"Good morning, Night City!"
"Yesterday's Body Count Lottery wrapped up at a clean total of thirty!"
"Thanks to the never-ending gang wars, Heywood alone contributed ten to the pile."
"But hey, one cop bit it too. Looks like you're all paying out…"
Lying face-down on the bed, Liam's fingers twitched. Outside, the roar of passing AVs shook the windows while the TV kept chattering away.
This was Liam's home. Compared to the unfinished ruins in Dogtown, this cramped little nest wasn't half bad.
Now fully merged with the original owner's memories, he looked around at everything—familiar yet strange—and pushed himself up despite the soreness in his body.
"Heh. Night City… no, a new day in Dogtown?"
He flexed his cyberware, grabbed a burrito from the table, and took a few bites. Only after confirming that all his physical indicators had returned to normal did he relax.
The phone rang. When he answered, Otto's exaggerated expression filled the screen.
"You little punk. Yesterday you burned through three cans of MaxDoc from me. I'm telling you—start saving some eddies and swap out that junk-tier cyberware."
Liam nodded. Fair point.
Then again, he recalled this guy had snorted plenty of the "Glitter" Liam used to buy. Was he calling to collect a debt?
"Relax, I'm not here to shake you down," Otto said. "If you've got time, swing by the camp next to the checkpoint. Hansen said we need to return the gun to our soldier."
"And don't forget—what the Colonel told you? Keep it in mind. Don't screw around."
"Later, brother. We'll grab a drink when you're settled."
After hanging up, Liam fell into thought.
Yesterday, Hansen had told him to go to Heavy Hearts, a well-known landmark in Dogtown. But he still wasn't sure who he was supposed to meet.
A figure with a hoarse voice and a face half-hidden in shadow surfaced in his mind.
"Don't tell me it's Hands? Pacifica's big-name fixer?"
It was 2075. Liam wasn't certain whether Mr. Hands had already risen to prominence. If it turned out to be someone unfamiliar, things could get tricky.
Right now, his biggest advantage was his general understanding of these people's personalities.
Fixers—those middlemen navigating Night City's tangled web of factions—were high risk, high reward.
Plenty of edgerunners scoffed at them. Why let someone skim a fat cut when it's just moving goods from one hand to another?
But in reality, those well-connected operators always won the trust of big clients—and smoothed over most of the fallout for the people doing the dirty work.
Without fixers working both ends, most shady business simply couldn't happen.
Liam stepped out from the maze of makeshift housing, boots creaking on the flimsy staircase as he descended.
In the distance stood a large tree draped with candles.
The sight stirred vivid memories.
Once, he had controlled V, standing with Johnny beneath the Memorial Tree, talking about the future. Maybe V had been just as lost back then, unsure of what path lay ahead.
Now it was real.
The regrets. The friendships. The blood and fire.
None of them had yet reached their destined arcs.
I wonder what V is doing right now? Liam thought with a grim smirk. Man or woman? Professional or psycho?
The dark humor helped settle his nerves. His phone buzzed again.
[Incoming Call: Unknown]
"Hello, friend. My name is Hands."
A sense of reassurance settled in Liam's chest. At least he knew this one.
"The famous Mr. Hands. A pleasure."
On the other end, the enigmatic fixer—face still obscured—seemed slightly surprised. He chuckled softly, voice cultured and calm.
"Not often Colonel Hansen selects such a likable subordinate. Come to the Heavy Hearts Club. I heard you were badly injured yesterday, so I gave you some time."
"Of course, I won't wait long. There are matters we need to discuss in person."
Liam nodded. Hands wasted no time—he hung up immediately after speaking.
Liam prepared to head toward the broken highway outside Dogtown's skeletal high-rises, the road that connected to its main structures.
And then—
A glob of spit landed precisely at his feet.
"Stupid-ass Barghest. Useless trash now—ptooey!"
A vendor crouched beneath a metal rack selling random junk, cursing nonstop. Only then did Liam remember—
Yesterday, he'd still been one of Colonel Hansen's blunt instruments, used to intimidate Dogtown's residents.
Now? Looks like the Barghests had kicked him out.
Stay calm. Don't panic.
The next second, Liam's hand clamped tightly around the vendor's jaw.
Passersby stopped to watch, drawn in by the shouting. Some looked frightened. Some excited. A few even egged the vendor on to fight back.
"Hey! Easy, brother—!"
The vendor hadn't expected a dismissed Barghest to still be packing cyberware. Liam's grip was like iron pliers, squeezing so hard the man's facial implant looked ready to crack. He folded instantly.
The things the Barghests had done weren't Liam's personal sins.
He wasn't about to swallow that resentment alone.
So he taught the loudmouth a quick lesson.
"I suggest you clean up your mouth. Whether I'm still a Barghest or not doesn't matter."
"It doesn't mean I can't deal with you."
"Behave. Got it?"
Liam knew that if he'd just shoved his hands in his pockets and pretended nothing happened, the trouble wouldn't stop there.
Luckily, this level of cyberware was more than enough to handle one foul-mouthed shopkeeper.
"I live here. You run your business. Okay?"
The vendor nodded like a pecking chicken. Liam released him at once.
As Liam walked off with his hands in his pockets, the crowd muttered colorful greetings directed at Barghest soldiers' "parents," then dispersed like startled birds.
In the game, time flew by quickly.
In reality, Dogtown was massive.
The road behind the unfinished high-rises stretched endlessly. By the time Liam reached the military camp, he was actually out of breath.
Blame the original owner of this body. Every paycheck went toward Glitter cut with hard stuff—or gambling. Didn't even own a crappy car.
After nearly two hours of walking, Liam entered the camp.
The moment he stepped through the gate, the Barghest soldiers stopped their recreation and stared straight at him—a young man who no longer quite looked like one of them.
Still, since the guards had let him through, no one bothered making it their problem.
"Your gun. And some money Hansen sent you."
A female soldier with a mohawk, uniform jacket tied around her waist and rose tattoos curling up her arm, flicked the rifle toward him while puffing on a cigarette.
"Oh, I took a cut. Call it my fee." Her eyes glinted.
Liam's previously "dry" account now showed 1,000 eurodollars.
"How much did you skim?"
"Three hundred. Don't like it? Go cry to the Colonel. Now fuck off."
Liam blinked. He didn't move. "Give it back."
She clicked her tongue, about to snap, when a nearby soldier exhaled a cloud of sharp Glitter smoke.
"Just give it to him, sis. Not worth it. Otto already—"
"Fine. Whatever."
Only when the remaining 300 eddies hit his account did Liam ask the male soldier:
"Where's Otto? Didn't he say he'd get my gear?"
The soldier stood and casually pushed Liam toward the exit.
"Who knows? Maybe he died at some girl's place. Anyway, get the hell out. Stop asking."
Liam called Otto to let him know he'd picked up the gear.
Just basic courtesy.
The phone rang for a long time. No answer.
Eventually, Liam gave up.
He looked toward the distance. Under the harsh sunlight, the Heavy Hearts Club sat like a transparent gold pyramid—a monument to secrets.
He took his first step toward it. Or was it his thousandth?
Whatever. It was a start.