"Gooooood morning, Night City!"
Stanley's voice blared out of the TV like a sugar-coated crowbar to the skull, that signature brand of caffeinated chaos echoing through the apartment like it owned the place. Carl stirred, his eyes fluttering open to the cheerful announcement from the city's favorite speed-talking sociopath.
It was too early for this shit.
The apartment was a warzone of hangover carnage. Empty bottles like landmines on the rug, half a burrito fossilized on the coffee table, and the unmistakable stench of someone having thrown up behind the couch. Oliver and Jack were sprawled on the futon like two corpses awaiting toe tags—snoring, twitching, one of them still clutching a half-eaten protein bar like it owed him money.
Carl, somehow, had made it to the bed.
"TV been on all night?"
He yawned, voice croaking like an unplugged vocal modulator. Another yawn hit like a flashbang as he sat up, joints popping, spine protesting. No drinks for him last night—just exhaustion, the kind that soaked into your bones. While the others went full choomboi showdown with the booze, Carl figured he'd lie down for a quick reboot. Five minutes, max.
He woke up eight hours later with his boots still on.
Yeah. Burnout's real.
He left the snoring pair to their unconscious duet and shuffled into the bathroom—same chrome-warped mirror, same cracked tiles, same moldy air filter that sounded like it was trying to die in peace. Carl splashed cold water on his face, eyes burning. The tap water stank like old engine coolant mixed with corpsewater—barely tolerable for washing, suicide to drink.
He rubbed a film of old toothpaste across his teeth with his thumb, spat, and groaned. Better. Barely.
In Night City, hydration was a luxury.
He popped the apartment vending unit, grabbed a bottle of corpo-grade purified water—twenty eddies a pop, more than a rib-eye knockoff—and took a long swig. Swished it. Spat it into the overflowing trash bin. Then chugged the rest.
The taste? Still vaguely plasticky, like someone bottled humidity. But it rinsed out the stale ramen and synth-cola residue from the night before.
Carl checked his inbox. Empty. No contracts. No updates. No snark from Faraday, his fixer. Just silence.
"So this is what retirement looks like."
Carl glanced at the pile of human furniture drooling on the couch. A bottle of ice-cold water to the face sounded real satisfying right about now. But... nah. Not worth the argument.
Instead, he left a message for the boys, holstered his Kenshin, and headed out.
Because in this city? You go out unarmed, you don't come back.
The elevator shuddered as it lowered him into the buzzing entrails of the tower. The moment the doors hissed open, the familiar stench of piss, burnt plastic, and last-night's gunpowder hit him like a punch. Street noise filtered in—shouts, screeching tires, drone buzz. Business as usual.
He followed the neon-stained alley toward the food stalls. The same ones he'd stumbled past on Day One in 2075, eyes wide and skull still pounding from space-time-whatever the fuck-travel whiplash.
This time, things looked... familiar.
Same stall layout. Same flickering signage. Except now, Chinese lettering had been swapped for Japanese. The cook? New face, but same dead-eyed expression—like someone stuck on a looped braindance of minimum-wage despair.
Everything else? Same shit, different day.
Like cogs in a rusted machine, broken pieces were just swapped out for less broken ones. Keep the system moving. Keep the city breathing.
For now.
Carl approached the stall, ordered two oversized sushi boxes to go and a steaming bowl of veggie ramen. No meat—didn't trust what passed for "pork" around here.
He took a seat, the plastic chair groaning beneath him. The table hadn't been cleaned in... ever. Grease, grime, and a faint metallic tang of blood lingered like perfume. The smell of last week's gunfight still clung to the air.
All he wanted was one peaceful meal.
The universe, as usual, laughed in his face.
Gunshots cracked the air before the chef even turned around. Carl didn't flinch. He heard the clatter of the cook diving under the counter before the first casing hit the pavement.
Smart move. Learned from his predecessor, no doubt—the one who got his brains turned into sidewalk art.
Carl sighed.
Hand on his Kenshin, he rose from his seat and scanned the street.
Two gangs—or more like packs of wannabes—trading fire near a busted vending machine. Their aim was garbage, their tactics worse. They had no colors, no chrome markers. Not even tattoos.
Amateurs. Probably couldn't even get into a real gang.
"Not even good enough for the fucking Scavs."
Carl's HUD pinged ID: no known affiliations. Just low-level trash trying to cosplay gangers. Half of them were firing knockoff Lexingtons with jammed slides and duct-taped grips. The others? Disposable pistols with barrels hot enough to melt chewing gum.
No loot. No rep. Not worth the bullets.
He turned, about to walk back—
Ping.
One of them fired wild, a stray bullet zipping toward him like a cheap jump scare.
Carl didn't blink.
His hand flicked out, and the monowire snapped like a whispered curse. The bullet split in midair—two halves spinning off harmlessly into the wall.
Style points, bitches!
Those samurai-themed BDs with guys slicing bullets midair? Carl had seen enough to recognize the drama. This wasn't that. This was software. Cold math. Military-tier wetware rerouting data through his cerebral cortex, crunching angles before his muscles even got the memo.
But let's not kid ourselves. His current config? Not enough to tank a real firefight. Machine guns? Nope. Suppressed rifles? Nope. Stray handgun round?
Now that he could work with.
He focused on the scuffle, parsing body language and movement.
Still couldn't tell which side was losing. Or winning. Or why the hell they were shooting at each other in the first place. Maybe someone stepped on someone else's overpriced sneakers.
But just as he was debating if it was worth interfering, NCPD showed up.
"FREEZE! NCPD!"
Three cruisers screeched to a halt, sirens howling. Officers poured out like they'd been waiting for a reason to punch someone all week. Shiny Lexingtons—real ones—flashed as the cops charged, tactical mods humming.
Their rounds sang through the alley, each shot sharper, cleaner, meaner than the gangers' budget trash. Carl couldn't help but chuckle.
Sounded like popcorn in a chrome death kettle.
'Damn. Should've grabbed a bag before that BD last night. Missed opportunity.'
In under five minutes, the street was clear. Perps down. Guns confiscated. NCPD back to posing for the inevitable press drone circling above like a buzzard.
Carl's ramen arrived, steam curling from the broth like a peace offering. He turned back toward the stall—chef back at the stove, as if nothing had happened. Customers? Already eating again.
Gunfight? What gunfight?
Carl sat. Stirred his bowl. The smell was nostalgic—cheap miso, rehydrated scallions, a splash of soy sauce substitute.
Maybe today, he could just eat in peace.
"Once again, NCPD has successfully neutralized another violent threat. Let's hear it for our brave men and women protecting Night City's future—one bullet at a time!"
The chirpy voice of a government press rep rang through the live broadcast, cutting through the lingering smoke.
Carl slurped his noodles.
And immediately regretted it.
Oily broth hit his gut like a shotgun. His stomach rolled.
Yup. Still human.
He wiped his mouth, packed the sushi bags, and started heading back—only to pause near the police cordon.
Just beyond it, someone stumbled into view.
Head low. Limbs twitchy. Eyes glassy. Drenched in sweat. Dressed like a corpo intern who took a swan dive off a five-day bender.
Weird gait. Uncoordinated. Movements jittering like bad frame sync on a cheap BD.
Carl froze.
That shape. That shuffle. That aura of wrongness.
And that distinctive smell of....popcorn?
Something tickled the back of his mind.
Yesterday's news bulletin.
"Cyberpsycho escaped containment before MAX-TAC could arrive..."