Fatal mistakes often come from arrogance.
Arthur squinted, a cigarette dangling from his lips, eyes fixed on the chaos ahead. Watching people stumble toward their own doom—yeah, that was just another Tuesday in Night City. He didn't feel bad about it. He wasn't a hero. Sometimes, letting a little chaos happen helped clear the rot.
Maybe taking out a couple of scumbags wouldn't change the world, but if it made life even a bit easier for someone else?
Good enough.
"Hey, old man, you hear that?" one of the Uzumaki gang punks jeered. "Tell your little bro to forget about that big-ass beauty. I've still got time to hit up Twisted Street before bedtime."
The crew burst out laughing. Loud. Dumb. Overconfident.
They didn't notice the man beside Arthur. Didn't see the flickering pupils, the stiff twitch of shoulders, the stillness that wasn't peace—it was restraint on the edge of failure.
Arthur saw it. Felt it.
That wasn't a man anymore. That was a bomb in a trench coat.
The punk in the mohawk jumped up onto the container and mimicked Arthur's earlier gesture, slapping the patient's shoulder like it was all a joke.
Arthur dragged deep on his smoke and sighed. He imagined Yama—the king of the underworld—rubbing his temples in frustration, watching souls queue up faster than he could process them.
And then—
Boom.
Time slowed.
The punk's head exploded like a melon dropped from a tower. Blood. Bone. Bits of brain. Suspended in the air like a morbid work of art.
Arthur watched it all in slow motion, lips curling into a knowing smirk. "Yup. Here we go."
"You bastard! What the hell are you doing?!" one of the gang members screamed.
Their optics flared. Chrome limbs clicked into attack position. Guns came out. Rage exploded in their voices.
But it was already too late.
The old man didn't move—he simply transformed.
Right arm snapped back and unfolded into a compact missile launcher.
Whoosh!
A flaming dart shot into the crowd. Then—
BOOM.
Half the block lit up in orange fire. Smoke roared across the yard, mingled with the scent of melting flesh and scorched steel.
Arthur winced. "Experimental corpo tech. Gotta be. No way this guy got that out of a ripperdoc's basement."
He flicked the cigarette and stepped forward as dust and flame settled. Most of the gang was gone. What was left smoked in silence.
Except one guy.
A battered cyborg—barely alive—wriggled across the pavement, trailing sparks and blood. One eye remained, wide with disbelief.
"Why?" he rasped. "We didn't even do anything! Why lie to us?"
Arthur squatted beside him, pulling out another smoke.
"Because I was bored," he said, lighting it. "Because it was easy. Because you punks always think you're the wolves when you're just meat with attitude."
The man groaned. "You're the real psycho... Zhuo... Damn my luck—"
Crunch.
Arthur ended the conversation with his boot. The skull caved in like wet plaster.
He exhaled smoke and turned his gaze back to the top of the container.
The cyberpsycho stood motionless.
Until he didn't.
The right arm twisted again—revealing a hidden machine gun barrel. Muzzle flared.
Arthur didn't blink. Time dilated.
Snap— Mantis Blades shot from his forearms.
He sidestepped the burst of bullets. Sparks flew. Then he dashed, kicking off a crate and vaulting into the air.
In the air, he spun, and in one clean motion—
Slice.
The Mantis Blade carved through the psycho's shoulder.
Again—slash.
The second blade took the other arm.
No blood. Just coolant and shredded wires. Limbs clattered to the metal container roof, sparking as they slid off the edge.
Arthur landed behind him, quiet as a ghost.
"These arms aren't yours," he said calmly. "Let me lighten the load."
The psycho twitched, legs buckling.
Arthur swept both blades low—**slice—**clean through the thighs.
The body collapsed, heavy as junk.
Arthur retracted the blades and flicked the last ember from his cigarette. "Let's call this a successful surgery."
He crouched beside the twitching ruin and jacked a cable from his wrist into the man's neck port.
"Hmm. Braindance recorder. Of course. You're not just crazy—you're a streamer."
He whistled low.
"Stuff like this sells. Even if 90% of it is just you… waving your junk and peeing on dumpsters."
Arthur finished the download, yanked the plug, and stood.
He looked down at the smoking warzone—the gang corpses, the shattered metal, the stink of burnt chrome and blood.
He took a breath, then made the call.
"Regina. Package secured. Might need trauma cleanup."
Her voice crackled through. "MaxTac's inbound. Get the hell out. I sent a safehouse address. Run."
Arthur sighed, eyes lifting to the sky.
A MaxTac hovercraft descended in a roar of blue lights.
"Figures," he muttered.
He grabbed the psycho's limp body and tossed it into a nearby car—still smoking from its previous owner's bad luck.
Arthur jumped behind the wheel, gunned the engine, and tore off down the street.
Above him, the drone pivoted to give chase.
He didn't care.
He had the data. He had the leverage.
And for once, Arthur felt like the city wasn't laughing at him.
Not yet.
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