The oppressive silence that followed pressed in on them, thick and heavy. V and Jackie huddled in the maintenance hatch, their minds spinning from the chaos they'd just witnessed. The weight of everything they'd seen and heard in the penthouse sat like a stone on their chests, each breath feeling like it took more effort than the last.
Then, the familiar crackle of T-Bug's voice broke the silence. "What the fuck happened in there?" she demanded, a tone of disbelief lacing her words.
Jackie's eyes flickered to V, his voice barely a whisper. "Yorinobu... offed Saburo!"
A beat of silence followed, the gravity of the statement hanging in the air. V could feel the weight of the moment sinking in. The air around them felt colder now, more dangerous. She had to force herself to stay calm.
After a few more minutes of silence, V couldn't take it anymore. She slid out of the hatch first, her movements deliberate but cautious. Every step felt heavy, the tension in her body still coiled tight. She wasn't sure what was worse—the fact that they witnessed a full-blown power struggle in Arasaka, or the knowledge that they'd just become pawns in a game much bigger than them.
V's eyes moved across the room, lingering on Saburo's lifeless body. It was a surreal sight—seeing the mighty emperor of Arasaka, the man who'd controlled so much, reduced to this. She walked slowly toward the corpse, her gaze fixed on it. This wasn't the way things were supposed to go. This wasn't the plan.
The voice of T-Bug cracked through the comms again, cutting through the stillness. "Shit… security's gonna swarm the place any second. You two are so fucked."
V's eyes narrowed, her temper flaring. She gritted her teeth, frustration boiling over. "You think we don't know that?!" she shot back, her voice sharp as glass. "Get us the hell out of here, Bug!"
More static, followed by a sharp hiss. Then T-Bug's voice, cold and biting. "Arasaka's lockin' this place down like Fort fucking Knox! You shouldn't have stuck around that long—"
V's teeth ground together as the words hit. "Are you seriously blaming us for your screw-up, Bug?" Her voice was low and furious. "You were supposed to be our eyes, to warn us! Not let us walk into this shitshow!"
A brief silence lingered, thick and oppressive, before T-Bug's voice finally cut through, her words sharp and biting. "Netrunners'll start combin' through the system soon, and I'm not eatin' black ICE over this corpo dumpster fire. You two need to figure this shit out yourselves."
"You motherfu—!"
Static.
Then—nothing.
The silence in V's ear stretched on, thick and suffocating, as if time itself had frozen. Jackie shot a glance at her, confusion and disbelief written all over his face. "T-Bug, you there?!" he barked. "Did she just…?"
V didn't need to hear him finish. She already knew the answer.
A cold, sick realization hit her like a freight train. T-Bug had ditched them. Left them to rot. Her fists clenched, every muscle in her body wound tight with frustration. She whirled around to face Jackie, her voice a low growl full of venom. "Fuckin' major leagues! Happy now, Jackie?!"
Jackie didn't respond right away. His eyes were wide, filled with disbelief. "No way, V… T-Bug would never—"
But V wasn't listening. She couldn't afford to get caught up in the betrayal. She forced herself to take a breath, then scanned the room for any escape route. Her eyes landed on the terrace door. She was already moving before she even realized it. A small flicker of hope surged through her, a reminder that they weren't entirely screwed—yet.
V approached the door, her fingers flicking over the panel, the familiar hum of data rushing beneath her touch. Her eyes glowed faintly, the subtle sign of a quickhack in progress. A soft click echoed through the silence as the door unlocked.
The chill of the night air slammed into them as they stepped onto the terrace. The sprawling skyline of Night City sprawled out before them, a neon-lit sea of chaos and opportunity.
The view was breathtaking, but V didn't spare it a second glance. Not now.
"There should be a ladder on the left side of the building," V said, her voice steady but her eyes scanning the rooftop. "It'll take us down."
She started toward the left, her heels light but deliberate as she moved. Her gaze locked onto the narrow ledge running along the building exterior. The thought of crossing it churned something cold in her gut. The drop below was brutal—too far for any kind of cushion—and one slip meant a one-way trip to the pavement.
Jackie froze for a moment, clutching the case to his chest like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. "Chingada madre…" His voice was rough, barely a whisper, and he glanced down at the dizzying drop, his breath catching in his throat.
V didn't answer. She kept moving, her steps precise as she led the way toward the ledge. Jackie's eyes were locked on her back, but there was no time to reassure him. Every second was ticking away.
As they neared the ladder, a faint hum cut through the air—an AV, coming fast. Jackie's pace faltered, his breath catching. "Trauma Team?" he muttered, his voice tight with uncertainty, eyes scanning the night sky. "Shit, you think they're comin' for Saburo's body?"
V's gaze flicked upward, her expression hardening. "If it's Trauma, they're late." Her words were clipped, but her eyes stayed locked on the AV as it soared over the building. The uneasy feeling gnawing at her gut wouldn't let go. Something wasn't right.
She hoped it hadn't seen them.
But just as the thought crossed her mind, an Arasaka drone materialized out of nowhere. Sleek and menacing, it hovered in front of them, its weaponized frame casting a long, oppressive shadow across the terrace. Floodlights flared, blinding them in a wash of cold white.
"Suspects in violation of security protocols!" The drone declared in Japanese, its voice echoed across the terrace, cold and mechanical.
A sharp metallic hiss followed as the drone's weapons slid into position. Its guns locked into place with a cold precision, the sound echoing in the night air. The barrels gleamed in the harsh light, like a machine gun primed and ready to tear them apart. The atmosphere seemed to freeze, the drone's sensors snapping onto them with a quiet hum—its intent clear, and its threat palpable.
Before V could react, she heard Jackie shout, "V—!"
"Jump!" V yelled, the words coming out as a guttural command.
The drone opened fire, its guns roaring to life, spitting death in their direction. The crack of gunfire was deafening, and V felt the whizz of bullets zipping through the air, one narrowly grazing her as she launched herself toward the edge. The rush of adrenaline made her movements frantic, but controlled. Behind her, Jackie was cursing, his voice thick with panic.
They both hurtled down the slanted glass roof, their bodies struggling to stay in control as gravity took over. The glass beneath them cracked and groaned beneath their weight and the sharp staccato of bullets shredding the glass. Then, with a sickening crash, they dropped from the edge and smashed through a sunroof, glass exploding outward in all directions.
V's vision blurred as the world spun out of control, her body colliding with the concrete floor beneath them. The impact was brutal, a bone-jarring hit that left her momentarily breathless. She hit the ground so hard, the world around her went dark, knocking her out cold.
—
Each step Takemura took behind Yorinobu echoed like a silent verdict, a hollow thud that reverberated down the corridor. The rhythmic strike of his shoes against the floor served as a grim reminder of his compromised position—a devoted retainer now walking in the shadow of a traitor. With every footfall, the burden of his inaction grew heavier, pressing against his chest like a vice. Every step away from Saburo-sama carved deeper into his conscience. They had left his master's body behind—unattended, dishonored, sprawled on the floor like refuse. It was a desecration he could neither forget nor forgive.
The elevator doors slid open with a hiss interrupted his thoughts. The doors parted, revealing the sprawling expanse of the hangar deck. The polished floors shimmered beneath the cold, red lights, the sterile ambiance heightened by the silent rows of Arasaka AVs. Their sleek, imposing forms loomed over the space, their cold surfaces reflecting the harsh glow of the overhead lights.
Guards lined the deck like silent sentries, their eyes tracking them as Takemura followed the son of the man he had failed to protect.
Breaking the tension, Takemura's voice cut through the silence, quiet but resolute. "Yorinobu-sama… I ask that you allow me to remain behind. I can personally oversee the investigation and ensure Arasaka-sama's transport back to—"
"You will accompany me." Yorinobu cut him off sharply, his pace unwavering as he continued toward the awaiting AV. "The board must be informed at once. Arasaka cannot appear fractured. I need you by my side to ensure no factions rise to exploit my father's death as an opportunity to sow chaos."
Takemura's jaw tightened, but he held his ground. Yorinobu's reasoning was pragmatic but cold. It wasn't just about the investigation; it was about control—Yorinobu didn't trust Takemura's proximity to Saburo's death.
Takemura stepped forward, falling into stride beside him, his movements precise, but his voice betrayed the strain beneath. "With all due respect, Arasaka-sama was not only your father. He was the head of Arasaka. His death cannot be treated with haste."
There was no mistaking the plea beneath the formal phrasing. Takemura's jaw was tight, eyes shining with barely contained grief—more than grief, devotion. A soldier mourning his general, not just a subordinate mourning his superior.
Yorinobu's lips pressed into a thin line, and for a split second, his composure cracked. Not with sorrow, but irritation—no, threat. He heard it in Takemura's tone, saw it in his eyes: loyalty still tethered to a dead man. That could not stand.
"And I am now the head of Arasaka." Yorinobu snapped, halting just short of the AV's open hatch. His voice was low, measured, but cut like a blade. "Do not presume to lecture me on how to honor my own father."
Takemura froze, then bowed his head slightly, but not in submission—more like restraint. Tension radiated from every line of his posture, jaw clenched tight. For a moment, his gaze flicked to Yorinobu's bloodstained hands, then back to Yorinobu, eyes veiled but burning underneath.
"I only wish to serve," Takemura said quietly, the words laced with grief—and something dangerously close to defiance. "Please… allow me to ensure his death is treated with the dignity it deserves."
Yorinobu turned to face him fully, his expression unreadable for a beat. Then his eyes hardened, sharp as shattered glass. "And yet it was your loyalty that left him vulnerable."
Takemura didn't flinch, though the words cut deep.
"I cannot entrust this matter to someone so close to it," Yorinobu continued coldly. "Your judgment is compromised. Emotion clouds clarity—and clarity is what we need now." He stepped closer, voice dropping to a quiet threat. "Your place is here, Takemura. Protecting the head of Arasaka."
The words hung in the air, heavy and final.
"Do not fail my family a second time."
Takemura lowered his gaze and bowed deeply, the gesture rigid with restraint. He said nothing.
Yorinobu watched him in silence, something cold flickering behind his eyes. That hint of defiance—brief as it was—hadn't gone unnoticed. For all his polished loyalty, Takemura's grief bled through, tethered not to the Arasaka name, but to the man who had embodied it. Saburo's shadow still clung to him like a second skin. And that kind of devotion—quiet, unwavering—was dangerous now. Dangerous to Yorinobu, who bore the title, but not yet the crown, in the eyes of those who had truly served his father.
Takemura wanted to honor the man who had built an empire. But Yorinobu couldn't risk cracks in the foundation—especially not ones shaped like old loyalty.
Now, walking beside the man who should have been mourning, Takemura's mind raced. The urge to turn back gnawed at him. Saburo-sama's body still lay in the penthouse. There had been blood smeared on the panel. Bruising along the neck. Obvious signs of a struggle—of resistance. And yet, Yorinobu's explanation had been poison, delivered with cool detachment and the ease of a well-rehearsed lie. A lie Takemura couldn't confront. Not yet.
Takemura's hands curled into fists at his sides.
He walked beside Yorinobu, every inch of him taut with barely restrained fury. It felt like blasphemy—shepherding the man who might have murdered his master. The man who may have struck the blow now walked under his protection, cloaked in authority he hadn't earned. Takemura's fists flexed at his sides, heart pounding its protest with every step.
Behind them, Adam Smasher followed like a steel shadow—silent, implacable.
But not inattentive.
Takemura could feel it—the weight of Smasher's gaze, cold and mechanical, pinned between his shoulder blades. The cyborg didn't need words to speak the threat he embodied. Every footfall, every servo-whir, whispered the same warning—I'm watching you. Not merely a bodyguard, but a leash. A weapon Yorinobu had chosen to keep close.
Takemura didn't flinch. But the awareness gnawed at him all the same.
If he made one wrong move—one gesture that reeked too strongly of doubt or defiance—Smasher would not hesitate.
Not because he cared about Yorinobu.
But because he served the chaos that followed power.
And right now, Takemura was standing in its shadow.
Out of nowhere, gunfire erupted in the distance—sharp, deafening, and unmistakable. It reverberated through the lift shafts, cutting through the sterile silence of the hangar. Instinctively, Takemura's hand moved to his sidearm, fingers brushing the cold grip, while the guards flanking Yorinobu snapped into action, weapons raised, eyes scanning for threats.
The tense stillness was broken a moment later by the cold, mechanical voice of the hotel AI, unnervingly calm as it echoed from the overhead speakers.
"Security breach!"
Yorinobu halted mid-step, his eyes narrowing as the implication sank in. Before he could process further, the sound of rapid footsteps echoed through the hangar. A guard burst into view, breathless, his boots pounding the polished floor. A datapad was gripped tightly in one gloved hand.
"Yorinobu-sama," he panted, bowing low, his voice strained with urgency. "One of our surveillance drones detected two suspects exiting the penthouse via the terrace. We've completed a full sweep of the area—"
He faltered, eyes flicking between Yorinobu and Takemura before delivering the news:
"The Relic is gone."
"What?!"
The guard hesitated for only a beat, but the weight of his words was immediate. "We found signs of a remotely-executed security breach. They were likely hiding in the penthouse when Arasaka-sama died. A thermal signature trail leads off the terrace. Surveillance drones confirmed a cryocase—one of the suspects had it when they made the jump."
"Impossible…" Yorinobu rasped, the word scraping from his throat like ground glass. It was barely a whisper, but it carried venom, a low, seething fury that burned with disbelief. For a fleeting moment, his eyes betrayed him—a brief flicker of panic.
The Relic.
His father.
Gone.
His stare widened, fury catching like dry tinder—but then something changed. He stilled. His face shifted, fury draining into something colder. Sharper. The rage didn't fade—it calcified. Cold, calculating.
An opportunity blooming like a poisonous flower.
Then calculation gave way to outrage. His features contorted, jaw clenched so tightly it looked like it might snap, and his voice erupted raw with venom. "How dare they!?" he shouted, each word laced with pure, seething rage. "They steal from my family and murder my father—these vermin, these—" His words cut off in a snarl, his eyes ablaze with an all-consuming fury.
"Kill them!"
The command sliced through the hangar like a blade, brutal and unmistakable. For a moment, the guards froze—then chaos erupted. Orders crackled through radios, weapons were drawn with deadly precision, and the harsh clatter of boots echoed across the cold steel floor as the hangar came alive with frantic movement.
Takemura remained still, his mind racing.
The puzzle pieces began to fall into place—each one sharp, each one cutting deeper. Two intruders. The Relic stolen. Saburo-sama dead. It made sense—but also seemed too convenient.
Takemura's chest tightened with the weight of knowing. He had seen the bruising around Saburo's neck, the blood smeared on the panel. Signs of a struggle, not poison. He knew what Yorinobu refused to admit.
But now there were suspects. Thieves. Intruders.
Real culprits… or convenient scapegoats?
He knew of Saburo-sama's strained relationship with his son—too many years of distance, of broken trust, of power struggles and unspoken grievances. He had witnessed the coldness between them firsthand, the absence of the respect a father should demand from his heir. Was this some twisted culmination of that rift? Had Yorinobu's ambition driven him to something far darker?
Takemura couldn't stop the questions from gnawing at him. He needed to find out the truth.
"I will find them," he said suddenly, stepping forward. "Allow me to oversee their capture, Yorinobu-sama. Let me see justice done for Arasaka-sama."
Yorinobu hesitated.
For a moment, his eyes locked onto Takemura—not as a subordinate, but as a threat. The man's loyalty had always been to his father first. And now that Saburo was gone—by his own hand—what was left to bind Takemura to him? Honor? Tradition? Sentiment?
Was it to serve him… or to search for the truth?
None of those served his interests.
Takemura was methodical, relentless. If anyone could track down the thieves, it was him. And once he did… once the relic was recovered, once the bodies were burned and the evidence buried—then the last loose thread of the truth would be cut.
Yes, let the loyal dog chase the scent. Let him believe redemption was at hand. That he was honoring Saburo's death.
Because if the thieves died resisting—as they surely would—there would be no one left to question the official version of events.
Yorinobu's gaze hardened. He nodded once, sharp and cold. "Do it. But when you find them—inform me at once."
Takemura bowed low. "As you command, Yorinobu-sama."
"You must evacuate," he pressed, more urgently. "The hotel is compromised. Every second you remain puts you at greater risk."
Yorinobu turned away, but his stride faltered—just for an instant. Barely perceptible, but enough. The hesitation flickered through like a crack in his armor. Then he straightened, spine rigid, and resumed walking with that same cultivated authority. Cold. Composed. Unshaken.
He strode toward the waiting AV, Adam Smasher trailing close behind, a silent shadow of brutality. Every step was measured, precise—calculated.
Let Takemura hunt. Let him bleed for the truth.
Then I will bury him with it.
Takemura would serve his purpose, just as the mercs had. Loyal to the end, blind to the noose tightening around his own neck.
And when that purpose was fulfilled, there would be no one left to question Yorinobu's rule.
"I will return to Arasaka Tower," he announced in English, voice clipped. "The board must be informed of my father's death—personally. Until then… I expect news."
His gaze locked with Takemura's, cold and unyielding.
"Dead. I want them dead—and the Relic retrieved."
He didn't wait for acknowledgement.
Yorinobu turned toward the waiting AV, already barking orders over his shoulder. "Smasher will remain here. Make sure those mercs don't leave the building alive."
Adam Smasher gave no reply—he didn't need to. The tilt of his head, the hum of his hydraulics, the brief flicker of red optics toward Takemura—silent, mechanical menace. Watching. Weighing.
Takemura stood unmoving, arms stiff at his sides, as Yorinobu strode up the ramp of the executive AV, flanked by handpicked guards in blackout armor. Two more AVs powered to life nearby, their matte-black hulls gleaming under the sterile hangar lights, engines pulsing as backup security boarded with trained precision.
The hangar doors rumbled open with hydraulic groans. He stood watching AVs glided silently into the night. His eyes tracked them for a long moment, the heavy hum of their engines fading into the distance, swallowed by the darkness of the skyline.
Then, as if the weight of the moment had finally settled into his bones, Takemura moved. His steps were deliberate, precise—each footfall a reminder of the mission that lay ahead.
He turned to the remaining security detail, his tone clipped and unwavering. "Secure the premises. I want every entrance monitored. No one enters or leaves without my direct clearance."
The guards moved instantly, the sound of their boots echoing in the hangar as they sprang into action.
A few moments later, the informant approached him, datapad in hand. His posture was tense, wary. "Takemura-san… we've identified the intruders. A mercenary team infiltrated the hotel earlier this evening. They used a Militech-issued Flathead unit to breach internal security systems. There was a netrunner assisting them remotely—but signal dropped after they accessed the penthouse. A man and a woman, both small-time, street-level mercs."
Takemura's eyes narrowed as he absorbed the information, his thoughts moving swiftly beneath the surface. He had expected something more, something larger—but the picture being painted was clear. Small-time mercenaries, yet using tools and methods not typical for their level. Their success suggested a level of access that shouldn't have been possible for such low-tier operatives.
The mention of a Militech-issued Flathead unit didn't sit right with him. Militech's involvement would be no coincidence. Had they set these street-level rats loose to cripple Arasaka's operations and assassinate Saburo-sama? The thought gnawed at him: Militech had its own motives—but they wouldn't hand an operation this critical to small-time mercenaries.
His gaze flicked to the guard, who shifted under the weight of Takemura's scrutiny.
"Continue," Takemura commanded, voice colder than the hangar air.
The guard hesitated for a moment, glancing at the datapad before responding. "The woman, V, is a netrunner—former Arasaka counter-intel, Night City division, according to our sources. The man, Jackie Welles, has ties to a local gang—the Valentinos. Both have been linked to several other incidents across the city. We've managed to track their movements to a few possible hideouts."
Takemura took the pad with measured hands. The screen displayed two profiles staring back at him. The man—heavyset, with sloppy implants—looked like little more than muscle. A blunt instrument, nothing else.
But the woman beside him was different. Cold-eyed. Scarred. Her expression was difficult to read, yet something about it unsettled him—calculated, controlled, dangerous. There was a tension in her stance, a practiced detachment in her gaze, the kind honed within corporate walls.
A former Arasaka operative could slip through security with ease; perhaps she'd returned for revenge or seeking retribution for her past with Arasaka.
Yet something in the woman's eyes nagged at him. Not cruelty. Not arrogance. But purpose. Grit.
These were the ones who had stolen the Relic. Who had trespassed on Arasaka ground. Who had desecrated Saburo-sama's final moments. The thought twisted inside him like a knot.
But even now, some part of him resisted. These weren't killers in the name of justice—they were thieves. Tools. Mercenaries for hire. And yet…
Could they truly have killed the most powerful man on Earth? Or had they simply seen too much?
His hands tightened around the datapad.
Tools wielded by some rival corp, perhaps, or opportunistic rats hoping to profit from Arasaka's greatest achievement. No matter. He would find them. And when he did—he would have his answers.
And someone would pay.
