"Great. Drenched in blood again."
Carl exhaled as he wiped the back of his hand across his cheek, smearing a hot streak of red across already grime-stained skin. The blood wasn't his—it never was lately—but it clung like a curse, warm, metallic, and sticky where it had sprayed across his face.
He looked down at the corpse.
Still twitching slightly, as if death was trying to compute itself.
"When are humans gonna evolve past the part where getting shot in the head turns you into a goddamn meat sprinkler?"
His voice was dry. A joke, maybe. But in Night City, evolution was bought with credits, not time.
Not far off, Johnson—the NCPD officer who'd tried to stop him earlier—had stepped out from cover. He stood there, frozen in place, about seven or eight meters away, staring at Carl like he'd just walked out of a braindance flick labeled "Cyberpsycho Hunter: Legendary Edition."
For a second, he looked almost...young. Not in age, but in reaction.
Eyes wide. Shoulders tense. Mouth slightly open, like he couldn't quite believe what he'd seen.
The whole fight had lasted barely a minute.
And yet somehow, it had rewired the atmosphere. Like the entire block had collectively exhaled and realized the threat was gone.
"Y-you alright?" Johnson finally asked. The words came out hesitantly, like his brain was still buffering.
Carl didn't even look up.
"Of course I'm fine."
The monowire retracted with its signature whisper, sliding neatly into the housing embedded under his sleeve. His Kenshin was already holstered, tucked tight against his hip. Movement smooth, unhurried.
He stepped over to Patrick's mangled body and crouched down with calm familiarity. The cyberpsycho's arm was still half-attached, the severed muscle strands twitching in short spasms. Hydraulic fluid leaked out from between the mangled blade ports. The man's ruined optics—cracked and faded—reflected the overcast sky in flickering pulses.
Carl didn't flinch.
Instead, he reached forward and started digging through the coat.
Pockets. Lining. Inner compartments. Chest rig.
His fingers moved fast, methodically.
"Hey—what are you doing?" Johnson asked again, stepping closer now, confusion lining his voice.
Carl didn't even pause.
"Looting. What else?"
Johnson blinked. "You're... robbing him?"
"I'm compensating myself," Carl replied without missing a beat. "This wasn't charity. I didn't get blood on my boots and pull a monowire dance with a Sandevistan psycho for a thank-you card."
He pulled back a flap near Patrick's chest. Empty.
No currency sticks. No chip wallets. Not even a spare cred card. The guy was broke.
Carl's lip curled slightly.
"Unbelievable. Not even a single euro."
His hand brushed something—flat, smooth, tucked tight between two interior layers.
He pulled it out and held it in his palm. A slim, black data chip. No markings. No serial. No corp logo.
Now that was interesting.
Without hesitation, Carl flipped it up his sleeve with practiced grace, tucking it beneath the inside strap of his jacket cuff.
Just in time.
The other officers were closing in, cautious but no longer aggressive. Johnson stepped closer as well, arms still loose, no threat intended. Carl straightened up, rolling his shoulders out.
"So… what's the bounty?" he asked. "Patrick Bell, right? NCPD issued a warrant for him yesterday. I assume this one counts as a wrap?"
Johnson furrowed his brow, still coming to terms with how casual Carl was treating all this.
He raised his hand slightly and signaled to the other officers. A subtle wave of his fingers: stand down.
Then he activated the holo-display on his wrist and began pulling up the local bounty feed.
"Let's see… Patrick Bell, cyberpsycho, suspected multiple civilian and officer kills. Ah, here. Ten thousand eurodollars, dead or alive."
Carl raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed.
"That's it?"
Johnson glanced up, blinking. "You wanted more?"
Carl gave a small snort. "For a Sandevistan-enhanced, mantis-blade-swinging lunatic with Arasaka ties? Ten thousand doesn't even cover my dry-cleaning."
It was said half as a joke. Half.
Johnson gave a dry sigh.
"Look," he said, "the bounty just went up yesterday. First incident on record. This was his first confirmed rampage. Had you waited a few days? Gotten lucky and he killed more people, maybe danced with MAX-TAC before slipping out again? You could've been looking at six figures."
Carl folded his arms, the weight of the blood and ash and missed profit sinking in.
"So how high could it have gone?"
Johnson scratched his neck, thinking.
"Well... guy was running with a Dynalar Sandevistan Mk.I, not cheap. Add in mantis blades, subdermal plating, and the fact that he was ex-Arasaka?"
He whistled under his breath.
"If he'd made it through another killing spree or two, escaped a few containment squads... yeah, I could see his bounty topping a hundred thousand. Maybe more."
Carl looked down at the body again, this time with a heavier, more practical kind of regret.
"Guess that psycho had better investment potential than half the crypto startups in this city."
"Easy to say now," Johnson said with a smirk.
"Better gear than most corpos," Carl added. "I could probably sell half the junk in his spine and retire to Heywood."
"You'd have to fight Arasaka's lawyers first."
Johnson's voice dropped a little, turning more serious.
"Guy was one of theirs. And per the post-mortem clause in his employment contract, all his implants, data, even his personal bank accounts, revert to Arasaka. Body too. Legally, he's property."
Carl rolled his eyes.
"Of course he is. Gotta love that good old corpo clause: 'die in the line of duty, and we take everything—including your teeth.'"
Johnson chuckled, but it was bitter.
Carl adjusted his coat and glanced at the yellow tape drones hovering overhead, stringing out lines of holo-tape and perimeter scanners. Officers were back to work. Blood was getting marked. Cameras were rolling. Business as usual.
Carl exhaled.
"Alright. Looks like I'm done here."
He turned to Johnson.
"Name?"
"Johnson," the man replied, automatically. "And the transfer'll hit your account by this afternoon."
Carl nodded as his agent buzzed in confirmation, displaying the ID, payment tag, and transfer metadata.
"Johnson. Solid, classic badge name."
The two shared a look—brief, but respectful.
"If something like this happens again," Carl said, "you know how to reach me. NCPD needs extra hands? I'm always happy to help…"
He grinned.
"…as long as the pay doesn't suck."
Johnson's expression cracked, the edge of his mouth lifting into something close to a real smile. And when Carl addressed him again—with just enough warmth to make it matter—he used a word he hadn't heard in years.
"Thanks, Mr. Johnson."
That caught him off guard.
Nobody in this city used "mister" anymore. Not unless they wanted something.
But this time? It felt like it meant something.
Carl offered a lazy wave and turned away, boots crunching through broken glass and spent bullet casings. As he disappeared into the city, Johnson stood a little straighter.
He watched Carl's silhouette vanish into the low-rise haze.
Maybe Night City wasn't completely damned after all.
"Maybe there's still something worth looking forward to in this city," Johnson murmured.
"Detective Johnson, we need your signature on the incident file."
"Yeah, yeah. On my way."
Ten minutes later.
Somewhere uptown, in an office lined with black glass and chrome, a message pinged quietly across a private terminal.
Subject: Patrick Bell – Terminated.
The man reading it didn't flinch. He skimmed the contents, eyes sliding over details. Name. Cause of death. Location. Containment failed. Subject neutralized by third party.
His fingers hovered over the display.
"So that's how it ends, Patrick."
He leaned back in his chair, expression unreadable.
"I thought maybe—with our shared roots—you'd rise above. Maybe become useful."
He closed the file and opened another.
No hesitation. No sentiment.
Subject: Sandevistan Prototype Trials – Volunteer Selection.
His eyes focused.
There were more names to sort.
More weapons to test.
And Patrick?
Patrick had simply been... the opening act.