still without power due to an 'accident' in an illegal street race that ended with a car inside a substation. But you're probably wondering: Stan, why such a high number in the body lottery?"
A dramatic pause, followed by the sound of Stan lighting what was probably a cigarette.
"The answer, my dear listeners, is that our brothers in the Tiger Claws decided to poke the bear with a short stick. Well, not bear... monkey. More specifically, their king. And the Monkey King, well... he doesn't show mercy when you wake him from his sleep. Details are scarce, but witnesses speak of golden lights in a warehouse in Charter Hill and gang members coming out with... well, with less cognitive capacity than they went in with."
The host laughed, a dry, cynical chuckle.
"So stay tuned to 98.7 for more news about our lovely city of dreams! And remember: if you see a hooded figure with golden eyes, better bow your head and say 'good morning, Great Sage.' It might save your life—or at least your neural implants!"
The radio fell silent as the Quadra parked smoothly before an abandoned factory that once produced industrial components. The corroded sign still read "New Precision Industries," but years and neglect had done their work.
---
The car door opened without a sound.
A black boot stepped into the puddle but didn't splash—the water-repellent material of the coat deflected the drops with technological indifference. The figure emerging from the Quadra was an imposing silhouette against the decaying industrial backdrop.
Wukong closed the car door with a soft click. His eyes, visible even under the hood's shadow, scanned the perimeter. The metallic gold of his irises pulsed slightly, processing information at a speed that would make a quantum computer seem like a pocket calculator.
He walked toward the factory's main entrance, his long black coat swaying gently with his movements. The matte material didn't reflect the weak light of the overcast morning, absorbing it like a textile black hole. The high collar and tactical reinforcements on the shoulders gave the coat a military appearance but with a funereal elegance.
Under the mantle, clinging to his body like a second skin, was the netrunning suit. Black as the vacuum between stars, it was traversed by a pulsating network of golden circuit lines running from the chest to the extremities. These rivers of amber light pulsed in a slow rhythm, as if transporting some exotic form of life energy.
But it was his arms that truly drew attention. The tech-gloves covering his forearms and hands seemed to be in a constant state of dematerialization. Particles of golden light, similar to pixels detaching from a screen, rose from his skin in a subtle digital mist. It was as if the barrier between flesh and code was constantly dissolving and reforming, a physical manifestation of his liminal nature.
His face was a study in contrasts. The upper part, plunged into the shadow of the deep hood, hid his forehead and eyebrows. From this darkness emerged only the two points of golden light that were his eyes—shining with an analytical coldness that had made people mistake him for a mannequin or an especially realistic drone.
From the bridge of his nose down, a half-mask of black, breathable tech-fabric covered his mouth and chin. Golden geometric patterns, reminiscent of integrated circuits, formed complex designs on its surface. It wasn't just aesthetic; each line was a conduit for filtration systems, vocal modulation, and secondary interfaces.
And then, crowning it all, literally: the tiara. Resting atop the hood, the golden metallic crown was a filigree work that defied Night City's utilitarian aesthetic. Its two prominent front curves rose like stylized waves or clouds frozen in metal, a symbol of royalty stolen from ancient mythologies and transplanted into a world that had forgotten the meaning of kings.
Wukong reached the main entrance—a rusted metal gate that once allowed trucks to enter. Now it was closed, with only a smaller door cut into its surface. He made no dramatic gesture. He merely raised a hand and knocked three times, with a precise cadence that sounded strangely formal in the degraded environment.
From inside, a muffled grumble. "Who's the gonk disturbing my rest?"
A small eye-level slot opened in the gate, revealing a face that was more metal than flesh. Cybernetic eyes with red lenses adjusted focus, passing over the figure before the gate. The Maelstrom were known for their extreme modifications, but this one in particular had replaced half his skull with a polished metal plate, with lights blinking along his temples.
The ganger was about to unleash another insult when his eyes—both biological and cybernetic—finally processed what they were seeing. The black hood. The golden eyes. The crown. The particles of light rising from the hands.
He choked, the sound coming out as an electronic gurgle. He fell backward, disappearing from the slot. There was a noise of something being knocked over, followed by hurried footsteps. The smaller door suddenly opened, revealing the Maelstrom in all his disturbing glory. He was armed with a heavy shotgun, but the weapon was held low, almost respectfully.
"G-Great Sage," the ganger stammered, his voice modulated by a cheap, nervous-sounding synthesizer. "What... what brings you here?"
Wukong tilted his head slightly, an almost imperceptible movement. "Good morning, son. How are you?"
The Maelstrom seemed confused by the greeting. "Well... well, I suppose. Working."
"Excellent. I'd like to request permission to search your home."
The doorman blinked—or at least made the movement with his remaining biological eyelid, while the cybernetic one merely adjusted focus. "Se... search?"
"Yes," Wukong confirmed, his voice filtered through the mask sounding like a calm, educated digital whisper. "You see, a little bird in the Net told me that a certain Annie Smith is under your forced company. I've been hired to rescue her."
Before the Maelstrom could gather his thoughts—a process that, considering the amount of hardware in his skull, seemed to require considerable effort—Wukong continued: "It would be good if you released her. That way I can leave without having to fry your brains... or what's left of the brains you have."
The threat was delivered with the same polite cadence as someone commenting on the weather. The effect was immediate. The doorman took a step back, his cybernetic systems flashing alert patterns.
"I... I need to talk to the boss," he stammered, starting to close the door.
Wukong didn't move. "Of course. But it would be polite to offer a seat to a waiting guest."
The door closed with a metallic click. Hurried footsteps echoed from inside, disappearing into the depths of the factory.
---
Wukong turned, his back to the gate. His golden eyes swept across Watson's horizon, passing over the low factory roofs, rusted exhaust pipes, wires hanging like urban spiderwebs. The sky above was Night City's eternal gray tapestry—not the stormy clouds from before climate change, but a constant layer of pollution, humidity, and smoke that kept the city in perpetual twilight.
Thirteen years, he thought, the numbers appearing in his mind with the clarity of a digital display. Thirteen years since I woke up in that incubator in the Badlands.
He remembered the sensation—not as a vague human memory, but as a precise, vivid data record. The feeling of consciousness returning to a body that wasn't exactly new, but also unfamiliar. The sight of the artificial cave interior through a baby's eyes, but processed by a mind that already possessed concepts, language, understanding.
And then the drones. Small, stealthy things, camouflaged against the rocks. He had detected them immediately—not through biological senses, but through something deeper. A perception that extended beyond flesh, sensing their electromagnetic signatures, their communication protocols, their cyber defenses.
Hacking them had been as natural as breathing. Actually, more natural—breathing at the time had been a strange new experience, while connecting with digital systems felt... correct. Like slipping on a perfect pair of gloves.
On the other side of that forced connection, he found not a human, but a vast, multifaceted, non-biological presence. Alt Cunningham. The name came to him as a data packet, complete with history, capabilities, threat statistics. She watched, analyzed, recorded. Curious, but not surprised. Like a scientist watching an experiment succeed against all odds.
It was through this forced connection—him in the baby's body, her in the vastness of the Net—that he learned the truth. Project Transcendence. An experiment by the sentient AIs of the Old Net. To digitize a newborn's psyche and reinsert it into the body, creating a fusion of biological and digital consciousness. All other test subjects had failed. Shattered minds, bodies rejecting the returned consciousness, instant psychoses.
But he had survived. Not through some technological breakthrough, not through luck, but because of a factor the AIs, in all their logic, could never have predicted: reincarnation. An already formed, experienced, resilient mind, transplanted into the infant body at the exact moment of transfer. A cosmic accident that saved his life and condemned him to a unique existence.
He didn't remember his previous name. There were flashes—the feeling of holding a controller, the glow of a screen, the smell of late-night coffee. But they were disconnected fragments, without emotional context. What he remembered, with crystalline clarity, were the plots. The games. The Cyberpunk universe. He knew who Johnny Silverhand was before the name was ever spoken in his presence. He knew about the Fourth Corporate War, about the Net Crash, about Arasaka and Militech. It was disjointed knowledge, like remembering a movie watched long ago, but it was more than anyone else had.
He considered it a blessing. With no ties to the past, he could focus on the present. On survival.
His adoptive parents—the Satos—found him in that cave. They were traveling from the Badlands to Night City, their old truck breaking down near the location. They found the incubator, the baby inside, and made a decision better people might have hesitated to make. They took him with them.
Emanuel Sato. They gave him a Western name and a Japanese surname, reflecting their own mixed heritage—Brazilians of Japanese descent who drank as much from their ancestral culture as from the syncretism of their homeland. The "Immortal Peach" restaurant in Heywood was a testament to this: an establishment serving both ramen and feijoada, decorated with ukiyo-e woodblock prints next to Flamengo flags.
It was a childhood... normal, as much as possible. His parents were good, practical people who accepted his early genius not with fear, but with amused bewilderment. When, at age two, he fixed the restaurant's climate control system using parts from old toys, his father just shook his head, smiled, and said: "At least I don't have to pay a technician."
He never tried to hide. Why would he? Geniuses existed in droves in Night City—cybernetic prodigies, precocious netrunners, teenage inventors. He was just one more, albeit a bit more extreme. At four, he built his first interface implants from scrap. At five, he made his first incursion into the Net. And discovered that in that space, his abilities weren't just advanced—they were absolute.
The Net was his playground. His kingdom. In there, he wasn't a boy in a child's body. He was a vast, fast, immense consciousness. He could process data streams that would make experienced netrunners suffer neural collapse. He could break encryptions with a thought. He could navigate cyberspace not as an intruder, but as its natural lord.
His fame grew organically. First, small jobs—data recovery, security system testing. Then, bigger things. At eight, he stopped hiding. Why hide when you're invincible? When any attempt at coercion could be reversed with a devastating counterattack?
The corporations came, of course. First with job offers. Then, when he refused corporate slavery, with threats. And then with capture attempts.
He remembered the first time—Kang Tao agents, believing they could kidnap a child prodigy. They came to the "Immortal Peach" at night, armed with neural inhibitors and cyber-cuffs.
He let them in. Literally. Deactivated the restaurant's security systems, opened the back door.
And then, when they were in the main dining area, he showed them why it was a bad idea.
There was no physical violence. No bloodshed. Just a digital pulse, sent through the local network. An overload in their neural implants. Not enough to kill—he wasn't a killer back then. Just enough to drop them, make them convulse on the floor while their cyber systems screamed catastrophic failure alerts.
When they woke up, they were outside, on a nearby street. Their implants were functioning normally, but each had a message recorded in their cybernetic memory: "Next time, I won't wake you up."
Kang Tao tried again, of course. With a larger team, better equipped. They didn't even get close to the restaurant. Their vehicles stopped simultaneously three blocks away, all systems shut down by a remote command. When they tried to continue on foot, they found all their equipment—weapons, shields, offensive implants—simply wouldn't respond.
And then came the counterattack. Not against their persons, but against their employers. Wukong hacked Kang Tao's servers in Night City, not to steal data, but to make a demonstration. For an entire week, every screen, every display, every corporate terminal in the city showed only one character, repeated infinitely: the kanji for "idiot."
That's when the corporations understood. This wasn't a child prodigy. This was a force of nature. Something to be contracted, not controlled.
At ten, he started working as a mercenary—though the word was inadequate. He was a problem solver. An un-tangler of cybernetic knots. An exterminator of digital pests. And, on the side, he began creating custom cyberware. His designs were revolutionary—more efficient, more stable, more integrated. Corporations discovered it was more profitable to buy from him than to try to steal his designs. Attempts at theft, when they occurred, ended badly for the thieves.
His personality crystallized as a mix of deliberate reference and genuine expression. Sun Wukong, the Monkey King from Journey to the West—mischievous, powerful, irreverent, loyal to those he considered his troop. He adopted the archetype not as a disguise, but as a mold that fit his being perfectly. Why not? The story was already written. Immense power, a tendency to irritate the powerful, a journey in search of... something. Enlightenment? Freedom? He hadn't decided yet.
At thirteen, he was an institution in Night City. A living legend. Something between an urban myth and a commercial fact. And people learned: when dealing with the Monkey King, you deal with respect. Or suffer the consequences.
---
A noise from inside the factory brought him back to the present. Muffled voices, the sound of weapons being prepared, cybernetic implants whispering in nearly inaudible frequencies.
Wukong turned back to the gate, an almost imperceptible sigh escaping beneath his mask.
Idiots, he thought, the word appearing in his mind in several languages simultaneously, each carrying slightly different nuances of contempt. Geniuses exist in droves in the world. But idiots... idiots are a universal constant.
The gate opened with a metallic screech. Not just the small door, but the entire main gate, revealing the dark interior of the factory. And inside, waiting for him, was what looked like half the Maelstrom in Watson.
There were at least fifteen of them, spread in defensive positions behind improvised barricades—oil drums, overturned tables, parts of old machinery. All sported extreme modifications: cybernetic arms with integrated saws, eyes with laser sights, legs with hydraulic pistons. Weapons ranged from smartguns to portable rocket launchers. Red, blue, and green lights blinked on their bodies like psychotic Christmas trees.
At the front, a man—or what remained of him—who was clearly the leader. He was larger than the others, with surgically enhanced shoulders supporting a pair of extra cybernetic arms, like a grotesque technological Shiva. His face was a metal mask, with only one remaining biological eye staring with pure hatred.
"Monkey King," the leader growled, his voice distorted by a throat amplifier. "Think you can come here and make demands?"
Wukong didn't answer. He just looked at them, his golden eyes sweeping over the group, analyzing. In his mind, information appeared like pop-ups on a display:
[THREAT ANALYSIS]
Total hostiles: 17
Armament: Varied, predominantly heavy
Cybernetic implants: 100% penetration, variable quality
Network connections: Active, basic security
Estimated threat level: Low
"Annie Smith," Wukong finally said, completely ignoring the question. "Where is she?"
The Maelstrom leader laughed, a sound that was part chuckle, part static. "The Arasaka woman? She's property now. We paid good for her. If you want her, you'll have to pay more."
Wukong tilted his head to the side, like a bird observing an interesting insect. "That wasn't a negotiation. It was a courtesy request."
"And if we say no?" The leader raised his smartgun, the laser sight appearing on Wukong's chest. The others followed suit, dozens of red dots dancing over the black coat.
Wukong sighed. "Then I'll have to fry what's left of your brains."
For a moment, there was silence. Then the leader laughed again. "You against seventeen of us? Even you aren't that—"
He didn't finish the sentence.
Wukong's eyes glowed.
It wasn't a metaphor. The golden irises emitted visible light, an amber glow that illuminated the shadow under his hood for a fraction of a second. It was the only external sign of what happened next.
In the Net, Wukong moved.
His consciousness, normally contained in his body, expanded like a digital shockwave. He didn't need physical connection, didn't need backdoor access. His technopathy—the ability to interact with electronic systems through pure will—was a universal master key.
The Maelstrom, in their infinite wisdom, were all connected. Cybernetic implants communicating with each other, sharing combat data, forming a local network. Common gang practice, giving them superior tactical coordination.
For Wukong, it was like leaving all doors unlocked.
He sent not one attack, but dozens simultaneously. Custom daemons, malicious little programs he'd created specifically for human cybernetic systems. Each was adapted in real-time to the specific implants of each Maelstrom.
In the physical world, what happened was this:
First, all the Maelstrom froze. Their bodies became rigid, limbs locked, fingers contracted on their weapon triggers.
Second, the screaming began. Not screams of physical pain, but of pure neural agony. Someone with cybernetic implants experiencing total overload is something few people hear and even fewer forget. It's a sound that comes not from the throat, but from somewhere deeper, mixed with electronic static and the hiss of burning systems.
Third, the lights. Cybernetic implants began blinking erratically, then glowing with increasing intensity until, with small snaps and sparks, they began to burn. Smoke rose from cybernetic joints, neural sockets, access ports.
Fourth, the fall. One by one, the bodies dropped. Some silently, others still making guttural sounds. They convulsed on the ground for a few seconds, neural spasms making their limbs twitch unnaturally. Then they lay still.
The leader, with his four arms, was the last to fall. His single biological eye widened, fixed on Wukong with a mix of hatred, fear, and incomprehension. He tried to speak, but only blood came from his mouth—blood mixed with dark hydraulic fluid. Then he fell to his knees, then to his side, joining his men.
Silence returned to the factory. Only the sound of rain outside and the soft hiss of burning circuits.
Wukong took a deep breath, filtered air entering through his mask. His eyes returned to their normal glow. He looked at the scattered bodies, feeling a distant pang of... something. Not remorse. Perhaps weariness. Weariness of humanity's repetitive stupidity.
Stan will have material for his show tomorrow, he thought with dry humor.
With a thought, he sent a command. The main gate, which had been opened by the Maelstrom, now opened completely, motors groaning in protest.
He entered.
The interior of the abandoned factory was exactly what one would expect: vast, dark, full of rusted machinery and accumulated dust. Light entered through broken windows high above, creating pale beams cutting through the darkness. The air smelled of old oil, mold, and now, the sweet metallic odor of burnt flesh and leaking cybernetic fluids.
Wukong walked among the bodies, his footsteps echoing in the void. His eyes scanned the environment, identifying points of interest. A staircase leading to a mezzanine. A door marked "MANAGEMENT." A side corridor with still-legible signs: "WAREHOUSE," "QUALITY CONTROL LAB," "LOADING ZONE 3."
He closed his eyes for a moment. Expanded his awareness.
The Net in this area was weak—few active nodes, little data flow. But there was something... a faint, irregular biometric signature. A slow heartbeat, depressed respiratory rhythm. And a biomonitor emitting a muffled distress signal, as if trying to transmit through interference.
Annie Smith, he thought. Or what's left of her.
He followed the signal, his feet taking him automatically while his mind processed other information. The local subnet—the Maelstrom's communication systems—was still active, but collapsing. He flooded it with cleaning daemons, programs sweeping data, deleting records, corrupting any information about the Maelstrom, Annie Smith, or his presence here. In minutes, there would be no digital evidence any of them had been here.
The signal led him to the warehouse. The door was locked with a cheap digital lock—a red light blinking in denial. Wukong placed a hand on the access panel. The particles of golden light on his hand intensified, flowing into the device. The light changed to green with a soft click.
The door slid open.
Inside, in a space that once stored spare parts, there was now an improvised cell. Steel bars welded together, forming a cage of about three square meters. Inside, on a dirty mattress on the floor, was a woman.
Annie Smith had the typical appearance of a junior Arasaka executive—corporate attire now torn and dirty, hair in disheveled disarray, makeup smeared. She was unconscious, breathing shallowly. On her wrist, an Arasaka biomonitor blinked with a faint red light—the distress signal he'd detected.
Wukong examined the cage lock. Another digital device, slightly more sophisticated. He touched it, and again the golden particles flowed. The lock opened with a click.
He entered the cell, kneeling beside the woman. His golden eyes swept over her body, analyzing.
[BIOMETRIC DIAGNOSIS]
Subject: Annie Smith (Arasaka Corporate ID 4479-AG-23)
Status: Unconscious, stable
Cause: Sedative drug (likely Synth-Morph)
Implants: Arasaka Biomontor Mk.4, basic communication implant
Anomaly: Biomontor compromised by suppression virus
Wukong tilted his head. A virus in the biomonitor. Interesting. Probably how the Maelstrom kept her sedated and prevented the distress signal from being strong enough to attract attention.
He placed two fingers on the biomonitor. Through the touch, his consciousness flowed into the device, finding the virus immediately. It was ugly, inefficient code—amateur work. He disassembled it in seconds, replacing it with a cleaning program that would not only eliminate the virus but restore the biomonitor's full functions.
The red light stopped blinking. For a moment, there was only darkness. Then the device lit up with its normal green glow, emitting a soft, steady beep.
Wukong then activated the emergency protocol. The biomonitor immediately sent a high-priority distress signal, complete with location and biometric data.
Trauma Team in five minutes, he calculated based on the nearest unit's location.
He stood up, examining the woman once more. She didn't need immediate medical attention—just to be removed from this place and have the sedatives cleared from her system. The Trauma Team would handle that.
He left the cell, then the warehouse, returning to the factory's main area. The bodies were still where they fell. Wukong ignored them, walking to the main entrance. There, he stopped, waiting.
Exactly four minutes and thirty-seven seconds later came the distinctive sound of an AV approaching—the deep rumble of jet engines, different from civilian flying cars. The sound grew quickly, and then a Trauma Team AV, with its characteristic orange and white stripes, appeared above the building, hovering before descending smoothly in an open area near the entrance.
The rear ramp opened before the AV even touched the ground completely. Four figures emerged—two paramedics in orange uniforms carrying a stretcher, and two Trauma Team combatants in full armor, armed with assault rifles.
They moved with professional efficiency, the combatants taking defensive positions while the paramedics ran toward the entrance. When they saw Wukong standing there, his relaxed posture contrasting with the scene of carnage behind him, the combatants immediately raised their weapons.
"Step away from the patient!" one ordered, his voice amplified by his helmet.
Wukong didn't move. "She's inside. Warehouse, to the right. Sedated, but stable."
The lead paramedic, a woman with short gray hair and tired eyes, looked at Wukong, then at the bodies, then back at Wukong. Her face showed no emotion—she must have seen worse.
"Check," she told her partner.
While the second paramedic ran inside, the combatant who had spoken approached Wukong, his rifle still pointed. "I said, step aside!"
He extended a hand, trying to push Wukong aside.
His hand stopped five centimeters from the black coat.
There was no visible barrier, nothing between them. But his hand simply... couldn't advance further. As if it had met an invisible steel wall.
The combatant looked at his hand, confused. Tried again, with more force. Nothing.
"Kirov, stop!" the lead paramedic ordered.
But the second combatant was already reacting, raising his weapon and aiming at Wukong. "What did you do?"
Wukong finally moved. Not to step away, but simply turned his head to look at the second combatant. His golden eyes met the helmet's visor.
"I rescued your client," he said, his voice calm and flat. "And I'm getting annoyed."
The standoff was broken by the return of the second paramedic, helping Annie Smith, now conscious but unsteady. "She's fine! Biomonitor clean, vitals stable!"
The lead paramedic looked at Wukong, then at the combatant still trying to push him. She walked over and slapped the back of his helmet.
"Idiot! Do you know who you're talking to?"
The combatant—Kirov—finally stopped, stepping back. "But he—"
"He's the Great Sage," she cut in, her voice laden with exasperation. "The Monkey King. And you're trying to push him?"
She turned to Wukong and gave a small bow—not deep, but respectful. "My apologies, Great Sage. He's new. Hasn't learned to recognize... prominent individuals yet."
Wukong looked at the combatant, then at the paramedic. Finally, he gave a small nod. "The client is free. You may take her."
He made a mental gesture, releasing whatever had prevented the combatant from touching him. The man stepped back further, almost stumbling.
The paramedics helped Annie Smith into the AV. She looked at Wukong, her eyes still hazy from the drug, but with enough understanding to give a weak nod of thanks.
When the AV took off, its engines roaring as it gained altitude, the two combatants remained for a moment. The one who hadn't tried to attack Wukong finally lowered his weapon.
"Sorry, Great Sage," he said, his voice softer now. "Didn't recognize you."
"It's because I wear a hood," Wukong replied, a touch of dry humor in his voice. "We all look alike."
The combatant seemed uncertain how to respond to that. Finally, he just nodded and retreated to join his partner. Within moments, both had entered the AV, which now disappeared into the gray sky.
Wukong was alone again. The rain continued to fall, slowly washing away the blood and cybernetic fluids from the factory entrance floor.
He walked back to his Quadra, the door opening automatically as he approached. He sat in the back seat—he never drove, preferring to let the autopilot handle it while he did more important things.
"Home," he said.
The car began to move, smoothly pulling out of the abandoned parking lot and onto Watson's wet streets.
As the Quadra navigated through traffic, Wukong closed his eyes. But not to sleep. His mind was already connecting to the Net, making a call.
The connection was established almost instantly. The image appearing in his mental vision was of a woman with platinum hair cut short, eyes sharp as lasers, and an expression alternating between tired and dangerously alert.
"Wukong," Rogue said, her face showing a small, rare smile. "Heard about a certain incident in Watson."
"Things happen," he replied, his voice now without the mask's filter sounding younger but no less strange—there was a digital precision to each syllable. "Client is safe. Trauma Team took her."
"Good. Payment's already in your account." Rogue paused, studying him through the connection. "The Maelstrom?"
"Night City lost several brilliant minds today," Wukong said, making a gesture of wiping away a nonexistent tear. "It's a tragedy."
Rogue laughed—a genuine laugh, surprisingly warm coming from her. "Yes, I'm sure the city's collective IQ dropped a few points."
She leaned forward, her face getting more serious. "Need you to come to the Afterlife tonight. I have most of the pieces for your... special order. And the smuggler who has the rest will be there to negotiate."
Wukong sighed. The sound was almost inaudible, but Rogue caught it.
"Problem?" she asked.
"What's the percentage chance I'll have to fry another genius's brain today?" he asked, his voice flat.
Rogue laughed again, louder this time. "Almost a hundred percent, I'd say. Especially considering who the smuggler is."
Wukong was silent for a moment. "After what I did to Kang Tao, I thought people would learn."
Rogue's expression shifted slightly. For a brief instant, something like respect mixed with caution appeared in her eyes. The Kang Tao story wasn't something she liked to remember—not out of sympathy for the corporation, but as a reminder of what Wukong was capable of when truly angered.
"Well, some are slower than others," she finally said. "Will you be there?"
"I'll be there," Wukong confirmed. "But it would be good if you warned this smuggler. Not to test my patience. I'm already running low today."
"I'll warn them," Rogue promised. "But you know how these types are. They always think they're the smartest in the room."
Wukong made a sound that might have been a muffled laugh. "Until they're not."
He paused, then asked: "What do you think I'll do with all this I'm buying?"
Rogue rolled her eyes—a surprisingly human gesture from the queen of the Afterlife. "No idea, and honestly, I don't want to know. As long as it doesn't blow up my club."
"I'm going to make life," Wukong said, completely serious.
Rogue looked at him for a long moment, as if trying to decide if he was joking. Finally, she just shook her head. "Of course you are. See you at nine."
The connection terminated.
Wukong was alone with his thoughts again. The car continued its way through Night City, passing from Watson to Heywood, from industrial decay to the dangerous vitality of the streets where he'd grown up.
He activated a mental command. In his vision, an interface appeared—not a projected hologram, but something existing only in his perception. Files opened, diagrams rotated, circuit schematics unfolded like digital origami.
At the center of it all was a project. Complex source code, elegant hardware designs, state-of-the-art machine learning algorithms. And in the middle of it all, a 3D rendering.
[PROJECT: CHLOE]
Status: In progress
Inspiration: Based on the android companion from Detroit: Become Human
Objective: To create a unique synthetic companion
Wukong looked at the rendering, and for the first time since leaving home that morning, a genuine smile appeared beneath his mask. Not the cynical smile he gave enemies, not the ironic one he reserved for Rogue, but something softer. More human.
Chloe, he thought, the name bringing memories from another life, another reality. You're going to love this world. It's so... interesting.
He closed the files, the interface disappearing from his vision. Outside the window, the "Immortal Peach" appeared in the distance—the pink and gold neon sign blinking even during the day, the curtains in the upper-floor windows where his family lived, the movement on the street as customers arrived for lunch.
It was a refuge. An anchor point. In a world where he was an anomaly, a force of nature, an experiment that succeeded where all others failed... that restaurant was the only thing reminding him that, at some level, he was still human. Or at least, something that could pass for human.
The car parked in the attached garage. Wukong got out, taking the side stairs leading directly to his apartment above the restaurant. The door recognized his biometric signature and opened.
Inside was a space reflecting his dual nature. On one side, a state-of-the-art workshop—benches with precision tools, workstations with multiple monitors, racks with cybernetic components organized with military precision. On the other side, an almost normal living room—a comfortable sofa, a shelf with real paper books (an extravagance in Night City), a small kitchen.
He removed the hood, then the mask. His face was young—too young for everything he was. Thirteen years old, but with eyes that seemed to have seen centuries. He ran a hand through his hair, placing the crown on a nearby table with a care bordering on reverence.
His mother, Mika Sato, appeared in the door connecting to the restaurant. She was a middle-aged woman with Japanese features but with warm eyes and the relaxed posture of someone who grew up in Brazil. She wore an apron stained with sauce.
"Emanuel," she said, using his civilian name. "Everything okay? Heard on the radio about trouble in Watson."
"Everything's fine, Mom," he replied, his tone subtly changing—less the Monkey King, more the son. "Just work."
She looked at him for a moment, her eyes scanning his face for signs of stress, injuries, anything. Found only the usual calm. "Eating dinner at home?"
"I have a meeting at the Afterlife. Business."
Mika sighed but nodded. "At least eat something before going out. I made ramen. The special."
Wukong smiled—a real smile that reached his eyes. "Definitely."
She disappeared back into the restaurant, and Wukong was alone again. He walked to the window, looking down at the street below. Night City pulsed, alive, dangerous, vibrant. A concrete, steel, and light monster that devoured people and spat out legends.
And he was one of those legends. The Monkey King. The Great Sage. The child prodigy who took down gangs before breakfast and made corporations bow.
But he was also Emanuel Sato. Son of Mika and Hiroshi. The boy who grew up above a restaurant. The customer who always ordered the special ramen.
And somewhere in between all that, he was something more. An experiment. A fusion. A cosmic accident. Something unique in the universe.
He looked at the crown on the table, its golden filigree catching the weak light from the window. A symbol of royalty. Of restraint. Of a journey that began on a mountain of flowers and fruit and ended... well, hadn't ended yet.
Tonight, he would go to the Afterlife. Meet a smuggler. Complete his parts. And continue building Chloe.
And maybe, in the process, would have to fry a few more brains.
Just another day in Night City.
The sun—or what passed for sun through the pollution—began to set, painting the gray sky with rust-orange and deep purple hues. The city lights began to turn on, one by one, until the entire urban landscape transformed into a carpet of neon colors against the veil of night.
Wukong put the mask back on, then the hood. For a moment, he stood before the mirror in his room.
The reflected figure wasn't that of a thirteen-year-old boy. It was an imposing silhouette, dressed in black and gold, with eyes glowing with non-human intelligence. It was the Monkey King. The Great Sage. A legend.
He picked up the crown, placing it atop the hood. Adjusted it until it was right.
Then turned and left, descending the stairs, passing through the restaurant (where his mother handed him a bowl of ramen he ate in precisely five minutes), and entering the night.
The Quadra waited. The door opened.
And Night City once again received one of its most dangerous—and strangest—children.
The journey continued.