Clink. The sound echoed faintly, rippling through the haze of K's fractured mind. Cold steel. The tang of disinfectant. Something sharp dragged against flesh—his flesh. Then darkness again.
"Christ, Knox, what did you drag in here now? A corpse?" A gravelly voice pierced the void, laced with equal parts frustration and disdain.
"Not a corpse," came a calm but firm reply, words clipped. "He's breathing, isn't he?"
"Yeah, barely. You call this breathing? Half his insides look like they went through a shredder. You're lucky his heart's still pumping, or I'd be scraping him off the floor and billing you for the bleach."
Another clang, louder this time. K stirred, the darkness thinning. He could almost see them—silhouettes against a dim, flickering light.
"Blood type? Look, you think I had time to check? Place was a goddamn meat grinder when I found him. You wanna argue, or you wanna save his life?"
A pause. Then the ripper muttered, "Save his life. Sure. And while we're at it, let's bring back Johnny Silverhand for a reunion concert. Night City doesn't pay me enough for miracles."
He looks down at K and chuckled a bit. "You're too young to know shit about that, huh kid?"
Blink.
K's vision swam. A face hovered above him—masked, glinting with chrome along the jaw. The ripper, deep in concentration, muttered under his breath as he worked. K's head throbbed. His arms wouldn't move.
"You wake up now, kid, you're gonna wish you didn't," the ripper grumbled, not even looking at him. His voice sounded closer this time, sharper.
Something cold and hard pressed against K's face. His vision flickered—black, then light, then something else. A flood of data cascaded into his mind, filling the edges of his sightline. Numbers. Symbols. Diagnostics.
The ripper pulled back, wiping sweat from his chrome-covered brow. "There. Got your eyes running. Kinda. Don't expect 20/20 vision, though—you're running budget chrome, kid. Better than dead, though, right? Well, maybe not."
The fixer, Knox, leaned in, arms crossed. "You done yet?"
"Done? Done?" The ripper laughed, bitter and dry. "I'm holding this kid together with duct tape and a prayer. What the hell do you think?"
Blink.
When K woke again, he wasn't on the table. He was in a cramped, dingy apartment. The kind with peeling wallpaper, mismatched furniture, and the faint smell of burnt oil that never really left. He lay on a thin mattress in the corner, an old blanket half-thrown over him.
Pain screamed through his body when he tried to sit up, his muscles locking as cyberware warnings flashed in his peripheral vision.
Warning: motor function compromised.
Warning: neural recalibration in progress.
Critical error detected: synthetic tissue rejection.
"Easy, kid. You'll pop a gasket." Knox's voice cut through the silence. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. Older, lean, with a face weathered by too many nights in the city that eats people alive. He lit a cigarette, took a drag, and exhaled a plume of smoke. "You're lucky you're even upright."
K froze. The memories came rushing back in jagged flashes: Ash's scream, the explosion, Smasher's metal fist descending like judgment itself. His stomach churned.
"They're… they're all dead," K whispered. His voice cracked. His chest tightened like he couldn't breathe.
Knox looked away, his mouth tightening. "Yeah," he said finally. "They are. I don't know what you kids did to piss off Arasaka, but it fuckin' worked."
K immediately felt his heart rise to his throat, and swung his legs off the mattress, trying to stand. Pain flared like lightning, and he collapsed back onto the bed. "What the hell… What did you do to me?"
Knox knelt in front of him, tapping his cigarette ash into an empty can. "Saved your sorry ass, that's what. You were dead weight when I found you. Couldn't even tell what was blood and what was guts. Rip was the only guy I could get to look at you without calling the morgue."
K's hands shook as he reached for his face. The vision overlays buzzed in his peripherals. "My eyes?"
"Replaced. Your spine's reinforced too. Oh and your vocal chords were shot as well. Had to fix that. Threw in a couple extra mods I didn't ask too many questions about. Rip said it was a miracle you didn't flatline when he jacked them in." Knox gestured at him, a grim look in his eye. "But here's the thing: it's not free."
K looked up at him, hollow. "What?"
"The chrome. The meds. The maintenance. You think this is a charity?" Knox leaned closer, his voice low and rough. "You're alive, but life ain't free in this city. You either make eddies, or you burn out and turn psycho. Your call."
The days blurred together. K barely moved from the mattress. He stared out the grime-streaked window, watching Night City pulse and glitter in the distance. His body ached, his head throbbed, and every time he closed his eyes, he saw the same thing: Ash's bloodied body crumpling beneath the stage lights.
Knox checked on him every now and then, dropping off food and muttering something about "ungrateful kids." K never answered.
Until one day, Knox slammed a datapad onto the table next to K's bed. "You don't get it, do you? You sit here sulking, and your body's burning through meds I can't afford to front you. So congratulations, kid—you just got your first job."
K didn't move.
Knox barked a humorless laugh. "What's the matter? Too good for a delivery run? Yeah, I get it. You're pissed. World's unfair. But you keep this up, and you'll be one of those guys they scrape off the pavement and forget by morning." He lit another cigarette, the flame reflecting in his cybernetic eye. "So get off your ass. Work, or die. Your choice."
K looked at the datapad, his hands trembling as he picked it up. It was a simple job: deliver a package to some fixer in Heywood. But the weight of it felt like the end of the world.
For the first time in days, K spoke. "What if I can't?"
Knox smirked, leaning back. "Then I hope you like being a cautionary tale, kiddo."
Knox leaves the room, also leaving K with the ultimatum.
[Later that day]
The Heywood streets always had a stink to them—stale piss, burnt chrome, and desperation baked into the cracked pavement. K walked with his head down, hood up, shoving his hands deep into his jacket pockets. His boots scuffed against broken glass and crumpled trash as he made his way through the tight alleyway, dodging stares from the local weirdos. He wasn't in the mood to be noticed.
"Hey, kid. You hear me clearly?" Knox's voice crackled in K's head, reverberating through the chip Knox had so graciously installed.
"Yeah, yeah, I hear you," K muttered under his breath. He glanced over his shoulder, making sure no one was following him. "Clear as a fucking bell, unfortunately."
Knox chuckled. "You don't sound thrilled. What, don't like my voice in your head? Don't worry, kid, you'll get used to it. Think of me as your conscience. Except, you know, smarter."
"My conscience wouldn't call me a noob every five minutes," K snapped. He dodged a gang of kids spray-painting a tag on a crumbling wall. They all stopped and eyed him, one spitting on the ground as he passed. K pretended not to notice.
"Don't get sensitive on me, sweetheart. I'm just keeping you from gonking this up. Now stay sharp. You're almost there."
The dropbox was tucked behind a rusted-out vending machine at the end of the alley. K slowed his pace, watching as a pair of scrawny locals huddled near a flaming barrel, whispering and glancing his way. He ignored them, heart pounding harder than he cared to admit.
"I'm here," K muttered, slipping the package from his jacket. He crouched low, pressing the box into the slot. A beep confirmed the drop, and K straightened up, glancing around as paranoia itched at the back of his neck.
"Good job, kid. You're not completely useless after all," Knox said. "Now head back before—"
The roar of an engine cut Knox off. Tires screeched against asphalt as a battered black sedan careened around the corner, heading straight for K.
He turned just in time to see the passenger window roll down. A chrome-plated arm shot out, wielding a bat.
"Shit—" was all K managed before the bat smashed into the side of his head. Pain exploded through his skull, and the ground rose up to meet him.
Knox's voice echoed faintly in the static haze. "Kid? Kid? What the hell—"
Then everything went black.
K woke to cold. Freezing, bone-deep cold. His teeth chattered as he blinked against the flickering fluorescent light above.
His head throbbed, a dull, insistent pulse at the base of his skull. He tried to move, but something heavy was pressing against his chest. Panic surged as he looked down.
A corpse.
The body was limp, lifeless eyes staring at nothing. Its pale, bloodless skin was covered in surgical incisions—neat, precise cuts that had harvested whatever parts were valuable. The smell hit him next: coppery blood mixed with rot and sterilizing agents that did nothing to mask the stench of death.
K shoved the body off, gagging as he scrambled to sit up. His hands instinctively went to his sides, checking for wounds. His torso was intact—no fresh scars. Yet.
"Kid? Kid, talk to me! What the hell happened? I lost track of you!" Knox's voice buzzed back to life, frantic.
K winced, grabbing his pounding head. "I… I'm in some scavenger den—I think. They… they haven't cut me open yet."
Knox let out a low whistle. "Scavs. Goddamn Scavengers. Those chrome-picking assholes don't waste time. You okay?"
"No, I'm not okay," K snapped, glancing around. The room was dim and filthy, the tile floors slick with blood and other fluids he didn't want to think about. An operating table stood in the corner, a corpse splayed open on it. Its chest cavity was hollow, ribs cracked open like a grotesque butterfly.
The sight made K's stomach churn, but beneath the nausea, something else stirred. Anger. A deep, primal rage that he couldn't explain.
Knox's voice broke through. "Well, would ya look at that. Looks like another job opened up."
K laughed bitterly. "Are you serious? I almost get zeroed, and you're already talking about another job?"
"Look, kid. If you wanna cut tail and bolt, nobody's gonna blame you. But let's just say someone's willing to pay good eddies to see this little nest of rats cleaned out. You up to it?"
K swung his legs over the side of the tub, water dripping onto the filthy floor. He was naked and freezing, but the cold didn't bother him. He spotted his clothes folded nearby and a glint of metal—a discarded pistol and a long, serrated knife. He grabbed them both. "I'll do it."
Knox's voice came again, cautious. "Wait. Seriously? You know what you're getting into, right? These scavs take lives for fun. It's okay if you don't wanna play hero today."
K dressed quickly, pulling his jacket over his still-damp skin. His movements were slow, deliberate. He checked the pistol's magazine, then tested the knife's weight in his hand.
"I said I'll do it," K said, his voice cold and steady. He looked back at the corpse on the table, his jaw tightening. "Besides… what I'm about to do ain't justice."
Knox hesitated. "Whoa, tiger. Just what do you call it, then?"
K walked toward the door, the knife gleaming in his hand. He glanced back at the room, at the blood-stained walls and the horror that had unfolded here. His eyes were sharp now, almost predatory.
"Working through my trauma."
Chapter end—