Oliver panted heavily, staring at the lifeless bodies scattered across the ground. He could hardly believe he had survived the firefight. Bullets had whizzed past his head countless times, and luck had been the only thing keeping him alive.
But he knew survival hadn't been solely his doing. If it weren't for the unexpected help, he would have been lying among the corpses, just another victim of the Vortex Gang's relentless assault.
"There's still one alive," a young voice called out.
Oliver froze, leaning weakly against a piece of cover. His eyes darted toward the sound, where he spotted a figure approaching. The voice matched the face—an Eastern Asian man, probably no older than eighteen or nineteen.
What the hell? Oliver thought. This kid looks like he just walked out of Arasaka Academy. It wasn't uncommon for students to end up in the chaos of Night City, but someone this young in a gang conflict was unusual.
In the Sixth Street Gang, no one under 20 was allowed to join. Veterans hated rookies slowing them down, and Oliver couldn't help but wonder how someone this inexperienced had survived unscathed.
The young man—Karl, as Oliver would later learn—moved with confidence, stepping over the bodies without hesitation. His sharp eyes scanned the aftermath of the battle as if cataloging the scene. When he reached Oliver, he raised his Lexington pistol and pointed it directly at his head.
"Name," Karl demanded, his voice calm and emotionless.
"Oliver," he replied, too drained to resist.
"Age?"
"Twenty-four."
"Gang?"
"Sixth Street."
"Purpose?"
Oliver hesitated for a moment but knew lying wasn't an option. "We came to track down stolen goods. We thought the Vortex Gang took them, but things went south."
Karl studied him for a moment before speaking. "Hand it over."
"What?"
"Your gun."
Oliver blinked, confused, but ultimately handed over his weapon. He wasn't in a position to argue.
Karl took the gun without another word and began sifting through the bodies. He crouched by the fallen Vortex members, carefully inspecting their belongings and pocketing anything valuable. It was a meticulous process—he even checked inside their boots and under their clothes.
Oliver watched in growing unease. Is this guy a scavenger? he wondered.
In Night City, scavengers were the lowest of the low—despicable criminals who stripped people of everything, from their possessions to their organs. Karl's methodical looting reminded Oliver of those organ-harvesting predators.
But as he watched, Oliver realized something. Karl wasn't interested in prosthetics or cyberware. He wasn't cutting bodies open or taking limbs. No, this was just... looting.
"Fourteen," Karl muttered to himself as he stuffed euros and pistols into a bag he had picked up earlier.
The calm efficiency with which Karl worked unnerved Oliver. This wasn't the behavior of a gang member or a scavenger. This guy was different—cold, precise, and completely unbothered by the carnage around him.
Finally, Oliver couldn't stay silent. He stood and approached cautiously.
"Uh, hey... If we don't get out of here, the NCPD is going to show up. You know how they are—they'll shoot first and ask questions later."
Karl paused, glancing at him over his shoulder. "We?" he echoed. "I'm not part of your gang. I'm just a civilian who couldn't eat in peace thanks to you."
Oliver suppressed a laugh. Civilian? he thought. Who's he trying to fool?
No civilian could use a standard Lexington to take down more than a dozen Vortex members. These lunatics enhanced their heads with cyberware, making headshots notoriously difficult. But Karl had done it with ease, sending bullets precisely where they needed to go.
Oliver's gut told him Karl wasn't just any "civilian." He was likely a mercenary—or a lone wolf.
As the distant wail of sirens grew louder, Oliver decided to take a chance. "Look," he began, "consider this a thank-you for saving my life. You're right—we interrupted your meal. How about I treat you to something nearby? A good meal and a chance to wash up?"
Karl's face, streaked with dried blood, gave him a moment of pause.
"Eat," Karl said simply, slinging the bag over his shoulder.
"You'll come?" Oliver asked, slightly relieved.
"But it has to be vegetarian," Karl added.
Oliver blinked. A vegetarian? This guy kills people without flinching, but he's a vegetarian?
Suppressing his confusion, Oliver quickly responded, "Sure, there's a Chinese place nearby. They'll have vegetarian options."
Before leaving, Oliver glanced back at the fallen members of his gang. His teammates—all dead. He was the only survivor.
He sighed heavily, knowing he would have to report everything to his father. The Sixth Street Gang would demand answers, and Oliver would need to explain why he was the only one who made it out alive.
But that could wait. For now, he needed to ensure this strange, deadly "civilian" didn't change his mind. A meal was the least he could offer the man who saved his life.