Night City, the Little Chinatown Afterlife Nightclub in Watson, one of the most frequented places for mercenaries in the city. Countless legends have been born in this nightclub, but as with everything in Night City, those legends often meet a gruesome end—if not in the grave, they fade into obscurity, like Silver Hand, whose memory remains but whose body is nowhere to be found.
In the early hours of the morning, as the city's twisted nightlife begins, a young man steps through the door. He's in his early twenties, standing at 6'5", and he looks strikingly different from the other patrons in the club. No colorful hair, no vibrant clothes, and not a single prosthetic body modification. He's an anomaly in a world filled with the cybernetically enhanced, a stark contrast to the flashy mercenaries that fill the room.
As Adam Winters walks through the door, the atmosphere shifts. Eyes lock onto him—whispers flow from the crowd.
"Is that guy here to hand over another task?" "He's the one who completed twenty commissions in a month, right? 100% success rate!" "Where the hell did he come from?"
Adam doesn't acknowledge the chatter. He glides through the crowd with his eyes narrowed, scanning for anything out of the ordinary. His instincts honed by extreme spatial awareness guide him, keeping him several steps ahead of everyone around him.
He pauses, his gaze briefly caught by a dancer inside a glass cylinder filled with water. His expression remains unreadable as he quickly looks away, uninterested in the fleeting distraction. It's not the first time he's seen the debauched life of Night City, and it certainly won't be the last.
Adam proceeds toward the VIP booth where the Queen of Afterlife, Rogue, sits. Rogue, an aging but still imposing figure, is one of the most influential middlemen in the city. Despite her years, she retains her power and reputation, though dealing with Adam has been an exercise in frustration. He's efficient to a fault, but his tendency to operate outside the norms makes her life complicated.
Rogue's sharp eyes narrow as Adam approaches. "You're early," she mutters, though her tone is not unkind. She's well aware of his reputation for completing jobs quickly, even ruthlessly.
"Grandma Luo," Adam greets her, his voice calm but with an edge of sarcasm, a nickname he's come to use out of habit. It makes Rogue bristle, though she knows better than to lash out here in the public eye.
"You've completed the task?" Rogue's voice remains controlled but with a flicker of irritation at his casual demeanor.
Adam's reply is blunt: "The Tiger Claw Gang's been dealt with. All twenty-three members in the Yiqing Bar are dead." He leans back in the booth, casual, confident, and unimpressed by the surrounding hustle of Night City. "Now, about the payment."
Rogue's expression darkens as she processes his words. "You didn't try to negotiate, did you? You were supposed to resolve it peacefully." She's exasperated, though deep down, she knows Adam would never do such a thing.
Adam's eyes narrow, his voice taking on a hint of impatience. "I'm not in the business of 'peacefully resolving' things, Rogue. I do what I'm hired to do. I didn't leave anyone standing. The job's done." He pauses for a moment, his gaze hardening. "If you want something different, hire someone else next time."
Rogue is silent for a beat, then sighs, the weight of years of dealing with mercenaries like Adam settling on her shoulders. She turns to the side and quietly instructs her assistant to process the payment.
"Fine. I'll transfer your payment shortly. But tell me, Adam, why do you still carry that archaic phone? You don't have implants. Are you really so old-fashioned?" She eyes his unhackable Nokia Pro: Max, clearly out of place in a world filled with neural enhancements.
Adam's lips curl into a faint smirk. "What's wrong with a phone? At least it's not an invitation for someone to hack my brain and blow me up when I walk out the door." His sarcasm hangs in the air, and Rogue's response is a frustrated sigh.
Before she can retort, Adam stands, ready to leave. "I'll grab a drink. Don't bother crediting me with some 'legendary' task. I'm not interested in dying for a cause." His words are blunt, dismissing any notion of grandeur.
He walks to the bar, where Claire, the bartender, greets him with a smile. "What'll it be?"
"Johnny Silverhand," Adam orders, taking his usual drink—a wild mix of agave, chili, and beer. As the drink is placed before him, Adam takes a sip, grimacing at the taste. "Who in the hell came up with this combination? This is a headache in a glass."
Claire laughs, offering a playful suggestion. "Why don't you leave your own recipe? Maybe you'll be a legend like Johnny."
Adam's expression remains unchanged, his gaze distant as he shakes his head. "No thanks. Legends get buried here. I'm good without the grave."
With that, he takes another sip, his mind already on the next job, the next mission. He is no legend, no hero—just another cold and efficient mercenary in a city that never sleeps.